PEIBlogs.com: the definitive Prince Edward Island blogroll since 2004.: Comedy-Satire

The Annekenstein Monster - Comedic performer Rob "Annekenstein" MacDonald comments on just about everything. ^pop
(Added: 11-Jul-2004 Hits: 780 Rating: 6.88 Votes: 26) Rate It

Rob's 7-Word Reviews of some IMAF Short Films
I went to Friday night's IMAF 2012 "Funny Ha Ha" screening at The Guild, in Charlottetown. Actually, just didn't "go", but co-hosted with Graham Putnam. I thought my hosting got off to a rough start when I said something about...
How To Make The Next Season of Survivor Awesome
I'm a big fan of Survivor. However, I've been discouraged the past few seasons by the routine to the strategies: On Day One, a handful of players from each tribe commit to each other to be a strong, small alliance...
How I Would Have Improved This Week's "The Walking Dead"
I cannot count the number of times this season when, about 15 to 30 minutes into an episode of The Walking Dead, I vowed to stop watching the series. I have been beyond frustrated with the season, ever since they...
I'm Glad She's Dead
Sybil Monroe didn't give me the time of day when we was going to school. She thought she was too good for me. And she'd laugh at me clothes. Well, the last laugh's on her, because now she's Dead. And...
Darts - Twenty
My son and a couple of his friends, and I, have invented a darts game that we are liking quite a bit. It's called "Twenty". Before I explain the game, I should say that it is not a game for...

Truths and Half Truths - Author, playwright, actor, nationally-syndicated TV and radio commentator Nils Ling. ^pop
(Added: 9-Jul-2004 Hits: 594 Rating: 1.50 Votes: 2) Rate It

Mon., May 7th, Hello, there ...
Some folks have been dropping by since an essay I wrote about my Mom showed up as the first post in a lovely website called Positive Outlooks And Humour - an offshoot of the enormously popular Facebook page of the...

Clean And Funny Jokes - A clean joke everyday.
(Added: 18-Nov-2008 Hits: 11 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

Glamor Girl Gone Bad - Funny blog from "Cool Girl".
(Added: 1-Dec-2004 Hits: 563 Rating: 8.80 Votes: 5) Rate It

Happy anniversary, Appollo. Happy Birthday Paul.
Here's what I remember about the Appollo moon landing, 40 years ago:

I was standing on the upstairs landing of our country farmhouse and there was a rather frantic group around my mother.
I had already noticed previously, that she was fat.
In fact, I had told her one day recently, as she was scrubbing the floor, that I thought she was fat and it was probably caused from scrubbing floors. She laughed and laughed, and told the family the funny thing that I had said. But I was serious.
She was fat, and she was scrubbing a floor, so therefore logic implied she should stop scrubbing floors. For her own health.

I was five.

I was also the "baby". The coddled, spoiled, ringlet-headed, well-loved baby.

Anyway, there was a rather frantic thing happening around my mom and dad's bedroom, and a suitcase was involved. And running down the stairs.
Then me and my three siblings were shushed and hushed and reassured and maybe given a sugar cookie by my grandmother, who lived with us. Anyway, we were told not to worry, Mommy just had to go to the doctor.

A few days later, my Mother returned. With a wicker basket.
In this wicker basket was a newborn baby.
The wicker basket was placed on the living room floor.

We stood, in awe, around this wicker basket. Me, my sister, and my two brothers. We gazed, in awe, at the little baby inside the wicker basket. He was so little. He was so cute.

"Can he see?" I asked my mother.
I was thinking of the newborn kittens we had had many times, who couldn't see until their eyes opened.

"He can see," she said. "A little bit."

"What's his name?" we asked.

"Paul," she said.

It was only years later that we understood Paul had been named for the Appollo moon landing. I assume the name "Appollo" probably wouldn't have gone over so great in our little catholic community. But my parents wanted to commemorate the great event. And so named their newborn son "Paul".

It took about three days until Paul, the baby inside the wicker basket, became our collective doll.
I was five, my brother was six, my sister was seven, my oldest brother was 10.

This new baby became our baby. Thank God he had a gentle constitution and a robust, chubby, exceptionally healthy body. Because we played hide-and-seek with him when he was five days old. We hid him under the bed. Mom found him.
We loved him, loved him, loved him. We played with him, made him laugh, coddled him, stuck our snouts into his chubby belly, took him on every adventure we could think of. A laugh from Paul to us was a gift from God. We so loved our little baby.

I remember one day when I was in Grade Two, at my one room school house, waiting for the day to end.
I couldn't wait to get home to see my baby, Paul.
"I am so lucky," I remember thinking. "I have a two year old brother at home, and he is so cute. Nobody else in my class has a two year old brother. Especially a brother as cute as Paul."

We lived on a farm. With our grandparents. It was a busy farm, with milking cows, pigs, chickens, a horse, and crops and such, and my father also had an outside job. My mother was a very busy mother, because she had to do a lot of the farm work and feed her five kids and look after the house and everything. So she kind of let us raise Paul. But of course she trusted us. She knew we adored Paul.

I remember bedtime. Because our house was rather full (we had a border, too) a bunch of us kids slept in one huge bedroom, which was called "the ward". My brother would take Paul into bed with him, and spend hours playing with him under the blankets, making Paul laugh out loud, as loud as possible. It was a beautiful sound.

Paul grew, and he was sturdy, and funny, and so very cute. I can see him now, in my memory, wearing his little rubber boots, the day after my Grandmother died, in our house (in front of us kids, with no parents home) being told the bad news.

He said "Does this mean she won't make me get the mail anymore?".
He was four.

When Paul was six, my brother broke his arm, by mistake. We were playing a game where we were throwing each other off our legs. It's hard to describe on paper, but you lie on your back, stick your legs up in the air, put Paul on your feet, and throw.
It used to be a fun game, until Paul landed wrong and broke his arm badly. It led to a hospitalization. Which involved surgery, and two weeks in the hospital. We would go visit him. But he would cry. He would cry because he wanted to come home. And I would cry, my own self, to the point that I couldn't actually stand to visit him. Because I missed him so much and I so much wanted him to be happy, to stop crying, and to come home. My brothers and sister would also cry. Gawd, we missed him.

Anyway, that is what I remember of the Appollo moon landing.

Today, my brother Paul does not remember any of this. He doesn't actually recall the special full court press love he received by not just his mother, not just his father, but his four siblings, who so adored him. When I ask him about any of these incidents, he just does not remember.

That's okay, however. Because it seems to have paid off.

Today Paul is about to turn 40, and I am so incredibly proud of him.

He is a fantastic family man. He got married at 21 years old. Has three daughters, two of whom are grown up, beautiful young women. He adores his wife, still. He loves her in a way that makes me jealous. He loves his girls, too. He looks after his Dad, who is also my Dad, who is now a crotchety old man, possibly with early onset alzheimers, who lives three steps away from Paul. But our baby can do it, he has loyalty, and love, and he doesn't even question it. He just does it.

He is a talented musician.
He is a fabulous businessman. He has had his own business now for about a dozen years, in addition to his full time job, his family obligations, and his music. He's a really good poker player, too.

But he's also been mentoring The Boy. For no reason other than, well, I don't know why.

My son, The Boy, started to remind me of my brother Paul about three years ago.
He looks like him. He talks like him. But also, I have noticed, he thinks like him.

When The Boy's father died, in January, The Boy was left with a lot of options. And without a male mentor. He is only 23. He has a really good head, like Paul, but I felt he could use guidance.

I told him to go see my brother Paul.
Paul would help him. I knew that.
But Paul was already reaching out to The Boy, unbeknownst to me, and offering a hand. He appears to love my Boy.

I ran into my brother Paul last night. He told me that he has been talking to my Boy a lot lately, trying to guide him, possibly help him.

"He wants into real estate," Paul said.
"I suggested we use my credit, since he's only 23 and has no credit, and him and I buy a duplex together. That way we'll get started in the real estate business."

I will leave my Boy in my brother Paul's hands. And I am so thankful that I can.

So, in memory of the Appollo moon landing, let us play a song, for my brother Paul.
Anything by ZZ Top would do.

And raise him we did.

.
On clowns and lipstick
Mr. or Ms. Annonymoose was kind enough to offer me a gentle fashion tip on my blog recently.

Annonymoose wrote: "red lipstick makes an older woman look like a clown".

This was in reference to a line I wrote which said something like: "I wear red lipstick."

I am glad you pointed this out, Annonymoose. What I meant to write was "I wear lipstick that is a tasteful shade close to my own natural lip shade, but discreet and fashionable."
Also, it is my experience that red lipstick doesn't only make "an older woman" (like myself, and thanks so much for pointing that out) look like a clown. I find it makes ALL women look like clowns.

That is why I take my fashion advice from this gentleman:

http://www.thebestpageintheuniverse.net/c.cgi?u=fashion

Here is what he says about red lipstick. And since he is a guy who knows dick about fashion, I actually believe him. I also truly support his view on Crocs.
There are very few people who look good in red lipstick, and those people usually juggle for a living. I once met a girl who was able to pull it off, so I let her buy me dinner. Later that night she was making out with my wang, when I realized that all that lipstick was rubbing off. So I evacuated my moan-maker from her face hole, took some silverware for my trouble, and snuck out of her tent.
Red lipstick looks horrible on most women, and all men. The bright crimson hue is an unnatural abomination pushed upon your face by cynical cosmetic industry scientists. I'm sure somewhere in a laboratory, two scientists are high-fiving each other, laughing at all the bullshit new names for shades of red they invent. There have been literally thousands of names for the same color of lipstick over the years, yet there are only about 3 shades of red: red, dark red, light red. Period. And I mean that grammatically, and not menstrually, though the context makes sense now that I think about it. They just make up names as they go along, and you idiots keep buying the same three shades of red over and over again:

Here are some actual names for shades of red lipstick: berry juicy, candied apple, midnight red, love that red, volcanic red, red velvet, red reinvented, cherry desirable, opulent garnet, royal red, etc, etc. You know they're just making shit up when they start using abstract concepts like "love" and "desirable" in the name. Most of the shades are indiscernible from each other, but women insist that there's a difference. So I went to Revlon's website and took two of these colors for a comparison:

Yes, these are actual Revlon lipstick colors. I'm not making this up.
Insecure women with boring faces lap this shit up because they think "hmmm.. what does my face need? Oh, I know! A giant hokey shade of red that isn't even found in nature."
Has this child learned nothing?
The Boy has just inherited a $200,000 house.

It is a beautiful house and every time I visit it, I marvel at several things. The cleanliness. The beautiful hardwood floors. The tasteful paint job. The exceptional moulding. The fabulous wood finish.

But mostly, the lack of clumps of dog hair in every corner. The lack of dog slobber on the patio doors. The lack of long dog nail scratches in various things. The lack of the garbage being attacked on a regular basis, by dogs.

Last week, The Boy, who was raised in a kennel with his crazy animal collecting mother for many years, told me something that gave me whiplash.

"I am thinking of getting a dog," he said.

Not just any dog. Oh no.

This is a "special needs" dog.

I don't know how he came to meet Otis. But he did. And he fell in love with him, apparently. He thinks he is "very very sweet".

Otis is five years old. He is a Rottweiler/boxer/lab mix. He is currently in foster care. The Boy has had him over for visits several times, and really wants him.

"Everyone says I shouldn't get him," he said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"They say he's a Rottweiler. That he will bite."

"That's not true," I said. "First, he's not even a real Rottweiler. He's a mix. Second, look at mommy's Buster. He is half Rottweiler. He doesn't bite."

"I know," The Boy said.

"The thing about male Rottweiler mixes, is that they are very very attached to you. They are little boys," I said. "He will follow you from room to room. You won't be able to take a step without him. You will have to let him sleep in your bed. Males are very attached."

Then he said that all his friends are thinking because there is Rottie in this mix, it will be bad.

"He is in foster care at the PEI Humane Society, yah?" I asked.

"Yah," he said.

"The PEI Humane Society doesn't put vicious dogs up for adoption," I said.

"But he's five," The Boy said. "Everyone says a five year old dog is too old."

"How old was our Clydie when we got him?" I asked. (He was two). "How old was Grampie's Max? (he was three). Was there any problem bonding there?"

"No," The Boy said.

"You just need to love him, that is all," I said.

"He seems a little scared of the rake," The Boy said.

"That just means someone beat him before. Therefore, you must never, ever, beat him or be mean to him. You can do that, ya?"

"Of course," he said.

"Boy," I asked. "Why on earth would you want a dog, anyway? Have you not seen how my dogs tie me down? How they wreck the house?"

"Because, Mom, you know I love dogs. We had them, and I love them. And I would just like to have something to love right now."

"They're a big responsibility," I said.

"I know," he said. "But he is so sweet. I really really want him."

"Well get him, then." I said.

"Thank-you for enabling me," The Boy said.

Later, I looked up Otis on the PEI Humane Society's webpage.

It said he is a little scared of new things, and barks a lot when he is scared.

Nothing a lot of love wouldn't fix, in my opinion.
My beautiful trout
Let me tell you about My Beautiful Trout.

I caught him on Saturday and I have named him "Miracle".

Currently, he lives in my freezer. Soon, though, he will be moving to warmer digs - my frying pan. With a little flour and butter. And perhaps some fresh herbs from my herb garden.

I am currently obsessed with trout fishing. It is my hobby at this time. I intend to enjoy every moment of it until my obsessive/compulsive personality disorder causes me to lose interest and obsessively embrace a new hobby, like wood carving or kick-boxing.

I am a 45-year-old woman who wears high heels and lipstick. And black. I wear a lot of black. Also bright red, and white.
I am also a country wench.

I think I love trout fishing so much because it reminds me of my care-free childhood, where myself and my brothers and sister used to tie a line on a stick and fish, for fun and food, at Quinn's Brook. We also used to swim there and pee on the electric fence. And chase bulls and basically have carefree childhood fun.

I have three large dogs who follow me around like the Pied Piper. They love me very much, and I love them. In fact, I have such a large soft spot for them that I simply cannot deny their joy of taking a walk to the brook with me, even though you're not supposed to go fishing with dogs.

So when I fish, I fish with three large dogs. Who think it is all a mysterious but very exciting adventure.

I also hate to walk too far. Which limits my fishing to the little creek that is at the bottom of my mountain. This creek is four feet wide, at its widest.

My house sits on the top of the mountain, the brook is in the vale of the mountain. To get there, I walk down my lawn, cross the dirt road, walk down the field, and viola. I am there. Three minutes, tops.

So I take a shovel and dig worms from my secret worm pile, put the fat fuckers into my worm-slash-yogurt container, and put that in my fishing bag, which is actually a Sobey's Recyclable Bag.

When the dogs see this process occurring, they bark and jump with joy. And bark. And jump. With joy. Because they know it means we are going fishing.

I put my fishing rod on my shoulder. Generally, I will put a beer in the pocket of that fabulous Sobey's bag. I make sure I have a knife, extra hooks, smokes, and bug spray. I put my hair in pig tails. Sometimes I wear a hat. I have good sneakers because that is a long walk, and my feet are used to high heels.
And we're off.

The dogs know the way. In fact, there is now a path through the field, to the brook. On the way, they do fun things. Tessa hunts mice. Juno finds brilliant sticks. Buster proudly escorts me. All three are smiling with joy.

When we arrive, we arrive at my secret culvert. This is a culvert that I had never, once, in all my life, considered fishing at. Until this year.
This culvert is about two times the size of the culvert that is in your own ditch. It sticks out from the bank, about 12 feet, which means I have to walk on top of it and then kind of schooch my bum to the end of it, carefully, because if I fell off, I would fall in the brook. I sit on the end of it, and it is small enough that my legs hang over each side.

Under my culvert, is a little pool lined with rocks. It is deceptively deep. There is a big waterfall spilling out of my secret culvert.
I worm my hook, rather expertly, I might add. I am always shocked at how strong the will to live is in everything, even simple creatures, like an earthworm. I will admit that I don't like to kill worms. But I do it anyway. Expertly.

The dogs jump in and out of the pool. Juno finds excellent sticks. Tessa sniffs the brook banks, looking for mice or muskrat.

Buster thinks he is my helper. So he stands in the pool and barks at me sitting on top of the culvert, waiting for me to drop my line. I find it quite cute to watch. His barks make the culvert echo. He is so excited he is shaking. I think he thinks the hook and the line are some sort of treat for him to find in the water.

I drop my line, Buster goes ballistic, and (here is the odd part) I always, always, catch a trout. Within the first minute, I will catch a trout. When Buster gets tired of standing in the pool, chasing my fishing line around, he joins me on the culvert. He sits behind me, shaking with happiness, leaning into my back. This is no easy feat for a 120-pound dog. Sometimes he falls off, which is funny to watch because he lands in the brook and injures his dignity.

So the scene is set for the catching of my Beautiful Trout.

It was last Saturday evening, the day after the major rainstorm.

The routine was the same.

I sat on my culvert and dropped my poor worm in the pool. Buster was already waiting there.

Within a minute, I had hooked it.
I hauled it out, with great excitement, because this bugger felt big!

Buster saw trout and fishing line flying through the air, jumped out of the pool, and went chasing after the bright shiny, slimey objects flying through the air.

I yelled "BUSTER! Get Away from MY TROUT! Don't swallow the HOOK! I can't afford the VET FEES!"
Buster was shaking with excitement, the trout was thrashing and thrashing on the bank, my hook placed firmly to his gills.

I grabbed my beautiful trout. He was big, he was thrashing, he was mad. I smacked Buster in the face to advise him to get the hell away from my trout. I smashed my trout's head into the culvert, trying to stun him. He was a slippery mother, and I was terrified he was going to slip away before anyone in the world saw what I had caught. I ripped my hook out of his gills, trying not to hurt him too much. I was covered with fish scales and trout blood. I whacked his head against the culvert again and told Buster to shut the hell up.

I carefully threaded my trout on a stick, through the mouth and out his gill, like we used to do as children. He was huge. A massive trout, in my opinion.
I put him in my Sobey's Bag, which was safely on the bank. Then I tied my Sobey's Bag tight, so the mother wouldn't get away. Then I schooched back onto my culvert, and commenced fishing again.

All of a sudden, I heard a horrible thrashing, then a loud barking, behind me.

My Beautiful Trout had disengaged himself from my stick, escaped from my Sobey's Bag, and was sliding down the bank. Buster was on him, barking, shaking with the excitement of it all, and chasing my trout on his odyssey back to the brook.

I jumped up with horror. My Beautiful Trout was about to escape back into the brook, or be eaten by a Rottweiler.
CRISIS!
I ran from my culvert and grabbed my thrashing trout from the grass, yelling at Buster to leave my trout alone!
I latched, double-handed, onto the slippery mother and sat down.
I took a rock, and bashed his head five times to shut him up. The trout, that is. Not the dog. I felt bad about bashing his head, but he was big, and he could not escape before I showed my husband what I caught and then made my husband eat it.

I decided to retire to the homestead before my trout escaped some other way.

I entered the kitchen nonchalantly with my Beautiful Trout in my Sobey's Bag. Which was tied, very tightly, just for insurance.

My husband, who supports my fishing hobby but is somewhat skeptical about the odds of catching trout in a four foot long brook with three dogs in tow, asked how it went.

That is when I hauled out my Beautiful Trout and smacked it in his face. Slimy scales and all.

"HOLY GOD, HONEY!" he said. "That is a BEAUTIFUL TROUT!"

He was so excited about the size and beauty of my trout that he hauled out the digital camera, and made me pose with it. I did, hair in pig-tails, fish guts on my shirt, happily.

Then he laid it on the floor, with a measuring tape beside it.

12.5 inches.

He took another picture of it, beside the measuring tape. For proof.

And now, if I could figure out how to get those pictures off my digital camera and onto this blog, I would post them here.

I cleaned my Beautiful Trout. And he now lives in my freezer, with all my other trout.

And one day, I will eat him.
In which I create a new meme
A local blogger, who is popular (more popular than me, in that he actually has readers) has given me a brilliant idea.

I would like to invent a new meme.

Today he posted a cool thought. He worried that some student in 2050 would be assigned to write a project on how the people of Charlottetown lived in 2009. So he decided to track his morning, minute by minute.

You may read his post here: ruk.ca/article/5396

Please read it. I did. It made me crave yogurt and feel depressed. Especially for that 2050 student, who might get the entire wrong idea about what life was like for the rest of us in 2009.

So I decided to post my own minute-by-minute morning ritual, dear student, for what it was like in 2009, for one Glamor Girl Gone Bad, who lives on the other side of the tracks.

5 a.m.: Wake up from horrible dream in which you are fighting with one of two prior ex-husbands, or possibly an ex-boyfriend. You might not be fighting with them, you might be having sex with them. But whatever it is you are doing, the dream is horrible and you awake with a start.

5:01 a.m.: Wipe drool from mouth and whack around the other side of the bed until you hit a leg. Confirm said leg is actually attached to your actual 2009 husband, and not the 1985 or 1992 husband. Wipe sweat of relief from forehead.

5:02 a.m.: Fall back to sleep. Do not sleep on back, because that makes you snore, loudly, which causes the 2009 husband to roll you over physically. Which wakes you up again.

5:30 a.m.: Wake up with a start to the sound of swearing. And doggie foot stomping. Listen lovingly to the 2009 husband mutter: "Goddamned dogs can never sleep through a night without wanting out to pee. Stupid dogs! Stupid dogs!" Listen for door slam to confirm three dogs are out, peeing. Wipe drool from mouth. Go back to sleep.

5:45 a.m.: End beautiful dream wherein you are a child and your mother is cooking you a gorgeous dinner to the sound of the Fat Dog crying on the doorstep, to get back in. Kick 2009 husband, listen to him swear, wait for him to let the dog back in. Wipe drool from mouth. Go back to sleep.

6:00 a.m.: Wake up apropos nothing. Worry about things such as your light bill. Your mortgage. Your job. Try to beat down mounting anxiety. Tell the dog to stop licking his penis. Look at clock. Think: "I have half an hour more to sleep". Wipe drool from mouth. Sleep.

6:30 a.m.: Try not to throw dog, husband, or shoe at alarm clock. Think: "Just five more minutes". Think: "Oh my GOD I am tired." Think: "How many sick days have I had this year? Too many?" Tell dogs to shut up. Think: "My right ovary is really really sore. Maybe I have cancer." Think: "Well, it's only a matter of time till you have cancer, girlieo." Think: "I wonder which cancer will get me? Lung cancer? Skin cancer? Bowel cancer? Ovary cancer? Which one would I prefer? Which one is better?" Tell dogs to stop interrupting my train of thought with their happiness.

6:35 a.m.: Have a pee. Feel exhausted. Climb back in bed while 2009 husband has shower. I had shower last night, which gives me 10 more minutes sleep.

6:36 a.m.: Think about hair. Also clothes. Why for God's sake don't I lay out my wardrobe the night before? Because I am a disorganized lazy wench with bad hair.

6:37 a.m.: Have smoke.

6:45 a.m.: Get up. Brush teeth. Consider hair. Find clothes. Shake the dog hair off them. Sit on bed in despair. Why does my wardrobe suck so badly? Why do I have such bad hair?

6:48 a.m.: Have smoke. Think drink would be better, but it is too early in the morning. Besides, I have to work.

6:49 a.m.: Brush teeth again. Wash face et cetera. Try on approximately four outfits before picking one, usually out of desperation.

6:55 a.m.:Walk to kitchen. Cluck to myself in disgust at my bad housekeeper status. Check counters for things dogs could eat while we are gone because they are mad at us for leaving them. Hide bread. Hide knives. Hide anything that could intrigue them.

6:57 a.m.: Say to 2009 husband: "Tomorrow we should start eating breakfast. Even a bagel with butter would be better than the nothing we eat." He is trying to put his dog to bed, and fend off the other dogs. He agrees, distractedly. Decide tomorrow morning I will have a hot breakfast on the table.

6:58 a.m.: Think: "I should make a sandwich or something, to take for lunch. but I've already hidden the bread, and besides, I am so tired. And my ovary is so sore."

7:00 a.m.: Stagger out door to car. Worry about car. Will it break down? Will they re-posses it? At least it is still there. No one stole it last night. But maybe someone keyed it? Don't have time to investigate. Too tired, anyway.

7:01 a.m.: Make 2009 husband stop and reverse. Forgot to take anti-depressant. Run in house, take anti-depressant, check phone for bad messages, get back in car. Put on seat belt.

7:02 to 7:20 a.m. Sit back while husband drives us to work. Look vacantly out window at every house I've seen a million times before. Worry about the light bill. And the mortgage. Light smoke. Listen to husband growl about second-hand smoke. Think about a beach or something.

7:21 a.m.: Light smoke for husband, hand it to him. He doesn't like to light a smoke while he's driving. He's worried that the cops might stop us for some reason. And they could, too. I am down with that.

7:22 a.m.: Laugh. 2009 husband has a routine wherein he mutters about bad drivers, bad cyclists, bad road paint, bad road signs. It's the same every day so I just laugh at him and he laughs back.

7:30 a.m.: He says: "Do you want a coffee?" It doesn't matter that every single safe-same day for the past four years I want a coffee, we have to have this exchange. "Do you want a coffee?" and I have to say: "Yes I want a coffee." Go through Tim Horton's drive-thru. Order medium cream and sugar, medium double double. Refuse tray. Take coffee.

7:31 a.m.: Get dropped off at work. I am an hour an a half early for my job, but we carpool. Because we only have one car. Until they reposses it or someone steals it or the cops confiscate it for some reason. Then we will have none. But here I am at work early, and that is fine, because it will give me time to read the Globe and Mail and curl my hair. Possibly even put on make-up and have a smoke.

7:32 a.m.: Go to bathroom. Curl hair. Consider my ugliness in mirror. Wonder what make-up could be purchased to fix it. Think: "Holy Jeeze, I'm hungry. Why the hell didn't I eat breakfast? Tomorrow, I am going to eat breakfast."

8 a.m. Think: "Oh my God I'm tired. Why am I so tired? Maybe I have cancer."

9 a.m.: Start work day.

Profile PEI - the Jeremy Larter Story - Satirical web serial about hapless wannabe-screenwriter Jeremy Larter. New episodes every Monday.
(Added: 25-May-2008 Hits: 29 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

Chindia
Jeremy runs into his old high schoole buddy, Scott Gallant, after a not-so-hot meeting with the unemployment officer.
Money Troubles
Jeremy runs into some financial difficulties
Duet
Jeremy and Kelly...in love for ever.
The Morning After
Loose Cannon - A good cop, bad cop film starring a trigger happy monkey and a straight-laced dolphin.
Fort McLennie
Jeremy and Graham pick up Lennie at the airport. Lennie is hot off the Fort McMurray Press and he's ready to rule the island.

Sketch-22 Blog - Sketch-22 is a PEI improv comedy troupe.
(Added: 16-May-2005 Hits: 409 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

Trans Am?
Hey, remember that blog post last spring about looking for a Trans Am? We're still looking. If anyone has a lead on this, please let us know. Again, we'd prefer a mid-late 70s Firebird, black with a phoenix on the...
Season 5's first video shoot a wrap
With our first video in the can, it feels like Season 5 is officially underway. This photo was taken on March 25 at about 7:30 p.m. near Covehead Harbour. Despite the fact that we were on the north shore in...
Sketch-22 Season 5: Assignment: Miami Beach
Here we go again! Sketch-22 Season 5 is officially underway. Several writers' meetings have been held and I am happy to report the material is as strange, shocking and outrageous as ever. But is it funny? Well, we never really...
Rusty & Jerome pt.2
Jerome (Masenfer) Malone grew up on the streets. The streets of a middle class suburb outside of Fredricton. He began his directionless life of delinquency stealing apples and carrots from neighbours gardens. When he was old enough to ride a...
Rusty & Jerome
Rusty Higgins was a rapscallion from his early youth. Always getting into to trouble in his Neighbourhood in Bristol. When he was 13 he was finally caught by his parents making little bombs and promptly sent to reform camp which...

You Are Now At The Centre Of The Known Universe - A thoroughly fabulous peek inside the glamorous world of LCM, Centre of the Known Universe, featuring my identical twin 39 year-old mother, Mumsey - and our talented troupe of escaped criminals now rehabilitated into mimes, all helpfully named Marcel.
(Added: 28-Aug-2004 Hits: 478 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

I'm Sure It's Lovely, Dear

Darlings,

A friend e-mailed me this aft with all manner of news. Well, actually it was mostly a stream of filth and baseless accusations, interspersed with moans of how hard it is to paint a few crummy rooms. I smiled lovingly and responded thusly…

Upon Hearing Of A Dear Friend’s Redecorating, by LCM

There once was a lady who painted

Though her tastes were more or less tainted

She slapped it all on

Then drank until dawn

An elegant story, now ain’t it?”

Smiling Lovingly, As I’m So Often Found Doing

LCM
Let's See If This Still Works...

Hello, darlings – just testing to see if could still post a blog entry from my Outlook.

Patting Wig, Looking Fabulous

LCM
Comebacks
Dear Princess Lira,

Thank you, sweetie, for you welcome back message. It's heartening to know that not everyone has forgotten about me. (smiling bravely through the tears) Come have a cocktail with me, darling - I feel a poem coming on...

On My Preference For The Sea, by LCM

Yes, I've been both there and here
Seen the usual and the queer
But nothing dares compare to this
Here in our unfetered bliss
I say to all, my friends and foe
If you ask, I'll tell you "Go"
I've held the world in both my hands
In the ports of stranger lands

I've spent my time with witty men
But In the end, I pity them
For at the docks, you'll find me beamin'
In the company of seamen

Tossing Head Back And Laughing In That Good Way I Have
LCM
Words And Such
Melanie, darling!

How fabulous of you to drop by and compliment me on my vividness. As a resident of Texas, you surely know the how-you-say of the English language. (patting wig, passing Melanie a cocktail) So anyhoo, sweetie, I think I should write a poem about words. I mean, they're a fabulous tool for any modern gadabout, along with the icy smile and withering glare. Let's see what I can come up with...

The Slower Wit, by LCM

I often say, I will admit
My words see me in deficit
When bright young things as you, my dear
Wearing such and so, come near
"Oh how pretty!" I'll profess
Gazing at your latest dress
"It couldn't be just off the racks"
"I've been to Macy's and to Sax"
"You've been sewing, true it rings"
"Who knew machines could do such things?"
But when you saunter off, impressed
I tell the others "What a mess."
"The salesman was an evil jester"
"To put a cow in polyester."

Patting Wig, Looking Fabulous
LCM
Are You Slanky, Darling?
Sweeties,

I recently wrote a poem for my slanky friend Cindy and then forgot to include a proper definition for the word.

Slanky means slinky. Except only in the extreme past tense. It's the sort of word you might use if you were to be standing next to the pyramids - or the Acropolis - or even Cher. It's a tremendously fabulous word, and I encourage you all to use it with wild, yet elegant abandon.

Helping The English Language Be More Relevant To Today's Caustic Bitch
LCM

PEIBlogs.com: the definitive Prince Edward Island blogroll since 2004.: Comedy-Satire

Links:

The Annekenstein Monster - Comedic performer Rob "Annekenstein" MacDonald comments on just about everything. ^pop
(Added: 11-Jul-2004 Hits: 780 Rating: 6.88 Votes: 26) Rate It

Truths and Half Truths - Author, playwright, actor, nationally-syndicated TV and radio commentator Nils Ling. ^pop
(Added: 9-Jul-2004 Hits: 594 Rating: 1.50 Votes: 2) Rate It

Clean And Funny Jokes - A clean joke everyday.
(Added: 18-Nov-2008 Hits: 11 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

Glamor Girl Gone Bad - Funny blog from "Cool Girl".
(Added: 1-Dec-2004 Hits: 563 Rating: 8.80 Votes: 5) Rate It

Profile PEI - the Jeremy Larter Story - Satirical web serial about hapless wannabe-screenwriter Jeremy Larter. New episodes every Monday.
(Added: 25-May-2008 Hits: 29 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

Sketch-22 Blog - Sketch-22 is a PEI improv comedy troupe.
(Added: 16-May-2005 Hits: 409 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

Search, Recommend

Weather, Tides, Travel

PEI Gov't IslandCam

Blogstream of selected recently-updated blogs:

News

Photo of the day from Eastern Kings

PEIBlogs.com: the definitive Prince Edward Island blogroll since 2004.: Comedy-Satire

Links:

The Annekenstein Monster - Comedic performer Rob "Annekenstein" MacDonald comments on just about everything. pop (Added: 11-Jul-2004 Hits: 780 Rating: 6.88 Votes: 26) Rate It

Truths and Half Truths - Author, playwright, actor, nationally-syndicated TV and radio commentator Nils Ling. pop (Added: 9-Jul-2004 Hits: 594 Rating: 1.50 Votes: 2) Rate It

Clean And Funny Jokes - A clean joke everyday. (Added: 18-Nov-2008 Hits: 11 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

Glamor Girl Gone Bad - Funny blog from "Cool Girl". (Added: 1-Dec-2004 Hits: 563 Rating: 8.80 Votes: 5) Rate It

Profile PEI - the Jeremy Larter Story - Satirical web serial about hapless wannabe-screenwriter Jeremy Larter. New episodes every Monday. (Added: 25-May-2008 Hits: 29 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

Sketch-22 Blog - Sketch-22 is a PEI improv comedy troupe. (Added: 16-May-2005 Hits: 409 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

Search, Recommend

Weather, Tides, Travel

PEI Gov't IslandCam

Blogstream of selected recently-updated blogs:

News

Photo of the day from Eastern Kings

The Annekenstein Monster - Comedic performer Rob "Annekenstein" MacDonald comments on just about everything. ^pop
(Added: 11-Jul-2004 Hits: 780 Rating: 6.88 Votes: 26) Rate It

Truths and Half Truths - Author, playwright, actor, nationally-syndicated TV and radio commentator Nils Ling. ^pop
(Added: 9-Jul-2004 Hits: 594 Rating: 1.50 Votes: 2) Rate It

Clean And Funny Jokes - A clean joke everyday.
(Added: 18-Nov-2008 Hits: 11 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

Glamor Girl Gone Bad - Funny blog from "Cool Girl".
(Added: 1-Dec-2004 Hits: 563 Rating: 8.80 Votes: 5) Rate It

Profile PEI - the Jeremy Larter Story - Satirical web serial about hapless wannabe-screenwriter Jeremy Larter. New episodes every Monday.
(Added: 25-May-2008 Hits: 29 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It

Sketch-22 Blog - Sketch-22 is a PEI improv comedy troupe.
(Added: 16-May-2005 Hits: 409 Rating: 0 Votes: 0) Rate It