blarg?

January 4, 2003

I’m in the Kingston

Filed under: Archives — mhoye @ 12:00 pm

I’m in the Kingston bus station right now, getting ready to head back
to Ottawa, and the process of my doing so has made Arlene cry. I’ve
got to get my classes organized tomorrow, I’ve got just a ton
of crap that I need to get organized in Ottawa, including spending
some time with my visiting great-aunt, but I think I’ve just managed
to make Arlene feel like my Saturday-night ultimate team is more
important to she is. She dropped me off at the bus station in tears,
and boy, do I ever feel like an asshole right now.

Ok, forget this. I’m getting in a cab.

UPDATE – I’ll be fucked if I’m leaving this town with Arlene thinking
that throwing a piece of plastic around puts her at #2. I found her
at work, which is always a bit of a chore – not the “finding her”,
per se, but the “explaining to her co-workers that I’m not in need
of medical attention” bit, which always seems to evoke a call for
a psych consult. Nevertheless, after waiting until she was free
to feed her a flagrant lie about missing my bus which she promptly
failed to believe I have obtained the keys to her apartment,
which should keep me from freezing to death.

I’m back at the apartment now, and I have about four hours to
kill before she gets home. I’ve grabbed a bite to eat at Bubba’s,
a dive of a pizza joint just off Princess near the harbor, which
apparently has the best Poutine in Canada. I found that out just
after ordering the Bubba’s Special Sub, obviously. I can’t speak
for the rest of the menu of course, but the “special” in “Bubba’s
Special” is that special kind of special that we also use to
refer to retarded kids. However, while I’m hardly a connoiseur of
the genre, their poutine is goddamned good. I might humbly suggest,
however, that eating both a Bubba’s Special and a large
Poutine in quick succession might be a mistake, but I’m going to
blame that on the Special.

I’m going to favor you, in the intervening time, with the
random things that bubble to the top of my subconcious as I flip
channels.

  • Emeril and Bob Barker are audience-shopping at the same
    store. Those idiots will applaud anything. Emeril said
    “bam”! Yay!

  • The FDA has approved Prozac for kids. I say, let’s just cut to
    the chase – leg shackles and heroin, that’s the way to go. That’ll
    shut the bastards up.

  • SlamBall is stupid. “I know. We’ll take everything that makes
    basketball good, the jumping and the trash-talking and make it,
    like, twice as much, and we’ll take away everything that’s
    bad about it, like skill or athleticism or teamwork,
    all that hard stuff. We’ll keep the stern-looking coaches,
    though. It’ll rock!”

  • In poutine-related news, my arteries have hardened to the
    point that the surrounding musculature cannot seem to budge them,
    stop. Cannot move, stop. Send help, stop. Am aware that actual
    telegraphs did not have commas in them, you’re a pedant, stop. Body
    goes to science, stop. Brain considered unusable, stop.

  • I might live to see Super Bowl C. I probably won’t care then,
    either.

  • I’ve developed a theory about artists’ second albums – if the
    major hit from an artist’s second album is largely about how they’re
    “back”, “here to stay” or some other variation on the theme of
    return or longevity, you can be reasonably sure that person or
    group’s career is over, and that they have nothing of any real
    merit left to contribute.

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