Aden! The Blog

Leaving, Part One

2010-03-26T16:56:00.000-04:00

Leaving
A Travelogue, of Sorts

Overture
A prologue, weeks in advance

To be honest, I don't know why I'm writing this. I fully intended to write a travelogue documenting my journey across Canada with two good friends, from the tiny dot labelled Milton (if it is indeed on the map) to the slightly larger one labelled Victoria. Though... maybe it isn't any bigger. In all likelihood, it's merely a trick of my mind; my subconscious making manifest my desire to leave this place. Anyway, I did not intend to begin writing anything at this point. Indeed, why would I? I won't be leaving for almost another month. Until then, I sit, here in this town I have known all my life, and instead of relishing the familiarity, the memories embedded within the bricks and asphalt, the wood and grass, I grow stagnant. I atrophy. I decay.

There was a time when I rejoiced in the sameness, when I was empowered by the knowledge that, come what may, Milton would never change. I've grown up since then. In some ways, it holds true; in some ways, Milton hasn't changed, and probably never will. But in other ways, it has changed nearly to the point of being unrecognizable. The sameness no longer lifts my spirits; the familiarity does not offer any comfort. Instead, these things now instill in me a sense of emptiness. Not sadness, but emptiness. As if the sheer nothingness of this town is a black hole, pulling in everything I have, and everything that I am, until there is nothing left of me.

That is an image I would really like to drive home—that image of nothingness, of there being nothing left—because it truly defines one of my main reasons for leaving. Simply put: I feel as though there is nothing left for me here. I have used up all the resources. I have met all the people that I am likely to meet, and I have experienced everything that I am likely to experience. There is nothing left.

Milton, as much as I know it will always be home, has become to me a prison. Not a prison of iron bars and bare stone, but a prison of the mind. A prison of comfort. You see, it is far too easy to remain here where I am loved, and coast along, comfortable and going nowhere. Too easy to become one of those who are raised here and never leave, content with seeing the same people, having the same conversations, until I pass on from here and am remembered as one who was comfortable, who lived well but took no risks, and thus gained no rewards. Or worse, forgotten; consigned to the far more tangible prison of a Milton Champion obit: three lines of type accompanied by a picture.

Aden Daniel McCarville, July 15th 1989 – whenever.
Died peacefully in his sleep, or whatever.
May he rest in peace.

And that is all. Only my rest would be far from peaceful. To pass on into whatever awaits us after life's journey only being able to say that I was comfortable is not what I intend for myself; my ghost would not rest easy at that. And if there is such a thing as predestination—I try to remain open-minded about such things, even if to me they seem far-fetched—and doing something great with my life isn't my 'destiny', then I will make my own. I will shatter the bonds of fate through sheer stubborn unwillingness to conform, with the ferocity of my rebellion against that which would hold me back.

Though, if you were to ask me, I'd say there's no such thing as destiny, or fate. I'm open to the idea, but I have yet to see evidence that points to anything other than this: our lives are our own. We shape them ourselves, with every action, and every choice. And I plan to shape mine into something great, something wondrous. Something that I can be proud of; that I can look back upon and be glad I chose not to be comfortable.

I know that there are some who doubt this decision, and others still who doubt my motives, my reasons. I wish I knew what to say to placate you, but I honestly don't. If asked, I would not be able to look you in the eye and say that this is definitely the right decision, that BC is where I belong in the world. But I can tell you with all certainty that Milton, where many come and far fewer leave, the boneyard of so many dreams, and mine if I allow it, is not my place either. I hope that is enough. It certainly is for me.

I realize that these words I have written may shine too harsh a light upon this town I was raised in, or its inhabitants, or my very life. But I hope you—whoever you may be, reading this—realize that this song I've begun to sing is not a requiem for a better life; there is no discord in these notes. Instead, think of this as a prelude to new beginnings, to a search for a place to belong. A foreword before the true story begins.

Think of this as an overture to an opera of living.

"Oooh, Shiny!" -- Why Avatar is an Overrated Piece of Shit, and Why You're Stupid For Liking It

2010-01-13T14:25:00.007-05:00

There's a pretty solid chance that you've seen Avatar by now. According to statistics, every single person on Earth and three-quarters of the animal population have subjected themselves to it, and are now fellating the shit out of it as if it were Jesus Christ himself come down from Heaven to bequeath us with spunk-flavoured salvation. As you may have guessed from the rather inflammatory title of this review, I am not one such person, easily swayed by fancy 3D effects and glowing flora. Yes, Avatar is a very pretty movie, and yes the world of Pandora is rather well-realized. But is it a good movie? No. Does it deserve to be making the ten million billion dollars per day that it seems to be making now? Hell no. Does it deserve to exist in the same storytelling medium as such classics as Gran Torino, No Country for Old Men, Citizen Kane, or Big Black Bootiez 2 and 5? Fuck no. Here's why.

The Story

The Last Samurai in space. No, seriously. Think about it:

In The Last Samurai, Nathan Algren, a former soldier who is now an alcoholic, is given another chance and a job training the Imperial Japanese Army so they can clear out the Samurai people, who refuse to accept the Emperor's Westernization policy. During his first battle, Algren is captured, and taken to the Samurai home, where he is instructed in their culture, their skills, and their way of life. Gradually, he realizes that he feels more at home with the Samurai than he ever did with his own people, and when the Imperial Army attacks, Algren fights to defend the people he has come to love. He miraculously survives a Gatling gun onslaught.

In Avatar, Jake Sully, a former marine who is now a paraplegic, is given another chance and a job gathering intel for a corporate/military mining entity so they can clear out the Na'vi people, who refuse to get the fuck out of the way so we can bulldoze their shit. During his first research / recon expedition, Jake is separated from his team, and taken to the Na'vi home, where he is instructed in their culture, their skills, and their way of life. Gradually, he realizes that he feels more at home with the Na'vi than he ever did with his own people, and when the humans attack, Jake fights to defend the people he has come to love. He miraculously survives riding unprotected on a dragon-beast's back into a hail of machine gun fire, and a fucking knife fight with a fucking big-ass robot. Seriously.

Now, I realize, pretty much every movie ever shares similarities with other ones. But why Avatar makes my blood boil is that it seems every single major plot point is ripped straight from another movie. Even the movie's one saving grace as far as originality is concerned--the idea of people mentally transferred into a surrogate body (see what I did there?)--has been done before, although less often. (Hint: it was done in Surrogates, among others that I cannot recall at the moment.)

The Characters

Where they aren't downright annoying, they're cliché. We've got such original gems as "Stuck-Up Scientist Who Insults Marine's Intellect"; "Wise-Cracking, Smart-Talking Aircraft Pilot"; "Nerdy Guy Who is Jealous of Marine's Success, Since Marine Has Inferior Training, Experience, and Skills"; "Corporate President Who Doesn't Care About Anything but Profit"; "Gruff, Battle-Scarred, Foul-Mouthed Army Commander Dude"... need I go on?

Even the acting can't save these shittily-constructed cardboard-cutouts. It's not that it's necessarily poor... but it's almost aggressively average. All of the actors do a thoroughly meh-worthy job. Like I said, not horrible, necessarily, but am I wrong for wanting and, damn it, expecting better than average for such an over-hyped movie? Shit no.

The Presentation

Avatar is a damn pretty movie; I'll give it that. But that seems to be its crutch, the shiny knock-off jewellery that James Cameron continually tries to peddle to us. Cameron attempts to hide the movie's shortcomings under a layer of gloss so thick that it can blind you if you look directly at it. Sure, he allegedly spent a shit-ton of time working out the intricacies of all the flora and fauna... but why is it that some of the creatures are basically things we already have on Earth? Example: the "horses" that the Na'vi ride. They are horses, only the head looks like that of a seahorse. And it has two extra legs. He even used regular horse sounds for some of the noises they make. Then we have the cross between an elephant and a hammerhead shark, etc. etc. Sorry, James Cameron, if I wanted to see a bunch of amalgamations of different animals I'd go drop a few tabs of acid.

All in all, the word that best describes Avatar isn't necessarily 'shitty'--though don't get me wrong, I still think it's a piece of shit--it's 'safe.' The acting? Not good, but not horrendously bad. The characters? Familiar enough in an archetypal sense that the average moviegoer won't find fault with them, etc.

In summation: don't watch Avatar. Don't fill James Cameron's pockets more than they already have been; he deserves none of it. If you can't do that, then at least stop telling fucking everybody how it changed your life. Your life has been changed by James Cameron's intense love of the colour blue. Congrats.

Oh, and I almost forgot; the movie's worst offense to mankind:

Sigourney Weaver is Almost Naked at One Point

Not cool, James Cameron. Not fucking cool.

Moving On Up

2010-01-13T14:14:00.002-05:00

Hello there my dedicated followers. Long time no talk. Well, I can't really say that. Over the last few months I've been getting a steady supply of comments, for which I am really grateful.

I have been blogging it up at adentheblog.tumblr.com, however I've noticed one very troubling thing: Tumblr apparently doesn't have a comments feature. I know, right? So, I believe I'll be either moving back here permanently, or posting on both blogs at once.

Jesus, the shit I do for my fans.

Things That Annoy Me: April 20th

2008-04-20T23:53:00.003-04:00

Superstore-related Shenanigans

1) The way in which management decides to tell me how to pick shit up off the floor. Or: "Holy shit this piece of lettuce could have KILLED SOMEONE."

This might seem somewhat nitpicky, or even make me seem like a careless worker. However, such is not the case. For you see, management-type-people at Superstore love to walk by literally a second after I've finished with a customer, and am practically still telling them to "Have a nice day" or whatever suave line pops into my head, pick something up off the floor which wasn't in my field of vision in the first place, hold it up to me and say something along the lines of "We have to pick this stuff up so our customers don't die." Then, as I'm about to reply with something along the lines of "Sorry, I couldn't even see it," or "Shut the fuck up"--depending on how I'm feeling--they toss it quite snottily in my garbage and walk away.
Well excuuuuuuuse me. I had no idea that bits of lettuce were, in actuality, deadly hazards. Look, it's a piece of fucking lettuce. Either pick it up and throw it away without the shitty attitude, or just leave it there. It's not like the thing is going to launch itself down somebody's throat and choke them to death if we leave it unchecked. And trust me, nobody but a very unlucky person with one leg is going to slip on a piece of lettuce. Even then, it would take some effort on their part.

2) Customers that complain about anything and everything. Or: "Jesus Christ man, why would you do something as stupid as hybrid parking?! And you don't have BAGS?!"

This could also be summarised as me hating it when people act like I am the official voice of the Loblaw Corporation. I don't know how, but for some reason people get the idea in their heads that if they yell at me, a lowly cashier, about the lack of bags, or the size of the bags, or the stupid hybrid parking, or the fucking weather, by the time they get out the door I will have waved my magic wand and fixed it all. Or maybe they're mad at me because, clearly, it was all MY idea. Yep. It's true. It went something like this.
"Hey Chris!" I said, strolling over to my store manager and giving him a friendly clap on the back, "I just thought of a great way to piss off EVERYONE WHO COMES IN HERE!"
"Do tell!" he replied, turning to me with excitement plastered on his face, and ignoring the Prime Minister's attempts to continue their conversation.
"First," I began, ticking off the points with my fingers, "we get rid of the normal bagging system that everyone is used to. By this I mean we ELIMINATE PLASTIC BAGS COMPLETELY!" Chris broke into a wide grin at this, so I continued, "Second, we refuse to even bag customers' groceries. That's right, they have to bring their own bags AND bag their own shit!"
"This is shaping up to be a good plan, Aden! But still, something is missing..." Chris stroked his chin thoughtfully, turning his head slightly upwards in a pensive pose.
"Oh, I've got it covered! Third, we make special parking for vehicles that NOBODY OWNS! And lastly, we put these special parking spaces as close to the building as possible!"
"But Aden, what about the parking for handicapped people?"
"Who cares?" I replied, "They're handicapped!" And we shared a hearty laugh, followed by high-fives and butt-pats.
Side note: I don't actually have a problem with handicapped people. Please don't send me any angry letters.
Also, a large chunk of the people that complain about the bags, etc. have DEFINITELY been in the store before, which is why it's just SO. DAMN. ANNOYING.
Oh, and I've never actually butt-patted my boss. Or high-fived him for that matter.

3) The hours, or lack thereof. Or: "You must have a minimum availability of four days of the week, but we're only going to give you one day. No, we don't care if that totally screws up any chance of getting decent hours at your other job."

I think the subtitle neatly sums this whole issue up, but for those who don't make a point of being up to date on my life, here's a general summary:
I work at Rogers Video and Superstore. I am available at Superstore--by necessity--Friday through Monday, and available the remaining days (Tuesday through Thursday) at Rogers. Now, this would be a sweet setup, if not for the fact that Superstore decided to give me, on average, a single shift a week. So I can't even go to Rogers and say "Hey, I only really get Saturdays at Superstore, if you want to give me more hours", because there's always the off chance that I'll actually get more than just Saturday. For instance, take this week. I had become accustomed to banking on only getting Saturday at Superstore, so I made plans for Sunday. Plans which were quickly tossed down the shitter when, to my dismay, I actually received a Sunday shift. And, Jesus Christ would you look at that, a Monday as well.
In summation, it sucks.

Non-Superstore-related Shenanigans

1) PeOpLe WhO tYpE lIkE tHiS.

I mean, come on. For fuck sake. It's not cool, it's not "edgy" or "out there", it's just fucking lame. People need to do this less. And while we're on the subject of typing...

2) ppl who do dis wen dey type

This is like every typing pet-peeve, rolled up into one convenient package. Annoying abbreviations, "gangsta"-style variations on words--obviously a necessity because typing that one extra letter that you shave off by doing so is just SO not worth not looking like a dumbass--and a distinct lack of punctuation or proper capitalization. Its provin dat dey be gangsta, rite? Tru, tru.
Only not.

Well, that just about cleans me out for this time. Actually I just forgot about the other stuff that annoys me. Check back at a later date for more of what you love.

By which I mean more of the stuff that I write.
Just making sure.

Things That Need to Stop Happening in Videogames: Vol. 1

2008-03-23T22:29:00.003-04:00

It's no secret, I enjoy the occasional round of videogame playing. To be more specific, videogames are as much a part of my life as food, my family, and hating the mailman. So, one can tell that it is not with an inexperienced mind that I write this: lots of stupid stuff happens in videogames. Most of this is balanced by all the glorious things that happen, like chainsawing someone in half in Gears of War, to making someone a headless quadruple amputee using only twelve bullets in Soldier of Fortune. Yes, I find a majority of the glory in videogames comes from murdering fools as brilliantly and bloodily as possible.
Unfortunately, there are a handful of things that occur in videogames that sully their reputation. They occur often enough to be among the most annoying things ever to be birthed by a sentient being. Luckily, I'm here to drag them out from gaming's seedy underbelly into the harsh light of hatred and disgust.

Number one: Stupid quicktime events.
(For the uneducated masses: quicktime events are unskippable sequences in videogames that, when done properly, somewhat mirror what the character is doing onscreen, and usually require that the player execute them correctly, or suffer one of many horrible deaths. A button or direction will appear onscreen, and the player is required to press the correct button / direction in a set--incredibly short--amount of time, if they want to avoid the aforementioned death. A common quicktime event has the player combating some sort of enemy, or traversing some form of dangerous locale, pressing the correct button as quickly as possible to make the character jump across the gap, stab the enemy, outrun the boulder, not get eviscerated by the zombie, etc.)
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm normally a fan of quicktime events. If they are done properly. Now, you might be thinking "Aden, you dashing young comedic and intellectual goldmine! Quicktime events are super awesome! God of War proved this!" There, you'd be sort of right, and sort of wrong. But mostly wrong, because you'd be disagreeing with me. God of War didn't so much prove the awesomeness of quicktime events as it showcased the fuck out of them; requiring them to be used if the player's desire is to completely kill any enemy larger than an anorexic soldier. It sort of felt like the developers were saying "Holy fucking shit! Aren't these things awesome?!?!" And so decided to throw them in willy-nilly throughout the game. Some of them were done decently; the button pressed corresponded roughly to what was happening onscreen. These are known as "Good" quicktime events. "Good" quicktime events are featured prominently in Heavenly Sword. The player flicks the control stick to the right, the character moves / jumps to the right. The player hits the attack button, and the character tosses her blade-on-a-chain into a piece of scenery to create a cool swingy-thing, or into an enemy to create a corpse. I salute these sequences, as they make some degree of sense.
Unfortunately, many quicktime events fall into the "Bad" category. These include sequences like "Press the X button rapidly to run away from HOLY SHIT THERE'S A MOTHERFUCKING BOULDER BEHIND YOU!" This would be fine, except that up until this point, the X button has been used to interact with the environment; pick up items, open doors, etc. To me, this doesn't make much sense, and results in a lousy experience. A "good" game for witnessing "Bad" quicktime events? Resident Evil: Umbrella Chronicles. Players will be moving along, capping multitudes of zombies with casual presses of the B button, when suddenly something along the lines of "HOLY SHIT THAT GIANT SCORPION IS GONNA STAB YOU WITH ITS TAIL! PRESS B / SHAKE THE WIIMOTE AND NUNCHUK TO DODGE THAT SHIT!" will happen. I won't even get into the fact that if your only option is to shake the controller, you're basically fucked, as it is an unresponsive pile of feces. Nevertheless, my response is usually "What the fuck!? How will pulling the trigger or fucking DANCING save me from a case of Arachnid-in-the-guts!?" Note: "Dancing" is the only suitable real-life motion that I can picture being emulated by shaking the wiimote and nunchuk.
The mention of these quicktime events leads me into the next category: Quicktime events that fall under the category of "HOLY SHIT! PRESS THIS BUTTON TO NOT DIE!" These are steaming piles of horseshit. No questions asked. Anything that suddenly appears, without warning, and suddenly tasks you with hitting a button to save your life is just idiotic. What's even worse is that many of these crop up during cutscenes; sequences where I usually drop the controller in favour of a refreshing beverage or a sandwich or something. What's even worse than THAT is when these retarded scenes don't let you simply try again when you fail. Many of them will do that, but there are a select few that reanimate your horribly crushed / burned / stabbed / eaten corpse back at the last checkpoint, which might very well be fifteen minutes of gameplay.
To put it simply, quicktime events need to either universally be well done, or just stop existing. Simple as that.

Number two: "Horror" in a game that is entirely of the "Thing jumps out of nowhere and yells BOO" variety. To paraphrase: More atmosphere, fuckers! I'm not saying that "cheap scares" need to be entirely removed from videogames. Rather, they should--sometimes--be the "payoff" from the building up of incredibly creepy atmosphere. Games like Silent Hill scare you much more with what happens offscreen--the creaking of rusty hinges, the thumping of footsteps somewhere close by--than with any of the creepy-crawlies that shamble into your flashlight's glare. Sure, there are some cheap "BOO, MOTHERFUCKER!" scares peppered about here and there, but those aren't the only things being relied upon. Another shining example is found in Fort Frolic, of Bioshock. (Keep in mind that Bioshock is not entirely a horror game, and does not have tons of scares in it, but it does set a very motherfucking creepy atmosphere, at times.) So, you're walking along in Fort Frolic, and you come across some of Sander Cohen's "creations": corpses dipped in plaster and posed in various positions--of course, I didn't realize they were corpses until I smacked one with my wrench and blood came out. Ick. So, it dawns on you that this dude is a motherfucking psychopath. Now, this wouldn't be so much creepy as just weird, except for one scene that, to this day, still sticks out in my mind. You enter a room, lit only by the glare of a television. Further, three figures are silhouetted on the couch. You move around to the side, and you bear witness to another of Cohen's creations: a woman, a man, and their child, eternally gazing at the TV together. This scene is almost perverse in its tender portrayal of a family simply spending a few moments together, in the ruined Utopia that is Rapture, the underwater city that is the setting of the game. However, the creepiest moment in this area has to be discovering one of the audio logs of Sander Cohen. It's a simple poem, entitled "The Wild Bunny":

Freaky shit, right? A note to game developers: More of this! No more monsters bursting out of doors / closets / ducts. It's old, it's stale. Bioshock managed to set a really motherfucking creepy atmosphere, and it's not even a fucking horror game! Fail, game developers. Fail.

Things That Annoy Me: February 18th

2008-02-18T12:25:00.002-05:00

I've started yet another ongoing series of posts, cleverly titled "Things That Annoy Me". It's about stuff that annoys me. I don't know how long this thing will be going on, but it's safe to say that it could be awhile; there's a fuckload of stuff that annoys me.

Number one: The Google ads on my blog. When I signed up for this thing, I didn't exactly read much of it. I saw the part that said "get paid", and the part that said "advertisements", and I used my Holmes-esque logic to piece together what it was trying to tell me. What I didn't realize until later was that people actually have to click on the ads for me to make any money off of it, which is kind of lame--and ties into my actual point about this whole service. Another part that I did notice was where it said "relevant to your blog". Today, I have an advertisement for private investigations in Thailand. THAILAND. Have I ever *used* the word 'Thailand' on my blog? SPOILER ALERT: no, I don't think I have. And I *know* that I filled out a profile when I signed up for this thing. If anything, the ad should be for private investigations in Bumfuck, Ontario. I fail to see how I'm ever going to make money off of these ads, or indeed how Google is going to look even remotely intelligent, unless someone happens to have both a craving for some blog-comedy* AND a cheating wife in Thailand.
*side note: "blog-comedy" is now officially called blomedy.

Number two: My mailman. Remember the good old days, when mailmen--and mailwomen, to a lesser extent--stuck to their motto: "Come rain, or sleet, or snow, etc. etc."? The other day, my mailman rang my doorbell for a solid five minutes--waking me up and thoroughly pissing me off--to tell me that I had to shovel a better path for him, leading up to my house. Now let me explain something to you. The path leading to my front door is already officially a path. If you were to look at it head-on, I could draw it for you using simple characters on my keyboard: l___l
Yea, it's already a path. But the problem for this mailman, was the fact that the part that you walk on, rather than being the stone slabs that normally comprise my walkway, was comprised of packed-down snow. Also known as easily-walked-on snow. Unfortunately I was still too asleep to actually yell at him, or make orphans of his children. So I mumbled some sort of incoherency and nodded, while closing the door. Bastard.
side note: I never did shovel that path for him. Hah, dickhead.

Step One: Global Recognition. Step Two: Global Domination

2008-02-17T16:35:00.002-05:00

As much as I love and cherish anyone and everyone in my hometown (probably consisting almost entirely of the few I have forced at gunpoint to access, read, and laugh at my blog) who reads this, you guys just aren't enough. I need a fanbase that includes people from *actual* towns or maybe *gasp* CITIES?!
Not that I don't appreciate the people who read, and tell me how much they love me, and my blog, but mostly me. Far from it. If I could remember--or cared--what Jesus said to that Peter dude, I would say it to you.
Anyway, anyone who has an idea on how I can gain a larger fanbase, let me know. Perhaps in a comment, on this post? Comments are one way of making me feel better about all the hard work I put into this thing. Seriously, comments, guys. I know a bunch of you have read stuff, but NO COMMENTS?!?!
As of this post, it is considered mandatory for anyone who enjoys some of my writing to post a comment stating as much.
In closing: NOTICE ME, JAY PINKERTON!! VISIT MY BLOG, ROBOTMAN!!! LEND ME THE MAGIC THAT MAKES YOU AMAZING!!

Is There an Officer, Problem? Part Two

2008-01-28T17:14:00.002-05:00

And now we come to one of my favourite drunken memories. I'm fairly sure I can remember most of this one. And oh, what a fun night it was.

Oh, and for the record, I'm getting tired of making up new names, and remembering who is who. So, through some clever thought, investigation, research, and outright fabrication, I have discovered / invented the following disclaimer, effective immediately and retroactively:

By partying / drinking / hanging out / sleeping with me, you agree to allow me the use of your name on this blog. There you have it.

So anyway, my friend Matt decided to have a few of the guys over one weekend. This must have been Grade 11. I was still young, still untattooed, but far less naive than on my last alcoholic voyage. I was still pretty stupid though.

So, we arrived at the scheduled rendezvous point (Matt's house). There were five of us in total: Me, Elliot, Luuk, Matt and Gage, who arrived later. He was at the *snicker* Fall Fair--which, for those of you who do not live in a hick-town (I'm assuming I actually have readers from outside of Milton, Ontario. Humour me), the fall fair is like a carnival, but really really shitty. Oh, and for those of you who couldn't guess from his name, Luuk is a foreigner. A Dutch foreigner.

We wanted to start drinking immediately, however we decided that it would be rude to begin without Gage present. That, and he was bringing more booze. So, we stuck what we had in the fridge--a few beers, and some foreign stuff called Oranje that someone brought; I leave it up to you to guess who--and proceeded to play Halo 2.

After I had thoroughly stomped a fuckload of ass, Gage arrived, bringing with him a mickey of Bacardi. I had expected more, but, not to be put off, I did what any gentleman would do: I let Gage drink his Bacardi himself, and swiped the Oranje off the foreigner. He seemed to have a problem with this, but, as I previously stated, he is Dutch, and thus frail, and rather twiglike. His flimsy, birdlike hands could do nothing against the onslaught of my fury.

In short, I told him to fuck off and drink his beer. He listened, because--and I feel the need to drive this point home--he is Dutch, and thus, weak-willed.

And so we drank. And drank. And peed. And drank. This pattern continued unabated until there was a sudden lull, possibly caused by the shortage of the booze supply, but possibly because of our discovery of beef-flavoured dog toothpaste. Matt quickly snatched it up and stuck it in Luuk's face.

"Taste this."

"I dunno man... It doesn't look very tasty." Luuk's voice was tinged with fear. And booze.

"Just DO it, you foreigner!" I interjected, my voice absolutely dripping with righteous fury at the thought of Luuk passing on this challenge. It might have been the booze as well.

Luuk hesitantly took the small tube from Matt, and carefully unscrewed the cap. He squeezed gently, causing a small amount of the shit-brown gel to emerge. We stifled our giggles. He licked it. We groaned and called him gross.

He licked it again. We took the beefpaste from him, and asked what the flying fuck he was doing.

"Luuk, we only told you to do it once."

"I know, but it doesn't taste very bad. It tastes like regular toothpaste."

Somehow, I didn't believe him.

"Luuk, you lying Dutch bastard. That shit is BEEF-FLAVOURED. And it's meant for DOGS. There's no way in Hell you're gonna convince me that it tasted like anything other than smoked horseshit. Or maybe beef."

"Well--"

"Shut up, foreigner."

This continued for a few minutes, until Luuk finally relented, realizing that he was Dutch, and thus, wrong.

With no other potentially gross-tasting items handy, we quickly decided that a new form of entertainment was in order. And thus was born the greatest of Halo 2 matchups.

There was shooting. There was dying. There were occasional piss-breaks. It was Halo 2, and we were drunk.

One of the highlights was the four of us trying to ride on one Banshee--for those of you who aren't Halo-literate, a Banshee is a flying vehicle that can seat one. However, it has small, wing-like protrusions on either side. We managed to sit one person in the pilot's seat, and two on either side, until the last person got jealous and blew them out of the sky with a rocket.

All this videogame-playing was really tiring, especially on the thumbs. Eventually there came the time when we were ready for bed. When Matt left to go to the bathroom, I hopped in his bed. Apparently, he didn't like the idea very much. Immediately upon re-entering the basement, he proceeded to toss fists at my arm. This continued until he was blindsided by my foot. I sort of felt bad afterwards, so I gave Matt his bed back--after thoroughly laughing at his sudden contraction of a case of foot in face--and slept on the floor. Not quite as comfortable, but I was pretty drunk; a bed of spikes would probably have felt like a Beautyrest at that moment.

Just as we were all about to happily drift off into dreamland, we came to a realization: the Dutchman was still talking.

"Luuk, shut the fuck up. I want to sleep. Shut up before I kill you, you foreign bastard." (If you can't guess who said this, go back and read through the story leading up to this point. Preferably while hanging your head in shame)

"I got a lot to say, man--"

"Luuk, shut the fuck up."

"But--"

"Luuk, if you aren't gonna shut the fuck up, go get me the Fudgee-os."

"I don't wanna get--"

"LUUK! FUDGEE-OOOOOOOS!"

"But--"

"FUDGEE-OOOOOOOOOOS!"

"Alright... I'll get you the fudgee-os."

And thus ended another night of drinking. Stay tuned for part three. Which I'm gonna try and remember.

On a side note, I never did get my fucking Fudgee-os. That fucking Dutch bastard!

Is There an Officer, Problem? Part One

2008-01-21T21:05:00.000-05:00

Please keep in mind that, in the course of these stories, I have never in fact been arrested, or indeed had any contact with members of the OPP, RCMP, FBI, CIA, NRA, NASA, or any other scary acronyms.

I suppose that, for the post that will begin this multi-part series, I'll do as any self-respecting writer would do, and start at the beginning.

The first time I ever became insanely drunk off my ass must have been way back in Grade 9. Oh how young we were back then. So young, and so naive. And so very, very un-tattooed.
A friend of mine--let's call her Sally--was throwing a party to celebrate the end of exams, which was kickass. I had my fears that it would turn out to be one of those "In at five, out by ten" parties, consisting largely of sitting around in the basement eating and drinking unhealthy food and very unalcoholic beverages, while parents, still very in town, had their way with the more comfortable, spacious first floor. My fears were soon quashed by the promise that, not only were Sally's parents out of town, they were very out of town. Being the naive, un-tattooed child that I was, I got some form of Smirnoff Ice cooler thing when asked what kind of booze I wanted someone to pick up for me.
Shut up. I made up for it later.
Not realizing that, even though they taste as good or better than a normal carbonated beverage, it is not a good idea to drink four coolers as if they are, I proceeded to drink my four-pack in the span of about 4 minutes. This being my first time drinking a large amount, I was still sort of a lightweight and I became rather buzzed. Not quite hammered, but I could safely be considered "Not a very big contender" in any spelling bees that happened to be taking place.

I managed to sit down with a friend of mine--let's call him Ted--who proceeded to offer me some of his whiskey. Not wanting to insult the man, but knowing that drinking pure whiskey would be akin to suicide at this point, I brought the bottle into the kitchen to mix it with some lemonade.
Now, in my defense: the instructions I got about the mix to use were nothing more than vague gestures, involving thumbs and forefingers being spaced certain distances apart, with one being a larger gap, indicating the amount of lemonade to use. However, the person never actually said that. They simply stated: "THIS much" and "THIS much", while holding up their fingers. If you haven't figured it out by now, I poured out about half a glass of whiskey, with probably half a shot of lemonade. It tasted terrible, but I told myself I would be insulting Ted and wasting his booze if I didn't finish it.

Hilarity and laughter at my expense aside, drinking all this brought about a stunning revelation to me, and a message popped up in my head, reading: "When I get really drunk, I can't feel pain! Badass!"
Well, it wasn't the drinking itself that brought it about, but two specific events. The first one occurred when I meandered upstairs, looking for other people to hang out with, having decided that those downstairs were "chumps". I found a bunch of people that I knew sitting around the edge of a kickass bathtub. "I'm getting in on this shit!" I told myself, and might have stated aloud. Not content with sitting on the lip closest to me, I decided I wanted to sit on the one across the tub. It was way better. I tossed one leg into the tub--empty, in case anyone was confused--without incident. Then, as I was lifting my other leg over more quickly than necessary, I allegedly smashed my foot incredibly hard against the side of the tub. More than one fellow tub-sitter asked me questions along the lines of "Holy shit! Didn't that hurt a whole motherfucking lot?" My only answer was to stare blankly at them and say "Huh?"
They then proceeded to inform me about my foot-smashery, which is how I now know about it, and am relating it to you. Jesus, that's confusing. This is like some sort of space-time paradox, isn't it?

Anyway, the second event occurred after I decided that I absolutely had to sober up. ALLEGEDLY, I professed undying love for my friend--let's call her Jennifer--who proceeded to rebuke me on the preposterous grounds that I was a) drunk and b) standing in front of her boyfriend as I said this. I got a little bent out of shape at this, and was told by someone that I needed to get sober to prove my love for Jennifer. This person was clearly a jackass, but being the trusting and oh-so-inebriated soul that I was, I listened. I enlisted a sober-up crew, who found me bread and coffee. I devoured the bread as I do the souls of my enemies, then proceeded to chug the coffee in one gulp. Shocked faces greeted me as I lowered the mug in triumph. It was then explained to me that the coffee I had just quaffed was fresh out of the pot, and thus, scalding. I shrugged all manly-like and told them that I felt nothing.

Needless to say, my sobering up had little to no effect on Jennifer, and frankly I had no recollection of any events occurring after the bathtub incident. It was only until the day after that someone related my exploits that evening, after firmly stating that I was, in fact, a dipshit.

Part Two soon to come.

New posts coming. I promise.

2008-01-16T20:31:00.000-05:00

So yea. Apparently I haven't thought about this thing for awhile. I've had other priorities, like quitting my job and stuff. If it's any consolation, I now have Rock Band, and have rocked out profusely. The drunken stories are coming, I promise.

Now that I have no job, I'll have plenty of time.

In between sleeping in and videogames.
And looking for another job.

Holy Shit! I should update this mahfah!

2007-12-15T11:50:00.000-05:00

So yea, it's been like a month since I've posted on this thing. Oops. I haven't really had any inspiration lately, I guess. Well, I suppose I could relate some stories of my drunken antics, but I'm fairly sure my parents read this. Looks like it's going to have to be removed from the favourites.

I guess that settles it. Coming soon: a multi-part epic, consisting of stories I can only partially remember, with many details related to me after the fact by shocked and horrified--but entertained--onlookers!

Across the Universe Is a Bad Movie: A Review

2007-11-18T00:54:00.000-05:00

I just wasted ten dollars, and I want it back.

If you couldn't tell by the title of this blog, or by the subtle-as-a-baseball-bat-with-nails-in-it opening line, I do not find Across the Universe (or "Across the Universe" or Across the Universe or however the balls a movie is supposed to be referenced in text form) to be worth a ten dollar admission fee. Or a *free* admission fee, for that matter. In fact, if I discover that any of you have spent any amount of money to have this pathetic excuse for a film forcibly eye-rape you, I reserve every right to perforate your upper and lower torso with whatever rusty objects happen to be nearby. In order to keep my brain running at a level that came *close* to knowing what the hell was going on, I had to divert energy from my right foot. This movie sucks so hard, it put my foot to sleep.

Alright, now that that's out of the system, let's get specific. Spoiler Alert; I don't give a damn about revealing whatever I need to in order to prevent another catastrophe like the one I just experienced.

First: The plot. Or lack thereof.
This is what I pieced together from my torture in the theatre: An English guy (Jude) takes a boat to the States to meet his father, an ex-marine who, while on leave in Liverpool, impregnated Jude's mom, either with or, more likely, without consent. After meeting his father, he meets some guy (Max) and, inexplicably, gets really drunk and decides to stay in America a while longer. Like, forever (side note: His plan is later ruined when he is kicked out of the country). It could have something to do with Max's hot sister (Lucy). What ensues is a strange, disjointed tale of love, loss, war, revolution, singing, drugs, and weird circus-mutants doing the splits. I'm being told that, in order to appreciate this movie, one needs to have an appreciation for the Beatles. That's one possible explanation, one with a surprising amount of merit. Another is that Across the Universe is a shitty movie.

Second: The characters.
At best, the characters in Across the Universe are annoying. Except for Lucy; she at least has her hottie status going for her (she's still annoying, mind you). At worst, the characters in Across the Universe are annoying/stupid/inane/fucking crazy enough to drive me to murder. Characters are introduced, then killed literally minutes later. This is probably supposed to convey some sort of message, but it was lost in translation. The translation to movie, from steaming pile o' shit.
Oh, and a bunch of the characters are hippies.

Third: The singing.
I'm not going to say that the singing itself in the movie was bad; far from it. The quality of the characters' voices is probably the movie's strongest point. Unfortunately, no matter how well the cast can sing, it doesn't change how atrocious the lyrics are, in some cases. Yes, I realize that a majority of the retarded lyrics come from Beatles songs, so I might be treading on the toes of many a fanboy out there, but come on. It doesn't matter how successful the Beatles were. Success doesn't make the words "I am the walrus, coo-coo ka-choo" make any more fucking sense. WHAT DOES THAT MEAN. For any of you that have not seen the movie in question, and are not fans of the Beatles, a character in the movie *does* actually sing this. With a straight face, and perfect confidence in how much (little) sense he is making. It's right before the gang gets off the psychedelic bus and meanders through a field home to all sorts of crazy carnival creatures. Tall blue dudes and shorter, tan-coloured dancing freaks abound. Oh, and they meet up with one of their friends (Prudence) who mysteriously disappeared, and just happened to show up in a place THREE THOUSAND MILES from where they were, and join the circus. The group is then magically transported back to New York, their place of origin.

Finally: The utter impracticality of it all.
About that Prudence chick: While the then-Prudence-free gang is hanging out in their apartment/condo/loft/whatever, Prudence comes in from the rain by CLIMBING THROUGH THE BATHROOM WINDOW, without being shot, stabbed, or otherwise murdered by the people living there. In NEW YORK, for Christ sake. She doesn't even get yelled at. Or, for that matter, questioned as to why the flying fuck she just clambered in through the window unannounced. These are things I would like to know, if a stranger decided to come in through my window, and then drip water on my floor. Jude, ever the gentleman, grabs Prude a towel. Take notes, kids: If a stranger climbs in through the window, don't ask why; just grab them a towel (substitute sandwich for towel if it's not raining).
Also, people sing while playing basketball. NO ONE sings while playing basketball. It's impossible, it's impractical, it's stupid. It's bad enough that we have to suffer through these amazing coincidences, but at least TRY to maintain some level of believability, eh?

In closing: Don't see this movie. Or rather, don't see this movie sober in any way. If you *must* go submit yourself to this atrocity, first grab twenty thousand dollars. Spend said twenty g's on assorted drugs. Place said drugs in a blender. Place said super drug-tonic in a syringe. Shoot up, and enjoy.
Alternately, mix ice in the blender with your drugs to make a flavourful beverage named "Overdosuccino".
Or, you know, you could just not go see the movie.

Old People Cannot Drive

2007-11-07T22:20:00.000-05:00

If there are old people in your vicinity, give them time to vacate the room before reading this. Tell them Columbo reruns are on TV; that should get them out right-quick. Or just take their glasses, or whatever.

I'm sorry if there are any staunch advocates of elderly drivers reading, but old people are TERRIBLE AT DRIVING. Actually, I'm NOT sorry if there are any of you reading. If you so badly want to waste your time, why don't you save yourself a lot of trouble and just vote for the NDP or something.
Anyway, back to the old people thing.
Old people cannot drive. Period. And as such, they should not be ALLOWED to. After the age of 70, I don't care if you pass every test, I don't care if you have better vision than me. I am taking your license away. I will then taunt you by pretending to give it back, only to snatch it away from your liver-spotted, arthritis-ridden hand at the last moment. I'm looking forward to this being one of my few victories on this front; Where once I possessed the reflexes of a cat, I now have the reflexes of a cat that has been shot up with enough tranquilizer to take down a raging wildebeest.

Just the other day, I was on my way to work--which, as it turns out, I ended up being late for--when I came upon my old arch nemesis: a red light (not to be confused with my new arch nemesis: pants). I would have pulled all the way up to the stop line, however my progress was impeded by a strategically-placed old-man-driving-a-car. The first thing that struck me, a near-perfect driver, as strange about this man's choice of stopping area was that he was fully 4 feet--approximately one midget--away from the curb, nearly over the dividing white line between right- and left-turn lanes. For my Milton readers: we were stopped on Wilson, coming up to Main street.
I let this pass without too much worry. This was Milton, after all; home of some of the worst drivers known to mankind.

What did get me worrying, however, was that even when no oncoming traffic could be seen, this person did not step on the gas pedal. After about 30 seconds of waiting, toying with the idea of smashing on the horn and waking this jackass up, an oncoming car slowly ambled up to the stop line, choosing not to run through the now-yellow light. I figured that the driver ahead of me was simply being very, very cautious. Or perhaps the law about right turns on red had been changed when I wasn't looking.

When, a full minute after our light had turned green and no movement was forthcoming from the car ahead, I officially started believing that he was dead. Then I noticed the passenger looking around, as if gauging the speed of the oncoming traffic. It took quite awhile for her to come up with "zero miles per hour". To be fair, she didn't have a calculator.

After confirming to myself that no, the law about right turns on GREEN had not been changed while I was asleep, I lost all patience and beat my horn like it owed me money. The driver finally began to lurch forward at a painfully slow pace, looking, in all honesty, as though he was going to head straight (which, for those of you who aren't familiar with the intersection in question, would lead him directly into a curb, followed by a sidewalk, followed by a field, followed by a scenic view of Rona, followed by train tracks). Finally, when it seemed all hope was lost, the vehicle swung right (and ending up in the wrong lane, but I'll let that one slide). I gunned it, turning 'round the corner and accelerating like a madman. In the process of passing the incompetent driver's car, I glanced over and saw a couple who must have been at least a thousand years old. I'm sure that if you added their ages together they would be older than time itself, at least.
Then I rolled down the window and flipped them the bird.
I don't care how old you are; being flipped the bird is the universal punishment for incompetent driving.

The worst part of this story, however, I have already mentioned: that jackass made me late for work.

So, in conclusion, the next time you see an old person reaching for car keys, do the right thing: don't think. Strike.
Failing that, I'm sure the Columbo thing would work in this case too.

Giving Credit--At Gunpoint--Where It's Due

2007-10-23T22:27:00.001-04:00

My friend and fellow blogger Luuk (who insists on referring to himself as Wiihoo) has all but beaten me into submission in order to give him some credit for the visual appeal of my blog. Yes, the logo was affectionately photoshopped by him. However, all the intense HTML coding needed to change the font colour, background colour, and size of the logo border was done entirely by myself. You'd be surprised how many tries it took me to get the perfect shade of "Hammer and Sickle Brown/Red".
Though he's not as into actual writing as myself, Wiihoo does manage a fairly decent blog, which he is filling up with his random 3D art crap that he does in his spare time. If you're into that sort of thing, check him out at http://lvbpwnsnoobs.blogspot.com
I take no credit for his atrocious URL. That was all him.

If you rub Linkin Park in your eye, you'll get pink eye

2007-10-23T09:16:00.000-04:00

Linkin Park is shit. I'm sorry, but that's how it is. I am fully prepared for the inevitable tides of hate mail from prepubescent girls and boys with voices so high-pitched that only dogs and bats can hear them. It's bound to happen, and I'm ready for it. But before you clutter my inbox--or, more mercifully, my junkmail--with your un-spellchecked, grammatically incorrect, practical incoherencies filled with too many capitals and not enough punctuation, at least give me a chance to defend my position. Who knows, maybe I'll sway a few of you to my side.

First off: How much fucking teenage angst can one whiny band have gone through? Seriously, it's ridiculous. I'm fairly sure they've exhausted every noteworthy form of sorrow that they could ever possibly be excused for singing about. And then they've sung about it again. If Linkin Park does manage to drop another album--knock on wood--I have no idea what emotionally-crippling event they'll sing about. The sorrow that accompanies the cancellation of their favourite Saturday-morning cartoons, maybe. Or perhaps their Xbox 360 has the dreaded Red Ring of Death?

Second: Why the bloody fuck does it all sound the same? Does anyone have an answer? Is there a formula for song-writing out there that Linkin Park is too lazy to break away from? I think this College Humour video just about sums up all my salient points: http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1765596
Is my CD on repeat? Well, I'm not stupid or rich enough to waste my money on a Linkin Park CD, but I imagine that, were there a Linkin Park CD playing right now, no, no I would NOT be able to tell.

Well, work time. I look forward to wading through your hate mail when I return.

Coming Soon: The greatest blog since the Communist Manifesto

2007-10-22T22:49:00.000-04:00

I apologize for the lack of originality and, well, content on my blog. Rest assured, an awesome blog is in the works. Once I can convince a friend to get off her lazy ass, and then sit her lazy ass in front of my computer, I will have a fully-functional blog filled with hilarity, insight, and general ass-kickery. Until then, I suppose you can live with a template.
-Aden McCarville a.k.a Combat Wombat