the meta fart

Lying in bed at 5am, I let out a big, long fart. 

I started giggling. Then I hypothetically pictured myself lying in bed, letting out a fart and not laughing at it, which in turn made me laugh again, because the thought of myself lying there not acknowledging my own loud fart was hysterical to me. Because who takes themselves so seriously that even when they're alone they can't laugh at their own farts? 

The more I pictured this drole scene - a human being so sombre, so jaded that they wouldn't even laugh at a fart that escaped while lying quietly in the privacy of their own bed; that lone, trumpeting soldier ringing through the air for your own personal amusement, like the bumbling friend who you keep around because they can always make you laugh even when you're in the worst of moods - the more my brain kept on, turning my giggle fit into a storm of hysterics, sending me into a spiral of full-blown silent, wheezing horsey neighs with tears streaming down my face. 

I laughed so hard that I farted again. 
And then I died.

nic cage and the bad seeds

vom com!

Dear readers (all 12 of you),
Because I am a self-amused idiot with nothing better to do, apparently (and also I just can't let jokes die), I for some reason have a tumblr celebrating projectile vomit. So, if puke humour is your thing, lez b frenz, and let the riotous puke party begin!

http://fuckyeahprojectilevomit.tumblr.com/

in the court of the crimson cat.

"Dead Man's Boner," or, "How Ryan Gosling wormed his way into my panties: a short story."

The other night, after a long, perfectly lovely day of wine, music, giggles, and other peoples' animals, my man friend and I were in bed, smack dab in the middle of a very pleasant boner-trading session, when he looks at me and says, with a charming grin on his face: "Guess who we're listening to right now," referring to the music in the background, which by that point had become a warm swirl of random notes and frequencies licking softly at my eardrums, and resonating in other more uh... squishy parts of my body. So I took a moment to listen and considered it. The voice didn't sound familiar at all, but I was enjoying the haunting melodies and creepy back-up children's choir. 

"Hmm... I'm really not sure," I said.

"...Ryan Gosling! Ha ha!"

"... yeah right."

Oh, The Gos (our lady-killing patron saint of James North? http://hamiltonryangosling.tumblr.com - lest we forget). He always seems to find a way into people's pants one way or another, doesn't he? And that night, sweaty and naked and none the wiser... he found his way into mine. I guess that's what happens when you're a smooth operator: girls who wouldn't look twice at you seem to find themselves unwittingly victims of your deceitful charms.

Some girls at that point would have probably closed their eyes and silently swooned, maybe imagining some scene from The Notebook, privately wishing our titular Romeo in place of their partner. Instead, I giggled at the absurdity of it all, trying to shoo Ryan Gosling's smarmy, brooding badger face out of my mind and get back to the (much handsomer) one in front of me. 

As hilarious as it was (and as dirty and violated as I felt), his music is, I loathe to say... actually pretty fucking amazing and lovely! If you love Timber Timbre as much as I do, you'll love this.

                                                       Dead Man's Bones - "My Body's A Zombie For You":

...But that doesn't mean I want him smarming his way into my panties. Goddamnit, you don't own every girl's vagina, Gosling! You and your perfectly sexy bedroom music, why I oughta... I f*cking hate you.

By the way, a gosling is a baby goose. That's right. A baby goose. Not so sexy now, is it? Unless you put a wind-swept dirty blonde wig on it and give it a v-neck t-shirt.

(For the record, Lars and the Real Girl is a really, really amazing movie. Okay?)

Also, this video is super great:

the amount of dirty words i used in this post is misleading.

Hello. I haven't written a real blog entry in awhile. This one won't be very interesting, funny, poignant or articulate on account of not having slept last night, but if you're in the market to waste 2 minutes of your Rapture Day morning, I'm your girl.

So during my balcony-sitting last night/this morning, I did not see anything floating up into the air. Fireworks, blow-up dolls OR bodies. I was pretty disappointed. Especially with the lack of fireworks. At 7am I decided to go wandering off to find somewhere to buy vacuum bags, hair dye and moisturizer. I was an hour and a half early when I tried Rexall in Jackson Square (what drugstore opens at 9am? Don't old people who get up at 5am need their medicines and whatnot? Dicks.) After a totally failed bus experiment, I decided to stop being such a lazy fucking asshole and I continued with the rest of my mission on foot in search of a drugstore, which ended up being about as easy as spotting a product placement for condoms on any episode of "Teen Mom". The Jehovah's Witnesses were out in full force, probably counting down the hours until the end of the day before they say "fuck it, I give up" and take on a much more enjoyable, hedonistic lifestyle. Come to the dark side: we have titty bars, 150 proof elixirs and kinky sex.

Something cool I discovered is that I live way closer to Victoria Park than I realized. AND, apparently there is a secret mini-park/oasis in my building's backyard that I never knew about. (I have a thing for parks. Not just because of the abundance of dogs to play with.) Turns out I live in a really rad neighbourhood and I didn't even realize it (except of course for The Casbah being two blocks away [Brodie paid me $20 to say that] [Kidding!]). Oh god that last sequence of punctuation is stressing me out... Holly help me out here.

In conclusion, Hamilton rules, organized religion is idiotic*, and I need a nap.

His UFO is big enough for all of us to escape the wrath of Jesus freaks.

*Except for the Church of Dan Aykroyd, for which I am currently accepting applications.

ol' slacksey's got himself a new pair o' slacks!

“While some people in Hoboken remember Frank Sinatra as a lonely child, one who spent many hours on the porch gazing into space, Sinatra was never a slum kid, never in jail, always well-dressed. He had so many pants that some people in Hoboken called him ‘Slacksey O’Brien.’”


I hope to someday own enough pairs of pants that I may be known as Slacksey O'Brien.
Or maybe Pantsy O'Toole, Trousers McSullivan, or Plenty O'Jeans.

What's he thinking about? Probably pants.

silverchair?

Isn't it funny how, the "hot one" is now the HIDEOUS one???

At least the other two are looking good. I was always a Ben Gillies girl ;)
And now he's a dead ringer for my other teenage drummer crush, Dave Grohl.

really, journalists and bloggers? really?

There are so many hilarious dry puns to be made about this whole Perez Hilton/BEP beatdown, and yet? I've seen NOTHING!

My offerings?

"Boom Boom POW: BEP smash single hits home for Perez Hilton!"

"Perez gets a black eye from the Peas!"

"Perez to BEP: 'Where is the love?'"


That shit writes itself!
Come on guys, kick it into high gear.

welcome to the brand new you!

I just saw an astounding infomercial for a product called a "Bump-It".

Please, go watch the video for yourself: http://www.bighappiehair.com/

Aside from looking like a Conehead, my main concern lies here:
You're getting snuggly with your lady, maybe kissing a little here and there. You look into her eyes, lost in how beautiful they are, thinking about what a perfect creature you have sitting in front of you. You reach up to run your hand through her silky hair, when all of a sudden AUUUGHHHHHHH! You ripped your hand open on a medieval torture device!!! Flesh is hanging from your bones, blood is gushing onto your ladyfriend's hair, and she says "Oh that? That's just my Bumpit, silly!"

I don't know about you guys, but I think the Bride of Frank look is pretty demure and sexy:

If anyone has ever tried one of these... I'm sure you must have horror/comedy stories.
Do tell.

hey vinny! you're back!

Dear Vin Diesel,

Fast and the Furious 3? FINALLYYY. We were all wondering where you went. Must have been perfecting your performance for what will no doubt be the single most celebrated film of 2009. Shame on you for making us wait so long.

Ps. Your voice sounds like someone pushing a monster turd out of their anus with a lot of resistance.

Without much love,
Your number minus-one fan Little Lindsay C.

the world of the subconscious is a terrorizing whore.

In the past week I have had dreams about:

A) having to stab people to keep myself alive, and the dream felt so unbelievably real, and upon waking I remembered the feeling of stabbing through a human breastplate so vividly that I thought I might puke,

B) eating sushi with Jeremy, but part of the process of eating the sushi involved having to hack the head off of a black cat... again, I woke up feeling sick because cutting the head off the cat felt so real,

C) being in the elevator in my building with a bunch of children, and having the elevator go crazy berserk and shoot up out of the roof, go flying just to crash and kill all of the children that were in the elevator (I survived).

Now I'm watching a show about zombies. I'll probably dream about gum drops and unicorn kittens tonight, right?

old people are pervy.

I was sitting on the bus today heading downtown and watched these two little old ladies blatantly check out this strapping Richard Dreyfuss (but older) lookalike when he walked by in between them. I even watched one of the woman's eyes drift to his butt.

It was fantastic.

That is all.



Hey ladieeees...!

i am hot. what do we dooo?

killing the hero.

http://www.unsworn.org/telemegaphone/



I am TOTALLY phoning it and saying something utterly retarded, like "Luke, I am your Father."
Or making hot sex noises.

Ps. Oh good, Hunter S. Thompson is going to become the next Che Guevara.
Yeah, because HST's dying wish was to have his fucking face plastered on some metrosexual hipster douchebag's chest, and becoming stained with double latte chai tea non-fat frappuchino fuckspresso.

http://www.threadpit.com/store/product.php?productid=173&face=hunter_CA

Kill yourself!

the loliest lol that ever did lol.

CLICK!



Holy god.
Annnnnnd I'm spent.



Why is it that everything I find the funniest in this whole wide world has to do with Phil Collins?
Case in point, part two: Ju-ju, ju-ju, ju-ju, ju-ju j-j-juuu!


Oh what the hell, while we're on the subject of awesomeness, watch this, too! Hey Donkey, what's goin' on? You're a donkey. I like that. You eat apples, right? I produce Entourage.

teenage rampage.

I'm fucking bored and everyone sucks! Boo to your moms.


It's almost 3 am and I am still awake writing nonsense. I guess it's time to drag my stupid ass to bed. Things feel boring and "on pause" lately. Why?
I want to play music and I'm sick of not doing it. Maybe now that Dave and I have a room basically dedicated to making music, I will actually start to whip up some tunes.

Let's party or something. It's supposed to be Rocktober and so far it feels more like Not-tober.


Go jump in front of a train!

speed queen.

MY SUMMERTIME BIKE RIDING JAMS ARE "HIGHWAY STAR" AND "SPEED KING" BY DEEP PURPLE. SERIOUSLY.
TRY RIDING YOUR BIKE ALL FAST AND SWERVY AND CAREFREE TO THESE SONGS AND SEE HOW FUCKING AWESOME YOU IMMEDIATELY BECOME.




You're welcome.

Ps. Deep Purple ftw.

best wishes.

Well kids, let's all start the weekend and shake off the work week.

I'm half-naked, totally liquored up on strawberry vodka, and BELTING out "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'" by Journey at the top of my lungs over and over and over SO loud that I'm sure my neighbours are muttering death threats and cursing the shit out of me, and just whipping my hair around in care-free hair-a-copters.


Ah. Right now feels pretty good. Steve Perry and strawberry vodka flush all my worries down the drain.

Get off the tracks, my Saturday night party train is gaining speed...


Have loads of fun,
Love,
Me and Steve Perry