2004/09/30
Victim List
I saw a picture of my naked ass last week.
With any luck, that’s the last time my ass will be exposed in public. It is not an image for the untrained eye. I had to dispose of it so Sydney wouldn’t get her hands on it. What if a toddler saw a picture of her daddy’s ass? There would not, indeed, could not be any positive consequences from that.
It’s not that there’s something wrong with my ass. Just the opposite – my ass is so perfect, so very defined, so totally flabless, so devoid of flaws, it’s too much to handle for the average ass-looker. I live with its perfection, so I barely notice the showstopping beauty anymore.
If you think I’m kidding or deluded about my ass, come over sometime so I can show you the scrapbook from my participation in the 1997 Mr. Hot Ass Competition held in Vilnius, Lithuania. I could have placed third, if not for the Swiss judge who alleged I had enhanced my ass with steroids. Damn the Swiss – can’t turn them against each other, can’t afford their magnificent timepieces.
This latest picture of my ass gave me pause to reflect on all the other times my ass has been exposed and sometimes photographed in public places. I realized that too often, I have used my ass for evil instead of good. Those times are over. All that is left now is the remembrance of the Ass Victims. Tonight at 8:00 I will light a candle and read this list in a solemn tone usually reserved for visitors to war memorials, or commentators at televised golf tournaments.
To The Victims, your lifetime of painful flashbacks shall not be in vain…
*My wife, various, 1993 - present
*The elderly gentleman recovering from open-heart surgery, in the locker room at the Downtown YMCA, October 18, 2002
*Approximately 2,800 office workers in the three buildings surrounding Portage Avenue and Main Street, September 11, 2000. (Also known as the first 9-11 Attack)
*Six patients and two nurses in the Ass Phobia Disorders Unit, Health Sciences Centre, May 26, 2000.
*The busload of junior high students from somewhere in the Turtle Mountain School Division, March 30, 2000.**
**Technically, I’m not responsible for this one, since the school bus was in our blindspot when I put my ass out the window. But this is not about blame, it’s about forgiveness.
*The couple camping beside us at Birds Hill Park – July 18, 1994
*The other couple camping beside us at Birds Hill Park – July 17, 1994
*Former Prime Minister Jean Chretien, October 6, 1993, December 12, 1996, August 8, 1998, and February 27, 2002.
*The bakery clerk at Safeway, September 28, 1991.
*My girlfriend in university, various, 1990-1992
*The people who happened to look up to the sixth floor balcony while lounging or swimming in the courtyard pool at the Best Western Normandy Inn, Minneapolis, July 1, 1988***.
***There may have been a second ass on the Astroturf putting green adjacent to the pool, aka the Fake Grassy Knoll, but that’s never been proven.
*My girlfriend in high school, various, 1986 - 1988
*Mother Teresa, while arriving at the St. Boniface Hospital Foundation’s Humanitarian of the Year Dinner, June 16, 1985.
*My grandmother’s bridge partner, April 16, 1975
*My mother, father, and sister – various 1970 - 1994
*The doctor who delivered me – May 8, 1970.
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I saw a picture of my naked ass last week.
With any luck, that’s the last time my ass will be exposed in public. It is not an image for the untrained eye. I had to dispose of it so Sydney wouldn’t get her hands on it. What if a toddler saw a picture of her daddy’s ass? There would not, indeed, could not be any positive consequences from that.
It’s not that there’s something wrong with my ass. Just the opposite – my ass is so perfect, so very defined, so totally flabless, so devoid of flaws, it’s too much to handle for the average ass-looker. I live with its perfection, so I barely notice the showstopping beauty anymore.
If you think I’m kidding or deluded about my ass, come over sometime so I can show you the scrapbook from my participation in the 1997 Mr. Hot Ass Competition held in Vilnius, Lithuania. I could have placed third, if not for the Swiss judge who alleged I had enhanced my ass with steroids. Damn the Swiss – can’t turn them against each other, can’t afford their magnificent timepieces.
This latest picture of my ass gave me pause to reflect on all the other times my ass has been exposed and sometimes photographed in public places. I realized that too often, I have used my ass for evil instead of good. Those times are over. All that is left now is the remembrance of the Ass Victims. Tonight at 8:00 I will light a candle and read this list in a solemn tone usually reserved for visitors to war memorials, or commentators at televised golf tournaments.
To The Victims, your lifetime of painful flashbacks shall not be in vain…
*My wife, various, 1993 - present
*The elderly gentleman recovering from open-heart surgery, in the locker room at the Downtown YMCA, October 18, 2002
*Approximately 2,800 office workers in the three buildings surrounding Portage Avenue and Main Street, September 11, 2000. (Also known as the first 9-11 Attack)
*Six patients and two nurses in the Ass Phobia Disorders Unit, Health Sciences Centre, May 26, 2000.
*The busload of junior high students from somewhere in the Turtle Mountain School Division, March 30, 2000.**
**Technically, I’m not responsible for this one, since the school bus was in our blindspot when I put my ass out the window. But this is not about blame, it’s about forgiveness.
*The couple camping beside us at Birds Hill Park – July 18, 1994
*The other couple camping beside us at Birds Hill Park – July 17, 1994
*Former Prime Minister Jean Chretien, October 6, 1993, December 12, 1996, August 8, 1998, and February 27, 2002.
*The bakery clerk at Safeway, September 28, 1991.
*My girlfriend in university, various, 1990-1992
*The people who happened to look up to the sixth floor balcony while lounging or swimming in the courtyard pool at the Best Western Normandy Inn, Minneapolis, July 1, 1988***.
***There may have been a second ass on the Astroturf putting green adjacent to the pool, aka the Fake Grassy Knoll, but that’s never been proven.
*My girlfriend in high school, various, 1986 - 1988
*Mother Teresa, while arriving at the St. Boniface Hospital Foundation’s Humanitarian of the Year Dinner, June 16, 1985.
*My grandmother’s bridge partner, April 16, 1975
*My mother, father, and sister – various 1970 - 1994
*The doctor who delivered me – May 8, 1970.
2004/09/23
Joey Cannot Fail
Dear Television Viewers,
What do you think of Matt Leblanc’s new sitcom? Oh, you haven’t watched it yet? You mean to, but you just haven’t gotten around to it?
Well may I suggest you get around to loving the hell out of this show, pronto. There’s a lot more at stake than your amusement on Thursday nights.
But why don’t we look at your Thursday night amusement, because that is truly important. For ten years, you were able to take your Thursday nights for granted. The gang from Central Perk brought the laughs again and again without fail. Indeed, what a run it was. One cannot imagine a Thursday night without riotous spasms of laughter caused by the shenanigans of our beloved sitcom stars.
And now they’re gone, except for Joey.
You remember him, right? Oh, you actually hadn’t thought about him much since Friends went off the air? Well that’s understandable, since he was only the gosh-darn heart of the show, the pumping organ that kept the franchise alive for a decade. Of course you might forget someone so vitally important to your happiness – not!
Granted, the other cast members were okay, but easily forgettable. Each one had their moments, each possessed an endearing quality or two. Some people raved about Jennifer Aniston, but I think she did her best work in that Ferris Bueller sitcom, prior to her nose job, back in 1992. David Schwimmer could have attained godlike status, if only he’d had the foresight to develop The Pallbearer into a movie franchise, a la Austin Powers. Of course hindsight is 20/20, unless you have glaucoma, in which case hindsight is mostly cloudy, and a disturbing remembrance of better, unobscured times.
But let’s bring this back to our pal Joey. Matt Leblanc has generously signed on to keep his character alive for another ten or fifteen years. And he’s not doing it for the money. Rest assured he won’t be making one million dollars per episode, like he did on the old cash cow. No, he’ll be pulling in a more modest paycheque this time, something in the mid six figure range per episode. Let’s hope he banked some of the 171 million dollars he earned from his last job.
If Joey tanks, this courageous act of selflessness will unfortunately tarnish Matt Leblanc. Ten years of goodwill and adoration will be tainted by the failure of the spinoff, Matt’s chance to shine. People might whisper that he couldn’t carry a show on his own. Didn’t he know that?, they’ll say.
But Matt Leblanc can carry a pallet of frozen waffles on his back without sweating, never mind a sitcom. If Joey fails, it won’t be his fault, it will be yours for not watching the gosh-darn show. But he’ll go down, and so will a lot of other brave people.
Like Drea de Mattea. Talk about an actor taking risks, this lady goes from playing a Jersey-born girlfriend of a mobster on The Sopranos to playing a Jersey-born sister of an actor on Joey. What’s her middle name, Chameleon?
And then there’s the kid playing her son. This is his first big break. Big breaks don’t come along often, and when they do you’ve got to give it your all or it may never happen again. It’s like the dream I had where I stepped in for Alec Baldwin when he was playing Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire on Broadway. I wasn’t his understudy, I hadn’t prepared, and when I went onto the stage, I got scared and peed myself and was escorted to the back alley by security, because it turns out I wasn't really his understudy. In my dream, I squandered my big break because I just wasn’t ready for it. But this kid is really, really ready, and we can’t let him down.
Think of all the people behind the scenes who will suffer if Joey fails.
The crew, the producers, the network executives. These people work hard to bring you bland and predictable shows night after night. They’re going to put in all that half-assed work, and then you’re not going to watch it, just because you think the stories are rehashed and tired? How flimsy.
Why don’t you just go to England, where the jolly old blokes make shows comprised of only thirteen episodes. Can you imagine? They make one little season of a comedy, pouring their heart and soul into each episode, and then they pack it up. Sure, these shows are much better than anything on this side of the ocean, but how do you get comfortable with the characters if you know they’ll be gone in three months? Bollocks, I say. Better to have ten years of mediocrity, a dead horse flogged, rendered, and finally processed for glue, if it means you can have Joey in your living room two hundred and sixty more times. You like your sitcoms, even more than you like your gin.
And most importantly, think of the advertisers, those hard-working businesses just struggling to get their message heard. They advertise on Joey so you'll know what to buy next time you go to the store. I suppose you'd rather just wander the aisles, searching for products, trying to use your own judgement to select the very best shaving cream? I doubt it. You've got commercials - use them.
So put down that book you were reading. Don’t go to your son’s soccer game. Oh, you were going to bake some cookies for your daughter’s daycare? Why, so her friends can get even fatter? How about you sit in your chair and watch Joey. I bet you’ll like it so much you’ll stay in that chair all night for Will & Grace, The Apprentice, and the fifty-first season of ER.
And when you wake up at two in the morning, startled by the image of Jenilee Harrison shilling food processors with Ron Popeil, your neck stiff and your head aching, you won’t have to thank me. Just knowing you’ve resettled into your Thursday night complacency is all the thanks I need.
Sincerely,
Jeff Zucker
President, NBC
|
Dear Television Viewers,
What do you think of Matt Leblanc’s new sitcom? Oh, you haven’t watched it yet? You mean to, but you just haven’t gotten around to it?
Well may I suggest you get around to loving the hell out of this show, pronto. There’s a lot more at stake than your amusement on Thursday nights.
But why don’t we look at your Thursday night amusement, because that is truly important. For ten years, you were able to take your Thursday nights for granted. The gang from Central Perk brought the laughs again and again without fail. Indeed, what a run it was. One cannot imagine a Thursday night without riotous spasms of laughter caused by the shenanigans of our beloved sitcom stars.
And now they’re gone, except for Joey.
You remember him, right? Oh, you actually hadn’t thought about him much since Friends went off the air? Well that’s understandable, since he was only the gosh-darn heart of the show, the pumping organ that kept the franchise alive for a decade. Of course you might forget someone so vitally important to your happiness – not!
Granted, the other cast members were okay, but easily forgettable. Each one had their moments, each possessed an endearing quality or two. Some people raved about Jennifer Aniston, but I think she did her best work in that Ferris Bueller sitcom, prior to her nose job, back in 1992. David Schwimmer could have attained godlike status, if only he’d had the foresight to develop The Pallbearer into a movie franchise, a la Austin Powers. Of course hindsight is 20/20, unless you have glaucoma, in which case hindsight is mostly cloudy, and a disturbing remembrance of better, unobscured times.
But let’s bring this back to our pal Joey. Matt Leblanc has generously signed on to keep his character alive for another ten or fifteen years. And he’s not doing it for the money. Rest assured he won’t be making one million dollars per episode, like he did on the old cash cow. No, he’ll be pulling in a more modest paycheque this time, something in the mid six figure range per episode. Let’s hope he banked some of the 171 million dollars he earned from his last job.
If Joey tanks, this courageous act of selflessness will unfortunately tarnish Matt Leblanc. Ten years of goodwill and adoration will be tainted by the failure of the spinoff, Matt’s chance to shine. People might whisper that he couldn’t carry a show on his own. Didn’t he know that?, they’ll say.
But Matt Leblanc can carry a pallet of frozen waffles on his back without sweating, never mind a sitcom. If Joey fails, it won’t be his fault, it will be yours for not watching the gosh-darn show. But he’ll go down, and so will a lot of other brave people.
Like Drea de Mattea. Talk about an actor taking risks, this lady goes from playing a Jersey-born girlfriend of a mobster on The Sopranos to playing a Jersey-born sister of an actor on Joey. What’s her middle name, Chameleon?
And then there’s the kid playing her son. This is his first big break. Big breaks don’t come along often, and when they do you’ve got to give it your all or it may never happen again. It’s like the dream I had where I stepped in for Alec Baldwin when he was playing Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire on Broadway. I wasn’t his understudy, I hadn’t prepared, and when I went onto the stage, I got scared and peed myself and was escorted to the back alley by security, because it turns out I wasn't really his understudy. In my dream, I squandered my big break because I just wasn’t ready for it. But this kid is really, really ready, and we can’t let him down.
Think of all the people behind the scenes who will suffer if Joey fails.
The crew, the producers, the network executives. These people work hard to bring you bland and predictable shows night after night. They’re going to put in all that half-assed work, and then you’re not going to watch it, just because you think the stories are rehashed and tired? How flimsy.
Why don’t you just go to England, where the jolly old blokes make shows comprised of only thirteen episodes. Can you imagine? They make one little season of a comedy, pouring their heart and soul into each episode, and then they pack it up. Sure, these shows are much better than anything on this side of the ocean, but how do you get comfortable with the characters if you know they’ll be gone in three months? Bollocks, I say. Better to have ten years of mediocrity, a dead horse flogged, rendered, and finally processed for glue, if it means you can have Joey in your living room two hundred and sixty more times. You like your sitcoms, even more than you like your gin.
And most importantly, think of the advertisers, those hard-working businesses just struggling to get their message heard. They advertise on Joey so you'll know what to buy next time you go to the store. I suppose you'd rather just wander the aisles, searching for products, trying to use your own judgement to select the very best shaving cream? I doubt it. You've got commercials - use them.
So put down that book you were reading. Don’t go to your son’s soccer game. Oh, you were going to bake some cookies for your daughter’s daycare? Why, so her friends can get even fatter? How about you sit in your chair and watch Joey. I bet you’ll like it so much you’ll stay in that chair all night for Will & Grace, The Apprentice, and the fifty-first season of ER.
And when you wake up at two in the morning, startled by the image of Jenilee Harrison shilling food processors with Ron Popeil, your neck stiff and your head aching, you won’t have to thank me. Just knowing you’ve resettled into your Thursday night complacency is all the thanks I need.
Sincerely,
Jeff Zucker
President, NBC
2004/09/16
I Believe I Can Fly
It’s time to stop talking about winning the lottery, and just do it.
I’m not kidding here. I am deadly serious. I’m going to win lots of cash. I’m not talking about paltry figures. I will be taking home or ten or twelve million dollars, if not more.
Sounds impossible, right? Not necessarily. As Joe Morgan said on an ESPN broadcast of the 1993 World Series, trying to forecast the future as the Toronto Blue Jays captured their second consecutive title: “the hardest part of winning three consecutive World Series is winning the first two.”
Morgan’s insight resonates with me. I agree that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to win the lottery without buying a ticket. I want to win the lottery so badly, yet I rarely get in the game. If I would just start buying lottery tickets, I could become a champ too.
Of course the odds of winning are 14 million to one, so people will laugh at my folly. You can’t possibly count on winning, they will say. But it’s that kind of can’t do attitude that keeps people from reaching for the stars.
For example, lots of people told those Islamic fundamentalists they would never be able to hijack passenger planes and crash them into the World Trade Centre. But those guys believed in themselves and their mission. And certainly, it helped that they were criminally insane. But crazy or not, they accomplished what they set out to do. So why can’t I win seventeen million dollars?
Tara Reid became a big movie star, even bigger than Julia Roberts for a few minutes in March 1999, despite a complete absence of talent. Given that fact, can you really deny me the possibility of winning twenty-eight million dollars?
The 1980 US Olympic hockey team, with three guys who couldn’t skate, one guy who was legally blind, and a goalie without legs, still managed to beat the goddamn Soviets, who were only the best hockey team ever assembled. Given all that, you’re still going to dismiss my attempt to win eighty-nine million dollars?
What are you, a heartless curmudgeon?
I believe I can pick the right numbers. I’ve checked the winners for the last few draws, and I’ve noticed a couple of numbers that came up with alarming frequency. I’d tell you what they are, but since you’re too busy laughing at me, you can just forget it. All I have to do is pick the other four and I’m golden.
When I win one hundred and sixty million dollars, I won’t even remember that you didn’t believe in me. Your lack of faith will be dust in the wind, so to speak, as I ply you with gifts.
Clock radios, cordless phones, stainless steel coffee mugs, gift certificates to Olive Garden – you won’t be able to blink without some portion of my largesse coming into your possession. I may even take you on one of my weekend holidays to the Days Inn motor hotel, just outside of Portage la Prairie. We’ll probably stay in a poolside room. You would have some seed money to play the video lottery terminals. A generous per diem would be provided.
Word to the wise: if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. I’ll make this happen with or without your support, and I won’t hold any grudges. And don’t be surprised if I pull into your driveway next Monday driving an off-lease, low-mileage Dodge Neon. You’ll know how I paid for it. When I knock on your door, and you see me standing there with an 18-pack of Busch Light, just phone in sick to work, because the victory celebration will be on.
|
It’s time to stop talking about winning the lottery, and just do it.
I’m not kidding here. I am deadly serious. I’m going to win lots of cash. I’m not talking about paltry figures. I will be taking home or ten or twelve million dollars, if not more.
Sounds impossible, right? Not necessarily. As Joe Morgan said on an ESPN broadcast of the 1993 World Series, trying to forecast the future as the Toronto Blue Jays captured their second consecutive title: “the hardest part of winning three consecutive World Series is winning the first two.”
Morgan’s insight resonates with me. I agree that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to win the lottery without buying a ticket. I want to win the lottery so badly, yet I rarely get in the game. If I would just start buying lottery tickets, I could become a champ too.
Of course the odds of winning are 14 million to one, so people will laugh at my folly. You can’t possibly count on winning, they will say. But it’s that kind of can’t do attitude that keeps people from reaching for the stars.
For example, lots of people told those Islamic fundamentalists they would never be able to hijack passenger planes and crash them into the World Trade Centre. But those guys believed in themselves and their mission. And certainly, it helped that they were criminally insane. But crazy or not, they accomplished what they set out to do. So why can’t I win seventeen million dollars?
Tara Reid became a big movie star, even bigger than Julia Roberts for a few minutes in March 1999, despite a complete absence of talent. Given that fact, can you really deny me the possibility of winning twenty-eight million dollars?
The 1980 US Olympic hockey team, with three guys who couldn’t skate, one guy who was legally blind, and a goalie without legs, still managed to beat the goddamn Soviets, who were only the best hockey team ever assembled. Given all that, you’re still going to dismiss my attempt to win eighty-nine million dollars?
What are you, a heartless curmudgeon?
I believe I can pick the right numbers. I’ve checked the winners for the last few draws, and I’ve noticed a couple of numbers that came up with alarming frequency. I’d tell you what they are, but since you’re too busy laughing at me, you can just forget it. All I have to do is pick the other four and I’m golden.
When I win one hundred and sixty million dollars, I won’t even remember that you didn’t believe in me. Your lack of faith will be dust in the wind, so to speak, as I ply you with gifts.
Clock radios, cordless phones, stainless steel coffee mugs, gift certificates to Olive Garden – you won’t be able to blink without some portion of my largesse coming into your possession. I may even take you on one of my weekend holidays to the Days Inn motor hotel, just outside of Portage la Prairie. We’ll probably stay in a poolside room. You would have some seed money to play the video lottery terminals. A generous per diem would be provided.
Word to the wise: if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. I’ll make this happen with or without your support, and I won’t hold any grudges. And don’t be surprised if I pull into your driveway next Monday driving an off-lease, low-mileage Dodge Neon. You’ll know how I paid for it. When I knock on your door, and you see me standing there with an 18-pack of Busch Light, just phone in sick to work, because the victory celebration will be on.
2004/09/09
Signs your wife may have left you
*You appear to be the only person living in your house.
*Her car has not been in the driveway for a long time.
*The cat, which she took sole responsibility for feeding, now lies dead in your kitchen.
*The paperwork for a legal separation agreement sits on your kitchen counter, tucked back into its envelope.
*You haven't seen your children in quite a while.
*You saw her at the park, strolling hand-in-hand with another man.
*Your answering machine is full of seemingly cryptic messages from your wife, including: "you can't just pretend this isn't happening", and "I don't love you anymore, maybe I never loved you at all", and "if you don't acknowledge this, you'll lose the house and all contact with your kids."
*Your mutual friends visit occasionally, indicating that if you would just sign that paper that's in that envelope, then your wife could finally start planning to marry her new boyfriend.
*You've been watching a lot more porn lately, whenever you feel like it.
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*You appear to be the only person living in your house.
*Her car has not been in the driveway for a long time.
*The cat, which she took sole responsibility for feeding, now lies dead in your kitchen.
*The paperwork for a legal separation agreement sits on your kitchen counter, tucked back into its envelope.
*You haven't seen your children in quite a while.
*You saw her at the park, strolling hand-in-hand with another man.
*Your answering machine is full of seemingly cryptic messages from your wife, including: "you can't just pretend this isn't happening", and "I don't love you anymore, maybe I never loved you at all", and "if you don't acknowledge this, you'll lose the house and all contact with your kids."
*Your mutual friends visit occasionally, indicating that if you would just sign that paper that's in that envelope, then your wife could finally start planning to marry her new boyfriend.
*You've been watching a lot more porn lately, whenever you feel like it.
2004/09/03
A Maladroit Brain Stumper!
Nickelback song lyric, or eighth-grade creative writing submission?
a) Father's a name you haven't earned yet. You're just a child with a temper. Haven't you heard "Don't hit a lady"? Kickin' your ass would be a pleasure…
b) Ricky went down to the river. He blazed a fattie and exhaled real slow. The sky a raging torrent of wicked grey clouds…
c) Father’s hands were lined with dirt, from long days in the field. And mother’s hands are serving meals in a cafe on Main Street. With mouths to feed, just trying to keep clothing on our backs. And all I hear about is how it's so bad, it's so bad…
d) Marcy didn’t eat much at all. She sat in her room and sobbed an ocean of tears. Why don’t they like me? Why? Why? She wondered…
e)For 48 hours I don't think that we left my hotel room. Should show you the sights coz I'm sure that I said that I would. We gotta make love just one last time in the shower…
f) Eric was a problem child, a bad seed. Writing cheques his damn mouth couldn’t cash. He got in way over his head. One day he vanished just like a ghost would…
g) Now the story's played out like this, just like a paperback novel. Let's rewrite an ending that fits, instead of a Hollywood horror…
h) Courtney can’t wash the blood off her hands. And she scrubs and scrubs and it won’t go away. She's got a guilty head, it's gonna explode…
i) And they say that a hero can save us. I’m not gonna stand here and wait. I'll hold onto the wings of the eagles, watch as they all fly away…
j) Dad’s gone and done it again. No more, not even this time, I said. Not this time you bastard…
Nickeback lyrics: a, c, e, g, i
Eight grade creative writing submission: b, d, f, h, j
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Nickelback song lyric, or eighth-grade creative writing submission?
a) Father's a name you haven't earned yet. You're just a child with a temper. Haven't you heard "Don't hit a lady"? Kickin' your ass would be a pleasure…
b) Ricky went down to the river. He blazed a fattie and exhaled real slow. The sky a raging torrent of wicked grey clouds…
c) Father’s hands were lined with dirt, from long days in the field. And mother’s hands are serving meals in a cafe on Main Street. With mouths to feed, just trying to keep clothing on our backs. And all I hear about is how it's so bad, it's so bad…
d) Marcy didn’t eat much at all. She sat in her room and sobbed an ocean of tears. Why don’t they like me? Why? Why? She wondered…
e)For 48 hours I don't think that we left my hotel room. Should show you the sights coz I'm sure that I said that I would. We gotta make love just one last time in the shower…
f) Eric was a problem child, a bad seed. Writing cheques his damn mouth couldn’t cash. He got in way over his head. One day he vanished just like a ghost would…
g) Now the story's played out like this, just like a paperback novel. Let's rewrite an ending that fits, instead of a Hollywood horror…
h) Courtney can’t wash the blood off her hands. And she scrubs and scrubs and it won’t go away. She's got a guilty head, it's gonna explode…
i) And they say that a hero can save us. I’m not gonna stand here and wait. I'll hold onto the wings of the eagles, watch as they all fly away…
j) Dad’s gone and done it again. No more, not even this time, I said. Not this time you bastard…
Nickeback lyrics: a, c, e, g, i
Eight grade creative writing submission: b, d, f, h, j
Boasts
that have gotten me nowhere
I have eaten the Tim Horton's chili combo every single day for a month, and I won't be stopping any time soon.
Every four years, I drop everything - eating, sleeping, working - in order to watch the Olympic walking event.
I've jogged a twenty-seven-minute mile.
I can change my van's air filter in a day.
I tolerate cats. Your cat would almost certainly be safe with me.
I'm taller than Scott Baio.
I have had 2729 accident-free lane changes, dating back to 1995.
I can prepare an edible grilled cheese sandwich.
I can multiply small two-digit numbers in my head.
I have all my wisdom teeth, three are still in my mouth.
I can lift twenty eight percent of my body weight, and hold it for nearly thirteen seconds.
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that have gotten me nowhere
I have eaten the Tim Horton's chili combo every single day for a month, and I won't be stopping any time soon.
Every four years, I drop everything - eating, sleeping, working - in order to watch the Olympic walking event.
I've jogged a twenty-seven-minute mile.
I can change my van's air filter in a day.
I tolerate cats. Your cat would almost certainly be safe with me.
I'm taller than Scott Baio.
I have had 2729 accident-free lane changes, dating back to 1995.
I can prepare an edible grilled cheese sandwich.
I can multiply small two-digit numbers in my head.
I have all my wisdom teeth, three are still in my mouth.
I can lift twenty eight percent of my body weight, and hold it for nearly thirteen seconds.
