Originally intended to document my experience of DeLorean ownership, focus is often radical and strange, boring and obtuse.

Friday, January 30, 2009


Strapping holes in concrete filled with Stuff It insulating foam and random severed body parts.

When I’m not too busy eating delicious pie or screaming about horrible zombies, (which, as you know, are my two main hobbies in life) you can find me working on my basement renovation. This is a serious activity, and as such, does not typically contain - or contribute to - humourous events. That’s not to say that pie and zombies are not serious. In fact, they are two of the three most serious things the human race has ever encountered.

When your surroundings are not funny, like today, you can simply close my blog and read another. However, when my surroundings are not funny, such as when I am working in my basement, I am forced to entertain myself.

I repeatedly hear this story from my old friend BPZ (Baseball Player Zombie from 2005’s Zombie walk). I vaguely remember it, as intoxication hampered my memory retention that night. However, the story goes something like this:

Working in the basement requires proper head protection. Safety first kids!BPZ, a little inebriated, was attempting to hold a conversation with me regarding noxious gas clouds threatening the lives of cosmonauts. Okay, no, our conversation wasn’t about Russian space farts. In fact, I am pretty sure I wasn’t even involved in the witless conversation at all. But BPZ tried to include me in it. Much to his disappointment, and curiosity, I could not be convinced to join the discussion.

You see, I was too busy laughing my head off, in the corner, by myself. When confronted by BPZ, I had to admit: I was telling myself jokes. Dead baby jokes. You know the ones. They’re terribly inappropriate.

When working alone in the basement, I continue my tradition of self-entertainment by whistling and singing songs in my head. But you won’t catch me singing such ditties as Beyonce’s newest piece of crap, “if you like it then you should’ve put a ring on it...” or Ms. Spears’ unlistenable, “all eyes on me in the centre of the ring just like a circus...”

Nope. I like classics.

Come visit me any day of the week and you will find me thinking, whistling and humming “Who puts the future in your hands? Robotix, Robotix! Who gives you robots to command? Robotix, Robotix!” as well as “You run, you slide, you hit the jump and take a dive!” Not to mention the classic do-do-dodododo-do-do-do-do circus tune. American's MAY be able to view it here. Us shivering Canadians are not permitted.

Yes, that’s what it takes to entertain me. Jingles like, “Eight hundred five eight eight, two three hundred, Empire today!” not only help to pass the time, but also distract me from the wretched zombies clawing at my windows. And more importantly, remind me of who to call for carpet when I finish my renovation.

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Friday, January 09, 2009

Recycling Gold

Bender is 30% iron.... and recycles!Desperate for cash, our city left two gold recycling boxes on our front porch today in the hopes that we will ignore Russell Oliver's pleas for our used gold, and toss it all into the recycling boxes instead.

Okay. Not exactly.

The truth of the matter is, I am Recyclor. All shall bow down before me and my mighty recycling skills! Gasp! at the "good variety of newspapers and cartons" I recycled. Excite! to the fact that my blue boxes and green cart had "no contamination." Thrill! to "diverting more than the community's target of 65% of waste from landfill." Gasp once again! When I tell you it would have been even higher if the city hadn't tested our garbage the week after Halloween!

It began back in November when a city employee in a non-garbage truck type vehicle picked up our waste and sorted through it to see how well we were recycling (and maybe snatch a credit card number or two).

Turns out we were doing well enough to earn their coveted "Gold Recycling Box" award. There was much excitement in our house tonight as we celebrated our recycling accomplishments after discovering the "gold" award on our front porch. The two new gold-coloured boxes are meant to replace our blue bins. This action will infuse jealousy and anger into our neighbours, who will then attempt to one-up us, keeping-up-with-the-Jones's style.

With everyone competing to be the best recyclers in all the land, the city wins. Especially if people begin throwing their gold into the bins. It's a very sneaky plan masterminded by ex-big corp. CEOs, small-time Trump wannabe's, and perhaps old Russell himself.

Unwanted: garbage, cat shit, cardboard & paper.The program requires a citizen to sign up their address and give the city permission to rifle through their garbage for a waste-study. About 2 years ago, I did just that but was unaware that there was an award associated with it.

I had long since forgotten about it, until one day in late October when I received a phone call from a city employee. The pleasant, yet slightly recyclable-sounding woman stated that they were collecting my waste for the study I'd signed up for. Her instructions were to leave our refuse out on a specific date that was not our usual pick-up date. I gathered our throw-outables in the kitchen for one last hurrah, then kicked them to the curb without so much as a hug.

Pulling in to the driveway two months later, I laughed as Suz questioned the bins with, "yellow recycling bins? What the heck does the city want us to recycle NOW?"

It took a moment to set in, and I exclaimed, "we must have won! It was that recycling thingamajigger!" My only worry (associated with this event) is now that my gold boxes are so prominent on the street, I will face extra pressure to keep my recycling prowess at the kingly levels I've achieved. "Recyclor challenge everyone to recycle their best!"

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Tuesday, January 06, 2009

The Best Christmas Gift

Tree falling in the woods. Does it make a sound? Yes. It's 'splork'

Christmas is a busy time for everyone. It's busy for men because we rush to the malls last minute, get distracted by 60" 1080p plasma TVs and end up forgetting to buy gifts for our loved ones. It's busy for the women because not only are they planning what will be served at the obligatory Christmas party, they are also baking the pastries and cookies because the men are too selfishly distracted by that 60" plasma TV they just bought themselves during the pre-Christmas sale. Kids? Well, they're not busy at all. But that doesn't mean they're quietly hiding out of the way. No, kids are bouncing off the walls full of excitement, full of joy, and full of candy.

Way tons much candy. Yeah we used to say that. I don't know who we is, or when we said it. But we did. And, clearly, I still do.

Pine that could have fallen on our car.Suz and I spent Christmas morning opening our taxedermied platypuses, back shavers, cans of "Fart-B-Gone" and life-sized posters of goats. Once the excitement ended, we headed off to my parents for a tasty dinner with grandma, followed by more extravagant gifts. (I can't believe I got two goat posters.)

Boxing day was a day of travelling. Suz and I spent 5 hours driving to her parents, in the Ottawa vicinity. Another delicious dinner and another round of gift-opening resulted in happiness, and a DVD all about goats.

However, of all the gifts received I'm hard-pressed to find a better one than the pine tree which decided to fall vaguely into the grass and underbrush. Specifically, it was the fact that it fell AWAY from our aluminum Insight instead of on top of it, crippling its driveability and stranding us.

The road not taken. Oh wait, no, we took it.The wind storm fiercely snapped treetops the way a big thing, lets say a monster, snaps little things, like toothpicks. Power lines went down and were it not for the natural gas stove, all would have gone hungry.

Tough trees braved the storm by using nature's sneaky technique of bending, some at staggering 45 degree angles. More pathetic trees, like the pine near our car, cracked at the base and slammed to the ground. An elderly elm crashed across the gravel driveway, blocking it entirely. Suz's brother, arriving back from church, was the first to discover the mess. Single-handedly, he broke it apart and moved the pieces to the sides of the driveway, but it was still wise to drive over the remains slowly.

The death of trees is sad, but goes relatively unnoticed at Christmas, a time when pines are cut down and sold at Home Depot for a tidy profit, a profit which Home Depot employees then use to buy discounted Christmas trees, sap-protectors and goat DVDs for their own families.

In the end, because nothing was damaged, the fallen trees were soon forgotten. Everyone was happy that everyone was safe and uncrushed, and Christmas was a success!

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