the kegger

no, i don't know who this is. i wasn't involved in this human tragedy... honest.

five days and counting until the big kegger... anyone who knows me well can see the gleam i'll have in my eye all week as the final preparations fall into place. this party will also be significant as we're going head to head against a party by the international affairs students who until now have been the party champions at b-list university. that record is about to end. they will go down. o-town, sweater brother and i are nicely posed to destroy them...

we will be party champions at b-list university. make no mistake...

line of the day 28

"dude, will smith has a.i.d.s.?"
- s-roc, my bartending brother

smear campaign 13: prime minister paul martin

go ahead... cover your ears, you stupid cunt.

my silence on the 2006 canadian election campaign should be interpretted as complete disdain... although buoyed to see my 2001 prophecy proven painfully correct -- that paul martin hasn't a gentle idea how to be leader of a national party -- the obvious downside is a government lead by stephen harper and his legion of conservative shit-eaters. thanks for coming out, paulie.

let's smear ol' PM for PM...

big city nights: the prescott

my review of urban cultural landmarks continues this week. last night, dee, my sweater brother and myself thought it necessary to explore someplace new in ottawa. fueled by a couple bottles of cheap wine and some tokes (sweater brother's first foray into le monde marijuane since juvenile delinquency), we made our way to the prescott pub in ottawa's ghetto little italy neighbourhood. i sensed for the past few months that this place may be the spot to hit... not knowing what to expect, we pushed our way through the crowd of middle aged smokers outside the front door and made our way in...

to our delight, this place is simulacrum for small town canada right in the heart of ottawa. we immediately felt at home. picture the scene: forty-something divorcees, hipsters and hockey hosers, listening to an evening of bad eagles, neil young and trooper covers by the house band, catchily named "the quest for the cure" which we at first misinterpretted for the theme of a cancer research fundraiser. comprised entirely of greying old men, this band had the room a rockin' although they repeatedly shrugged off our requests for "centrefold" by the j. geils band, claiming they had never heard tell of it. hockey played on big screens on either side of the band (ottawa trampled edmonton, which had the crowd in a giddy mood), and the dance floor was... hot, i think. yeah, quite hot. like stephen harper yukking up parishoners at a presbyterian church strawberry social in fredericton, these middle agers can totally let loose when they when they get in the mood. dee and i even joined them for the last few songs, the gas inducing draught beer had us so keen to shake our asses (albeit, if only to mitigate the cramps)...

jajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajajaja...

i could imagine the excitement of these forty-somethings at the thought of a night at the prescott. the men might take extra care to slap on some of that good aqua velva after their close shave and slide in that single diamond earring they wear only on special occassions -- the one the ladies all go crazy for. the ladies might let their little pink razors wander south just a little and tease that head of hair up a little higher than normal, cos ya never know...

it was the perfect place to debut my new winter jacket i purchased yesterday at zellers...

line of the day 27

"hey! let's hook the pussy-muncher up with the desperate housewife."
- sweater brother

did the puss run a racket?

alright, alright...

back in o-twat, fresh from a two week drinking junket to vancity with the heritage conservationist and i must report to you fair readers that i think there is a scam artiste in our midst. on new year's day, the puss celebrated her thirtieth birthday by inviting all of us to bar average on main street. the catch was that we pay a cool twenty-five dollars for a drink ticket and priveleges to snack on the buffet of hors d'oeurves. all of us, thinking that this would equate to a decent meal fasted for most of the day to get our money's worth, however our money's worth we did not receive...

the room sat poised for charge the buffet table with each modest delivery of food. we must've looked like eastern european peasants in the fucking bread line. i shoved someone at one point to get a one ounce shooter glass of carrot and squash soup.

our stomachs empty, our table (consisting of genesis, rocco, moonbeam albeit it breifly, big tittie latino mamma, fallopia cleopatra, the heritage conservationist and myself) proceeded to get annihilated, scandalizing pussy's family in the table next to us with our gratuituous usage of the word "pussy" (screamed across the room). a total gong show. by night's end the puss had offered up free hickies, but nothing in they way of additional nutrition for her charming young friends...

so i ask you dear readers, did the puss run a racket?