Things FWG sucks at

The director of our modestly populated department volunteered our services in supplying the breakfast munchie-pastries for this Friday's monthly company town-hall meeting. 'No problemo,' thinks I. I was once in the habit of baking muffins - a different variety every week. I almost worked my way through an entire muffin recipe book. Surely I won't have lost the touch.

Thursday night is a write-off with Strat-o-matic playoffs so Wednesday after work I rush home, pack my lacrosse equipment bag in preparation for our inaugural practice/exhibition game this night, then dive into the kitchen to get the mandatory baking done. I pilfer Steve-o's flour, snatch up the recipe book and search for a variety that I just might have all the ingredients for.

Alas, this is all for nought as I discover I have no muffin pans. They must have went with the ex-darling upon the split.

No worries. There's a couple 8" x 8" baking pans present - the perfect pans for the production of pre-packaged porn bread. Oops. I mean corn bread.

[editor's note: We apologize for the preceding alliteration surprise-attack.]

The corn-bread mix is highly prepared. All I need do is add milk, an egg and blend. Laughable. Fool proof.

No. 1: Baking

Fool proof indeed. By the time rising smoke trails and burnt corners dictate withdrawal from the oven the beast has risen roughly half a centimetre.

[editor's note: one-quarter inch]

Dense and crispy though my accidental pancake may be, it endures a fair bit of nibbling over the next day and a half. The remainder (shown here) was thrown in the trash.



With no time to attempt an alternate product I grabbed the lacrosse bag and made for the home of Porn King, dear friend and regular lacrosse teammate. From there we rode in his giant red Ram to the arena. Not having conversed in some time, I regaled him with the tale of my drivers exam - until I spied something of an alarming nature and broke from the story:

"That's a red light, dude."

No reaction.

"Dude! Red light!"

"Huh? Oh."

"Um. You know you were supposed to stop back there, eh?"

"Sorry. I was listening to your story."

"I told you, red light."

"I know. I thought it was part of your story."

"Oh. Fair enough. So anyways..."

We made it to the arena without further incident and made acquaintance with the rest of this year's team. Somehow all of the league's premier troublemakers, goons and sociopaths were all drafted to the same team. What this says about Porn King and I, I dare not ponder.

Turns out our goalie (goalies draft and manage the teams in this league) was absent from the draft proceedings and the league convenor covered for him, taking no care to avoid said troublemakers, goons and sociopaths.

The silver lining is this: Such traits are generally common among the most skilled players of the lacrosse world and as such we have a very talented team which bodes well if we can stay out of the penalty box. Somehow we did on this night and we won our exhibition game handily. I had to skip a couple shifts while busy hyperventilating or nursing cramps but otherwise I played a decent game. This doesn't fit the theme - things I suck at, I realize. Sorry. Here. Let me compensate:

No. 2: Gardening

My spider plant - which very strangely has yet to inspire Steve-o to sing 'Spider plant, spider plant, friendly neighborhood spider plant...' has apparently suffered enough neglect that it has sprouted a thick flowery appendage that is reaching far through the air toward another potted plant that sits much closer to the window.



Now some say that great success can be born only from repeated failure. With that in mind I just may have inadvertently created a new breed of highly intelligent spider plant. It seems to be demonstrating astounding awareness of its environment and is deliberately attempting to re-pot itself in the pot of a specific neighbor. I've checked the beast for the presence of eyeballs and found none.

Thursday. The strat-o-matic playoffs begin. I'm matched up against Crazy Pat's Heyden Hawks for a quarter-final-round seven-game series.

No. 3: Strat-o-matic playoff coaching

I was fortunate enough to inherit a decent team upon joining this league eight years ago. Add some fortuitous trades and draft selections and I've enjoyed a fairly solid winning record overall. But in the playoffs I've entered seven series, being the favored team 6 of 7 times (with home-ice advantage) and won only two of them. Including the previous short-lived league I was in, I've ascended to the championship finals four times, been favored three of four times and lost all four times. Clearly it's my place in life to never win a cup.

After enjoying four wins and a tie in seven matches against the Hawks this year - I find myself - after 3 games in the playoff series - down three games to zero. Par for the course. Clearly this is not my forte.

I'm hoping all the luck I'm robbed of here will compensate when it comes time to try to get a novel published. That would be sweet. That would be worth it. Thank gawd there's no playoffs in the writing industry.

For the record, more things I suck at:

4. Obeying the speed limit
5. Walking upright
6. All areas of the romantic realm
7. Eating wisely
8. Basketball
9. Watching TV - usually end up hurling something at it within the first 15 minutes.
10. Music - couldn't play an instrument to save my life.

So there.

The list is far from complete by the way.

FWG

Ask FWG, not Jeeves - numero tres

1. what is emergency roadside stop G2 road test
There’s actually a lot of leeway on this. The important thing is not to intentionally hit anything and regardless, put your emergency break on upon coming to a stop.

2. eye examination for a g1 license?
Correct. And you must have two eyes to pass. Not one, not three. Furthermore your two eyes must be pointing in generally the same direction – with minor allowance granted.

3. harry cartner Ontario
See that, Harry? They were looking for you – and found me! ME! Sucker.

4. G1 written test Ottawa
There’s no testing in Ottawa. As long as you work for the government in any capacity, they give you a car and a driver. And if you don’t work for the government, what in blazes are you doing in Ottawa?

5. g1 test passing grade
Passing grade is 20 out of 20. They will lie and say that you have passed if you get between 16 and 19 but then they will break into your home that night and strangle you with barbed wire – unless you knelt and licked their shoes upon them giving you your “passing grade.” Remember – lick or die.

6. Philthy McNasty's where Peel Pub used to be
Remember how you got there when it was Peel Pub? Do the same thing. You’ll get there. I know it’s a difficult concept but trust me on this.

7. carried along overhead track, diapering station, ankles lifted
Oh dear. We have no S&M material on this web site. Now please go away, you sick, sick little monkey.

8. "sylvie ruel" fantasy
Grrrrrrrrrrr! Sylvie Ruel fantasies are okay! I have them too. In my fantasies I tie her down to the bed, steal her money and go and pay her overdue Reliance Home Comfort bills.

9. g1+test+Mississauga+Eglinton
…equals 42. Just kidding! It equals a rip-roaring good time with Jason the gentle drive-inspector man. Just relax, breathe normally and enjoy yourself. And try not to fart loudly.

10. kung foo dialogue
I can’t provide the entire kung foo dictionary contents in this space but here are the top 10:
- HIYAA!
- WHOOAAA!
- YAA!
- HUHH!
- WHOAAAAAAAAAH!
- Ouch!
- HEEYAAH!
- Ow, my hand!
- Oh shit, was that REAL wood?
- Time out! I’m losing my drawers here.

11. rant on General Motors
Who wouldn’t? Well, except for the Klan, maybe. Or Bob Runciman.

12. Ontario G1 actual test
All DriveTest centres in Ontario – other than Oakville - now use actual tests. This was legislated after many applicants given the virtual reality tests suffered heart attacks upon confrontation by Smorgenbraack the giant three-headed car-eating monster, planted in the DriveTest simulators by teenage hackers. In Oakville centres the virtual tests still persist in which a giant three-headed Bob Runciman murders all applicants who are not white, wealthy and heterosexual.

13. ontario G1 cheat test
How comforting to know we share the road with drivers who don’t know how to drive but wish to cheat instead. Excellent. Here are the answers:
1. Green light means stop.
2. Red light means go.
3. Drive on the left side of the centre-line.
All other questions are trick questions and should be left blank. Good luck with your cheating.

The information above is provided for entertainment purposes only – much like fortune cookies or Don Cherry. The author bears no responsibility, financial or otherwise, for any manifestations of the use or misuse of the above counsel, including but not limited to: financial loss; salmonella, wandering-eye, drive-by-shooting, buggery, buffoonery, stress-induced acne, brewer’s droop, power-corruption, political apathy, hyperventilation, gas, hairy palm or juvenile delinquency.

You know what I don't understand?

I long ago promised myself that any time anyone said to me these words: “You know what I don’t understand -” I would immediately interject with, “Why they never made a Die Hard 4?”

I have no recollection on how many occasions – if any – I actually used this gut-busting bit of comedy.

It’s funny, you see, because it’s an inversion. Why would one not understand the passing on a fourth Die Hard film when the reasons are so plentiful and obvious? Chief among them:

1. Die Hard 2 set new records for absolute movie suckdom and should have marked the end of the Die Hard enterprise.

2. Die Hard 3 raised the bar of all-time movie suckdom higher still – clearly ensuring the end of the Die Hard enterprise (or so we thought).

3. Bruce Willis, stud that he perhaps once was, is by now surely much too long in the tooth to remain foremost on the ladies’ minds on the occasions they sneak the cucumber out of the fridge at night.

Someone now tells me that they are indeed finally crafting a Die Hard 4. I haven’t yet established if this is true or if I’m the victim of a practical joke but to be safe I’d better start working on a new witty interjection for the next time someone says, “You know what I don’t understand -”

Any suggestions – I’m all ears.

By the way. I never doctored the picture. Honestly.

All right, I doctored the picture.

FWG

Sargeant Steve-o's Lonely Hearts Club Band

More recent random utterances from the roommate if you can handle it. He's flying off to Calgary on business for a couple days which promises a little peace and quiet but, alas, I have lacrosse and then SHL (strat-o-matic) playoffs the next two nights so the opportunity is lost. At least the houseplants can enjoy some peace and quiet. As always - text in italics were sang; words in normal text were spoken:

Hey laundry monkey! Go iron my shirts! I want them neatly pressed – and no playing with yourself!

Rainbows, lollipops and
Something and other things and
Rainbows…

We need more advertising in books. Like – “The heroine was walking through the forest and came upon a Snickers bar – made of nougatty sweet goodness that really satisfies. He ate the Snickers bar and got a huge chubby and he used it to beat the bad wolf to death.”

I’m drunk and I wanna punch someone in the teeth. I wanna punch someone right in his flabby man-tits.

I smell something burning.
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.
Smoke’s coming from the oven
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.
Smoky smoky dinner is burning
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.
Now everything’s falling out of the freezer.
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.
‘Cause the peameal bacon’s so slippery.
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.
Now it’s all put back and the freezer is a death-trap
Burn burn burn burn burn burn.

When are they gonna outlaw naked monkeys on TV?

Look at this bee on your windshield wiper. It’s trying to fornicate with your truck. It thinks you’re the queen bee... No, don’t blow the horn. It’ll just make him more horny.

Sunday, Monday, Littlest Hobo. Tuesday, Wednesday, Littlest Hobo.. These days are our-our-our-our-ours, these Littlest Hobos...

Hush little baby. Don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a smiling turd.

How funky is your chicken? No, really. How funky is your chicken? How loose is your goose?

Sweet release from torture

Sweet release from torture.

I believe this phrase was once used to describe the orgasm. Don't ask by whom. I can't remember. But I assure this post has nothing to do with orgasms (sorry, Babs). It has to do with books and is intended for those who like to read.

I finally finishing one of the worst books ever written. It is:


Dragons of Autumn Twilight - Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

I probably started it close to a year ago and let it sit untouched for months at a time - usually in a dusty corner where I'd last hurled it in disgust. Many other books have been started and finished in the mean time. I tend to have a good dozen or so on the go at any one time.

I've not been inclined to critique books on this blog unless I really liked them because - well - it just seems like bad karma for an unpublished fantasy writer to blast published (i.e. legitimate) fantasy writers. But after what I've been through - self-censorship is going out the window. I need to vent.

Why did I stick with Autumn Twilight to the eventual end? I don't know exactly why I do this. There's obviously some kind of obsessive compulsive thing going on. I can't abandon a story. Just can't do it. What was so bad about this piece? It's just bad writing. Bad in every way. Juvenile. As if written by a high-schooler.

The authors seem to have no understanding of their characters. And what little they've figured out about them - they generally don't demonstrate. They just come out and explain it to you. I can't stand this kind of writing. A reader can not get drawn into a story when the author is constantly explaining things. That kind of story is just verbal and second-hand. Good writers explain nothing and demonstrate everything - through dialogue, action, imagery - and useful metaphors. Terry Brooks commits the same crimes. I loved the Shannara books as an adolescent but when I try to read them 20 years later they're just dog-vomiting awful. Unbearable. It's not that I want to be a snob about it. I don't. Brooks' actual material is great. It's exactly what I want to read about - if only he could tell a story competently.

It's like cigars. I used to enjoy a Century Sam or a White Owl! But now that I've experienced the best Cuban and Dominican brands the others just taste like shit in comparison. It's the natural evolution of discrimination I guess.

Oh - sorry for the last post by the way. I had to blow off a little steam! I turned down a couple invitations this weekend, determined to get a lot of writing done and finish one - or maybe even two - projects. But I've been restless and unfocused. The constant - and I mean constant - touring of adolescent shitheads with their eight-million dollar automotive subwoofers has been driving me freaking bananas. I can't sit for five minutes without one of them coming along and rattling all my internal organs into piss-shivvery jello. I could scream. This street is a magnet for them.

So I've done a lot of reading this weekend instead. Knocked off a few books that have been lagging on the reading tour for a while now, including:


Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams.

The pleasure here was all in his wit. Luckily my sense of humour meshes with his. If yours doesn't there's no point in trying to read it.

Thoroughly enjoyed every page and laughed out loud regularly. It was easy to abandon for long periods of time though - just because I developed no serious attachment to the heroes. Comedy simply doesn't compel like other styles do. Not to say there's nothing deeper going on here. If you think about it - some of the absurdity he describes mocks the ridiculousness of our own societal conventions. Something I find rather useful.

More recent conquests:


Island - Alistair MacLeod

This was a different form of torture. I got through the first five stories before giving up and shelving the collection permanently. The stories were in essence brilliant. They examined the familial relationships of regular East-coast folk - fishermen and such - and were profoundly real and insightful and emotionally heavy. There was a provocative melancholy delivered entirely between the lines. But most terribly unfortunately - MacLeod will not use contractions in dialogue. He refuses. This utterly blows me away. You know what I mean, right? every person I've ever met talks roughly like this:

"I'll tell you this; I'm certain he'll say he'll do it but then he won't."

Every single MacLeod character talks like this:

"I will tell you this; I am certain he will say he will do it but then he will not."

Do you understand the difference? Read it out loud if you have to.

This staggers me. It blows me away. Through five stories I mentally translated all the dialogue into real-world dialogue but it became too exhausting. It seems to me unbearably stupid and yet so many readers and writers - amateur ones especially - are seemingly blind to this. I don't understand why this practice exists at all - let alone how disturbingly wide-spread it is. It's so ridiculous. It utterly unhinges me. Where in the entire world do people talk like that? I really don't think people talk like that - devoid of contractions - anywhere. Reading MacLeod is like going to an opera 'tragedy' where every element of the performance and every note sung is absolutely perfect - absolutely heart-wrenching - accept that every single performer is wearing an eight-foot high hat made of fruit - and no one else in the audience seems to notice.

I just can't deal with it.


A Son Called Gabriel - Damian McNichol

Grabbed it off a display table at the library on a whim. It's technically very well written and I got caught up in the hero's plight - for a while. Until I started to feel uncomfortable that the hero was such a nice kid while both his parents were stupid and unkind to him and the rest of his family were all stupid and were all predatory toward him and every one of his friends were stupid and predatory and every teacher and every priest and every fellow student were all stupid and were all predatory and every - okay. You get the idea.

Are we to believe that every citizen of Ireland is an idiot just looking to hurt someone or are we to believe that the author has a rather slanted and perhaps narcissistic recollection of his childhood?


Struck - Geoffrey Bromhead

This was the winner of the 2003 Three-Day Novel contest. I ordered it upon entering the same contest in 2006 - a purely masochistic endeavor that yielded a punchy gritty little novella from this hopeful that frankly needs some editing and that should really be fleshed out into a proper novel - a project I've since toyed with off and on. Considering Struck was written in three days - I fully applaud it. The writing is strictly decent and the story thoroughly holds your interest. Bravo.

That character development is a bit weak and the plot progresses only so far is completely understandable considering the challenge. That's surely the nature of the 3-day breed.


Inferno - Dante Alighieri, translated by Allen Mandelbaum

It seems that Mandelbaum's version is the most highly praised of the many but still I worry whether subtle wisdom might have been lost. I read each chapter twice so to try not to miss anything. The language is archaic. The story is over 700 years old. I expected allegory but I'm not too sure what to make of the extremely linear plot that involves so much conversation with dead Italian sinners - each of them historical rather than fictional I presume. I want to assume it represents a journey within Dante's own head - an evolution of the mind and spirit perhaps - but I'll have to tackle the remainder of the Divine Comedy (Purgatorio and Paradiso) before trying to draw conclusions.

Guess what time it is, boys and girls!

That's right! It's poetry time! Yes. Yes, I know. Poetry time sucks. Oh well. Too bad.

No Brutality

No firing squad
No pelting of stones
No hangman’s noose
No electric shock
No guillotine
No blade through the chest
No boot to the head
No rending of limbs
No tearing out of fingernails
No drowning
No scalping
No burning
No disembowelment
No tarring and feathering
No drawing and quartering
No lashing
No caning
No imaginable molestation
Could ever be harsh enough reward for those
BASTARDS
With the mega-maniacal bass boomers
In their cars

Oh how they would writhe eternally
Torn and healed and torn again in perpetuity
Under the filthy claws of Satan himself
If only there existed the slightest shred
Of fairness in this world!

FWG

The war rages on

I'm growing weary of this battle. I shall have to pull out the troops soon.

Ask FWG, not Jeeves - 2nd edition

I think this went over well last time. Let’s answer some more questions for the good folk who inadvertently googled their way to this web site, shall we?

1. pianos mavis eglinton
Well – I know there’s a Dollar n’ Value store at Mavis and Eglinton but I think they only sell tiny miniature pianos – suitable for 12-inch pianists.

2. canadarm taking off
1. Fully extend arm away from space shuttle.
2. Remove bolts E and F using hex wrench provided.
3. Pull Canadarm socket housing away from shuttle wall.
4. Plug holes E and F with chewing gum to prevent precious oxygen from leaking into space. Or if Dutch, use your fingers.

3. caesar salad boston pizza food poisoning
This will certainly work but there are easier methods. Try licking the floor at No Frills or French-kissing a turtle.

4. how much do you need to pass a written g1 test
Let’s add it up, shall we?
Ontario Driver’s Handbook…$5
Test Fee……………………..$10
Provincial tax……………….$0.7
Blue flex-grip pen…………..$1
Crashing into a lamp post causing road-test inspector to poke his eye out with his own pencil……..priceless.

5. where to give G1 written test in Mississauga
5555 Eglinton Avenue. Ask for Jason. He’s nice.

6. oakville G2 drive test track
Sorry. I don’t know Oakville. Any town that re-elects Bob Runciman, slimiest filthiest sub-human politician since Hitler is a place to be terrified of and to keep the hell away from at all costs.

7. G1 test Ontario
Look, I’m not answering any more questions about G1 or G2 tests so just knock it off.

8. MTO drive test center brampton G1 road test route
What did I JUST SAY?

9. g2 driver license exam Ottawa
Stop it, people. I’m not kidding.

10. exercises for G1 written test for drivers in Canada
STOP IT! STOP IT! For the love of god, you’re killing me!

11. ontario g1 test cheats
(I’m not listening I’m not listening I’m not listening…)

12. poem when mother tacked a confort to the door
What the-? Well, okay. I’ll give it a try…

There are just three things I vehemently deplore,
Which I pray should plague my doorstep nevermore.
One is wondering what has washed ashore;
Two’s to do with sisters named Gabor.
But the occasion I most stridently abhor,
Is when mother tacks a confort to the door.

13. god of war 2 cheats codes soluces usa
What is that? A video game? Look, we don’t use words like soluces around here. What kind of place do you think we’re running here? Oh, and no more ‘confort’ either.

14. sylvie ruel
Who’s asking? Is that you, Reliance-home-comfort? You little turdburgers! Stop mailing me! I swear, don’t make me come over there.

15. chinese apetizer with herbs and spices
What is Kung Foo Noodles. Things you slurp into your mouth for 200, Alex!


The information provided above is in no way expected to be useful. The author bears no responsibility, financial or otherwise, for any manifestations of the use or misuse of the above counsel, including but not limited to: financial loss; obesity; hemorrhoids; noodlephobia; pinworm; OCD; cauliflower ear; identity theft; saddle-ass; runny nose, mass hysteria or Tourette Syndrome.

Bad FWG makes the grade

I took my road test this morning. The inspector was a very nice young man named Jason. I feel bad now for suggesting his ilk be turned into slaves or dog food. He gave me a passing grade even though I didn't know to put my emergency brake on after parallel parking or after making an emergency roadside stop. The latter threw me for a bit of a loop, I'll tell you.

"When it's safe to do so, I'd like you to make an emergency roadside stop," said Inspector Jason.

'What does that mean?' I wondered. 'Should I slam on my brakes?' Instead I broke down the phrase. Emergency. Road-side. Stop. Then I stopped at the side of the road and put on my emergency blinkers. Apparently that was close enough.

His only other comment: "You could drive a little bit faster. The safest speed is the speed of the other traffic."

Yeah, okay. He should see me when I'm not trying to impress an inspector. How does he think I ended up in this mess?

FWG has an amazing hair day

It seems like any other Monday but I’m taking my shampoo’s word for it that this is a special day. I’m not sure what possessed me to actually read the label on the bottle this morning beneath the spray, but I assume it wouldn’t lie to me.

My shampoo says that it’s ‘taking me back to that amazing hair day!’ and that this ‘vibrant’ and ‘juicy’ shampoo is ‘unleashing the power of beautiful hair!’

Wow, eh?

Furthermore it assures that it is taking my hair to a place it has never gone before.
Does that seem a little incongruent? It’s taking me, on one hand, back to that amazing hair day and on the other hand, to a heretofore unknown place? Hmm. I’m sure they wouldn’t lie. I presume you have to know a bit about quantum mechanics, string theory and the bending of time-space in order to understand this and while my scientific knowledge is low-to-middlin’ in these affairs I get the idea. I have super-power Buck Rogers galaxy hair. I’m down with that.



Look out Gil Gerard! There's a new head in town!

Ho hum. What to post...

It's the lunch hour. I need a distraction. I've been working and blinking all morning. And cursing. Working, blinking, cursing and sticking my finger in my eye. I've got something in my eye and it's a killer. It stings. Been trying all morning to find it and extract it. No luck. My eye is as red as... as... (Come on, FWG - you call yourself a writer? Red as what?) Red as... red as... I don't know. Firetrucks; hellfire; my bank account - take your pick. I'm posting for the hell of it. I really have nothing to say.

My little desk friends are looking at me. They feel very sorry for me and my red eye. Here - I'll introduce you:

Meet (left to right) R2D3, Halooza Diamondswinger and Bobble Brian Fantana. Deskfriends, meet the good people of Blogland. Okay. There you go. Networking. Don't you love it?

R2D3 has whipped out all her R2 gadgets for the occasion. She loves to ham it up for the camera. Halooza is the one with the blue smartie in her right hand. She never goes anywhere without it. And Brian - well - we're not really getting along at the moment. He's really pissed that I don't remember him from the Anchorman movie. What can I say? I don't remember him. I'm not going to lie.

Here's an email chain from this morning. I'm really sorry for all the vulgar language. I really need to cut back on that, I know:

From: FWG
Sent: Tuesday, April 10, 2007 10:52 AM
To: Steve-o
Subject: my fucking eye


Why'd you have to drive today you $#&%^#$ ^U%#&%$ Maltese #$^%*#&^$*^%$er? I'd go to the fucking doctor if I could!!

%%^Y%##&%%^%^#$%&^%##^^%^!!

FWG
Jr. Client Information Analyst
Mosaic Sales Solutions Canada

From: Steve-o
Sent: Tuesday, April 10, 2007 10:53 AM

To: FWG

Subject: RE: my fucking eye

want me to take you to the house at lunch? I may have to work late tonight, or go home early.

From: FWG
Sent: Tuesday, April 10, 2007 10:54 AM
To: Steve-o
Subject: RE: my fucking eye

No. Fuck off.

Okay. I'm done. You can go now. Thanks for coming by!

Ask FWG, not Jeeves

It amuses me now and then to see what sort of search strings people have googled that led them to finding this web site. The providers of the site counter software publish this kind of reporting. I'm now stealing a page from the playbook of the most excellent unholy Flumadiddle (sorry Babs!) and providing the answers to the questions that unwittingly led folks here. It's the least I can do. But check out Flumadiddle's Desperately Seeking article to enjoy the true master at work. It's a hoot!

1. chevy silverado rumbling noise
It’s nothing to worry about. It just means your truck is about to explode. This is what you get for buying a vehicle from a bunch of creepy white-supremacists. No one will miss you when you’re dead.

2. cheats for "The Vision Test" presented by hall pass
Don’t bother. You won’t prosper.

3. fantasy writer guy
That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.

4. dollar'n'value
It’s a store at Eglinton and Mavis in Mississauga, Ontario. Every single item in the store either A) costs a dollar – or B) costs some amount other than a dollar. Kind of like every other store in existence. While there – why not pick up some FWG bedroom candles? They make great Chanuka gifts.

5. oink moo cock-a-doodle-doo barbecue sauce
Try aisle 5 – Should be right next to the HeeHaw-Ribbit donkeyfrog sauce.

6. sylvie ruel streetsville
Who the hell knows? I’m looking for her too. Join the club.

7. "This is our philosophy" "this is our purpose"
This is our knees. This is our toes. This is our eyesearsmouthandnose.

8. buy gibby's salad dressing montreal
Yes! By all means! And pick up a couple jars for me while you’re at it! I loves the Gibby’s salad dressing!

9. crazy for marma glaze
Well I guess you’d have to be, wouldn’t you?

10. cadbury and wonderbars
I’ll tell you one time: Wunderbar. With a ‘U’. Get your shit together.

11. soupcanblog.blogspot.com
Yes. That’s the correct address. Next time just type it straight into your browser’s address bar and skip the middle man.

12. Philippe Yostos
He was a merry old soul, he was. He had a pipe and a something-er-other and three fiddlers and – oh wait. That’s old King Cole, not Philippe Yostos. Never mind. You stumped me.

13. cowboy coffee kamloops jesus
Krazy brand. That’s right. When in Kamloops, Jesus drinks Krazy brand cowboy coffee, ground fresh by real Kamloopian mountain cowboys. Because nobody grinds like a mountain cowboy.

14. wedding speechers
Yeah. Um. You might want to go back and take your grade-one speeching over again and then try your search again.

15. birthday "couldn't ask for a better brother" but i think mom's too old
Dear brother: Stop googling everything I say or do in order to find my blog! Just bookmark the bloody address already!

16. streetsville crazy people
Please refine your search. All people in Streetsville are crazy.

17. where is xiphisternum
Should be about 16 inches north of your naughty bits.

The information provided above is correct to the best of the author’s knowledge at the time of this release. The author bears no responsibility, financial or otherwise, for any manifestations of the use or misuse of the above counsel, including but not limited to: financial loss; hair loss; spontaneous combustion; spontaneous orgasm; jet lag; alien abduction; death; near-death; rigor mortis; split ends; anal fissures; potato blight; bubonic plague; binge shopping or thermonuclear inversion.

Steve-o's Greatest Hits

1. Oops. There goes one stupid idiot that wouldn’t let me in. Oh – and there goes the other stupid idiot that wouldn’t let me in. I guess they’re racing home to have sex together.

2. Some people are like, ‘I wuvs you, pookie pookie pookie pookie stink-stinks.’ I’m not like that.

3. Hands on my sprocket, hands on my sprocket, hands on my sprocket.

4. Look at me! I make spicy salad dressing! I was in Bullet! I’m Paul Newman! I’m old!

5. There’s nothing like a good meal topped off with some nuts.

6. Peanut butter and jelly time. Peanut butter and jelly time. Peanut butter jelly with a baseball bat.

7. Oh boy oh boy oh boy! We got mail from the cable people! Oh boy oh boy it says ‘Attention resident!’ It must be awful important! Oh boy oh boy, I better open it right away! Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy! It’s a file! It’s a confidential file from the president of TV, Ron Purdy! Well gawwwwwwlleeeeeeeeeee! Thanks Mister Purdy!

8. This bread is harder than my vagina.

9. That sweet salty goodness goes right through you… when you chew it… so say goodbye a little longer…

10. The jig juice is coming out all over the place! Hold on to your jig juice, chicken!

The sentiments expressed in the preceding article are in no way sharable.

THIS WEBSITE IS (not entirely) BANNED IN CHINA!

I'm so disappointed. I so wanted to be censored in China. All the cool kids are banned in China. Even china.com is banned in China. Figure that out. But not FWG. No, we're only blocked. Blocked, people. Not officially banned. I feel so... marginalized. They won't read me or ban me. What a letdown.

Read me or ban me, Chinese! Play me or trade me!

Here. Test your web site. I hope you get better results than I.

http://greatfirewallofchina.org/test/

What's black and blue and 'red' all over?

That's right! FWG! You clever little sod.

Okay, so Arkansas, Michigan and Southern Ontario doesn't constitute "all over" but you get the idea.

So... just a little update on the injury situation. No - wait. First a quick update on the Bad Bad FWG Nasty Driver situation. I went back to the DriveTest centre, waited in line, paid another ten bucks and took the test again. Only it was a different test! They switch them up you see, because they're clever little buggers. Not clever enough to know that their lives were in terrible danger would they had flunked me with that hogswoggling G1-G2 crapola again - but clever. Luckily for all of us I got one or more of the requisite hogswogglers correct, passed the test and left peacefully.

The actual road test is slotted for April 18. Here's what I'm thinking. After returning to the test centre parking lot post-exam I shall wait until the inspector signs off on the test form and announces that I've passed before I restart the truck and drive us both merrily through the DriveTest centre's big floor-to-ceiling window. That's the plan thus far.


Okay - the injury situation: The wrist is fine. The knee - just a simple abrasion. The ankle and forearm are both painful at times but full recovery is anticipated. The right shin - however - is a rich tapestry of blue and black with a splash of purple thrown in.

"Shin?" you say? Oh yes. Shin. You see, last night upon leaving the aunt and uncle's place after some jolly good dinner and conversation and packing grandma into the passenger seat, I tried walking between the front of the banana buggy and the back of my aunt and uncle's Lincoln Behemoth - or some such thing. It looks like a truck only seven times bigger. I recall while at the dinner table referring to it as the Rolling Death-Star to my uncle - known as Big John to all who know how to play ball when a big man instructs them to call him 'Big John'. He didn't seem amused. Probably because he hasn't seen Star Wars in at least thirty years and hadn't the faintest idea what I was alluding to.

Anyhoo - This Lincoln is made on the same assembly line as aircraft carriers and is large enough to hold Big John's fleet of snowmobiles and to bear a trailer hitch the size of the Canadarm - only black and perfectly invisible in the dark night - until you march into the thing and splinter your shin to pieces.

Apparently one or more of the 88 expletives I was screaming under my breath must have slipped out because Big John at that moment popped out the door and hollered "Oh by the way - that truck has a trailer hitch on it! Be careful!"

Um... Thanks.

It's now eight o'clock and thus far nothing injurious has befallen me today so I'm hoping the streak is broken at 2. I'm nervous about heading outside though. I'll be watching the sky for falling pianos or safes.

FWG takes a tumble

Ouch.

I went down today. Like the proverbial cheap whore.

Like a lead balloon. Like a startled groundhog. Like a homesick mole. Like a domino, a rock, a bottle of Drano. Like Alexei Flop-house Kovalev. Like the Ottawa Senators in April.

In accordance with the De-Tub initiative I went for a walk at lunch today. I stopped at the awesome Gemelli's (Matheson and Orbiter) for a mucho-excellent heaping home-style plate o' roast beef, meatballs, broccoli and asparagus. That and a drink for under ten bucks!

Tummy full of protein and not-so-many carbs I marched back out to the street and headed up Orbiter Drive, gazing at the planes taking off and landing at Pearson Airport and thinking heavy thoughts about the likelihood of the human race lasting long enough - and our dying sun eventually growing hot enough (in it's inevitable red-giant stage) that Triton, ice-covered moon of Neptune, might possibly thaw and become the centre of life for a migrating humankind. Yes. This is the kind of stuff I think about. Call me what kind of freak you will.

So while I'm contemplating the final chapter of human existence in this particular solar system and idly watching a descending plane with a giant green maple leaf on the tail, I'm not watching the sidewalk before me nor the football-size chunk of non-sidewalk mysteriously carved off the edge of it.

Luckily this fascinating sidewalk character-blemish did not permanently escape my notice. Luckily my right foot encountered it, rolling my ankle and pitching me headlong onto the pavement. Three alarms went off immediately. Right ankle. Left knee. Left wrist. Big boys - though big - and this is counter-intuitive I realize - are in many ways more fragile than pulchritudinous normal-sized boys. There's more mass thus more force to the impact.

So I just lay there assessing the damage (Scotty, damage report! Shield status? Hull breach...? Captain, I'm just an engineer! Not a doctor!) while footsteps rapidly approached. Someone was running - actually running - to my aid. She probably thought I'd just had a heart attack or something. She was probably trying to remember which technique would save my life - CPR or the Heimlich maneuver - or else which might be the least unpleasant to attempt on this fallen bearded spheroid.

I'm sure she was relieved to find I'd only taken a tumble and the lending of her cell phone would be the extent of aid required. I thanked her profusely and called my work buddy, Afro-Squeege, to come collect me with his car.

Through the afternoon I realized the knee was not the major concern after all but had suffered merely a flesh wound and that the wrist was rapidly recovering. The ankle though - was clearly swelling and was clearly gonna be a problem. Also my left shoe - a dress-shoe - was scuffed beyond repair all over the toe. I stupidly did not change into runners before the trek as I usually do - so not only did I ruin a pair of office shoes but the runners would have offered much more support and I probably would have come out of the crash in full walking condition.

Loser is me.

Here's the kicker though. You ever injure something but don't feel anything until you finally move some appendage precisely the wrong way?

It's five PM and I limp to the banana cruiser and head on out. I'm singing along to REM's Losing My Religion as I hand-over-hand a tight right-turn out of the parking lot when all of a sudden I'm taking a radical departure from the Michael Stipe lyrics, screaming OWWWWWWWMYFREAKINGJESUSWHATWAS-THAT??? and then looking down to see whether my right forearm is still attached to the elbow or not.

It was. But I drove one-handed from that point on and didn't even play any air-guitar on the way. Not even when Shiny Happy People kicked in.

I'm still shiny and happy, mind you, so don't fret about me, but I'll be licking my wounds for a while it seems.







Please note that the above image is not actually FWG and that FWG did not in fact have both feet severed in the accident. The above image was captured from Werner Herzog's self-described poetic interpretive documentary film titled FWG Versus the Sidewalk.

The magical dancing sea-creatures in the orange Neptunian sky represent the alien-antenna-like-asparagus from Gamelli's and of course the bowl of cereal represents the life-saving cellular network that was FWG's link to Afro-Squeege and eventual salvation.

Okay - it's late. I'm tired and getting stupider by the paragraph. Toodles.

FWG

Breakfast with Steve-o: the sequel

FWG: ‘Morning.

Steve-o: Sure is. Coffee ‘ll be ready in a minute.

FWG: So – uh – you got a sleeping beauty in your room right now?

Steve-o: No. Why? ‘Cause my door’s closed?

FWG: Hmm. We must have had an overnight intruder then.

Steve-o: Why?

FWG: There’s a hair in the bathroom sink and it’s too long to be Baby Bear’s or Papa Bear’s. Know what I mean?

Steve-o: That’s freaky. But I don’t know who’s it is.

FWG: You sure? No one’s been eating your porridge – so to speak?

Steve-o: Nope. No Goldilocks in my bed. I swear.

FWG: Alright.

Steve-o: I’m making crescent rolls.

FWG: I see that.

Steve-o: Crescent rolls! Crescent rolls! Sie auf meinem brot nicht scheizen!

FWG: What the hell does that mean?

Steve-o: I think it’s German for ‘Don’t poop on my crescent rolls.’ Or else, ‘My crescent rolls are made of poop.’ One or the other.

FWG: Part of the Hitler musical, obviously.

Steve-o: Obviously. Hmm. Should I make pancakes too?

FWG: Don’t even talk about pancakes. Christ. I’m having bacon and eggs and that’s it...


Which reminds me - I’m way overdue for a much-dreaded…


Detubberization Update

God – how I frigging hate this. I’m bound to doing it but please – don’t read it! Just skip to the next segment if there is one.

February:

Food & drink cheats: 65 (2.3 per day)
Mild exercise: 90 minutes walking (3.2 minutes per day)
Serious exercise: Null (0.0 minutes per day)
Mental exercise (writing): 13800 words (493 per day)
Weight: unknown. never weighed-in all of February!

March:

Food and drink cheats: 49 (1.6 per day)
Mild exercise: 255 minutes (8.2 minutes per day)
Serious exercise: Null (0.0 minutes per day)
Writing: 14980 words (483 per day)
Weight: 314 lbs (down 4 lbs in 2 months. Whoop-de-farking-doo)

Conclusion: I’m inclined to confess to being a total loser and beg to be shot please. In the head. Make it clean and quick – please. But I’m gonna go this route – the positive route – instead.

While all the numbers are strictly pathetic – at least they’re improving. A morbidly slow rate of improvement, granted, but I shall save the giving-up-on-life scenario until progress actually stagnates. A word on the writing stats: While the numbers are painfully low – I’ve been doing a ton of research, note-taking, contemplating, etc. I’ve got a major project in the planning stages that I’m wildly excited about. Unfortunately I’ve also got two major projects half-finished that I’m no longer excited about but that I feel I absolutely must finish. If for no other reason then just to know that I can.

You know – when I started writing I actually worried that upon finishing I might never get another good idea again! What an idiot I was. Now I get ideas constantly. Way faster than I could ever keep up with on the page. I need a clone. Or five.

Clones, people! Where are the damn clones!

Send in… the clones…

Oh – speaking of what a great writer I’m not – here’s a little poem I wrote the other day. I’d never submit it anywhere seriously because it’s structurally lame (though, for a reason). But it contains some messages that I believe are very useful – so I’m letting it see the light of day. I haven’t bothered with a title. Hey – if you have a suggestion for a title – by all means! Don’t be shy. There are no bad suggestions! Even ‘Twenty Lines of Juvenile Rhyming Couplet Shit-crap’ would garner serious consideration! In fact – we’ll make that the working title for now. I give you:


Twenty Lines of Juvenile Rhyming Couplet Shit-Crap

There’s so much to learn ‘bout the universe, Dad! That’s why I like to read!
You got too many books, Son. That’s not the kind of learning you need.

Did you know we can’t live on the moon, Dad! It’s got no atmosphere!
We can’t live in foreign countries either, Son. They’re not like folks around here.

We can’t live on Venus either, Dad. There’s always a terrible storm!
There’s lots of folk to steer clear of, Son, who fall outside the norm.

We can’t live on Mercury either, Dad. The temperatures are too extreme!
And watch out for the Jews, Son. They’re up to some kind of scheme.

And we couldn’t survive on mars, Dad. It doesn’t have good enough air!
And stay out of that big city, there Son. Folks can’t be trusted there.

There’s moons of the outer planets, Dad, might be made the way Earth’s made!
And stay away from San Francisco, too. They got perverts on parade.

But it’s much too cold out there right now, Dad. They’re covered all in ice!
And don’t lend no ear to no stranger, Son. Even if they seem to be nice.

There has to be other friendly worlds, Dad! Somewhere out there in space!
And stay away from the North, Son. They’re coloreds don’t know their place.

But we can’t leave the solar system, Dad. The next one’s too far away!
Oh and stay away from the neighbors, Son. They go to the wrong church to pray.

We’re sure lucky livin’ on Earth, Dad! It’s a paradise of water and air!
We’re best to keep here in Hometown, Son. It’s an ugly world out there.