I’ll try being nicer if you try being smarter!

Archive for September, 2007

Choch Identification 101.

I’m sure many of you are asking, ‘What the hell is a choch? Did she spell couch wrong? Cuz I know how to identify a fucking couch, thank you’. Well, no, I didn’t mis-spell anything. Choch is a Saskatchewan word from what I can gather. Mainly cuz whenever I say it in Ontario, I get blank stares. Much the same as when I refer to a bunnyhug. But don’t worry, I will explain the Choch and it’s mysterious ways and then you too can incorporate it into your vocabulary.

Choch (noun): A male, usually in his mid-teens to mid-20’s, but in extreme cases may be older. Very high on himself, not yet fully matured and seemingly unable to get any. Fond of catcalls, standing in line to get into pretentious clubs, and driving with loud music.

 Now, that definition is fairly broad, so I have compiled for you a list of more specific traits possessed by the ubiquitous choch. Observe:

  • Choches are huge fans of hair product and styling. They love that shit. Gel, hairspray, mousse, highlighting creams, they’re alll over it. The typical choch hairstyle is one where the subject has washed his hair, gelled it, put it into spikes evenly placed around the head and hairsprayed like there’s no tomorrow.
  • The choch apparently has some sort of repulsive natural odour. I am assuming this, as they are constantly doused in horrendous amounts of discount drugstore cologne they are trying to pass off as designer. I can only assume this is to cover up some sort of stink, since it certainly not an attractive smell on its own.
  • When in transit, the choch is most likely driving in an almost reclined position. He will have one arm on the edge of his drivers door, resting near the window, and the other will be barely hanging on to the steering wheel. His legs will be spread far apart, in some lame ass attempt to look more manly, and he will be listening to dance, beats and/or techno. There is another strain of choch which has recently emerged which listens to rap and/or hip-hop. For all intents and purposes, they are the same creature.
  • The choch has severe social anxiety. This is obvious, as they seem completely unable to travel alone. They will travel in packs, often walking single line across a sidewalk, making it impossible to pass them. From what we can tell, this is their attempt to claim their territory and appear intimidating to those around them. Note the word ‘attempt’.
  • If a male in the above defined age group still lives at home and does not do his own laundry, and is prone to screaming things such as, ‘Ma! Where’s my supper?!’ in an angry manner, he is probably a choch.
  • In fact, if he starts any sentence by screaming ‘Ma!’ after the age of 10, he’s probably a choch.
  • The choch has problems with telling the truth. Especially in regards to females. They will often speak loudly about sexual conquests that frankly didn’t occur. They will do this while walking down sidewalk in above-mentioned fashion and slapping each other jovially on the chests. Their chests are usually covered in some sort of shiny metallic button down shirt. This is their uniform for outings ‘on the town, yo.’
  • An irrefutable mark of the choch is the use of the term, ‘Bro’s before ho’s’. If you hear this, you are dealing with a choch. They will also loudly break out into laughter reminescent of hyena’s while yelling, ‘Yo! Guyyyyyyy!’ and again using the slapping gesture described above. This may be accompanied by flapping of the hands or stomping of the feet, to indicate how impressed and/or shocked they are by whatever sexual lie has just been relayed to them.
  • The choch drinks pansy alcoholic concoctions. Since they tend to be grossly underweight in an attempt to let ‘the ladies’ see their ‘pipes’, they cannot hold their alcohol. You may identify them if they are drinking anything coloured, any type of ‘cooler’, Corona or lame-ass beers such as Bud, Molson or Canadian.
  • Their mating call often involves, ‘Hey’ with a slight nodding upwards of the head. This is indicative of their sad sex lives and an attempt to de-robe a female of the species. It is sad.
  • ‘Beats’ are the choch’s anthem. They quite enjoy them, though the scientific reason for this is as yet, unknown. Lyrics, meanings, quality and talent are all dismissed by the choch. If it is has beats (doom-chik, doom-chik, doom-chik), it passes all criteria test and will be played loudly while driving mom’s mini-van to the strip mall.
  • The choch has no formal education. There has been no record of a choch ever attending a post-secondary institution. They often seek employment at retail shops, garages or their daddy’s companies.
  • Lastly, and due to the previous point, the choch is unappreciative of intelligence. He dislikes it, as it challenges him. Anything that cannot be responded to with, ‘Whoooaaaaa! Guyyyyyy!’ is useless to them. Therefore, when in clubs they tend to prey upon drunk girls, stupid girls, whorish girls, bleached-blonde girls or fat girls with  no self esteem who will give it up easily and not challenge them on anything for fear of losing a shot at some wang action.

When dealing with this subspecies of males, it is vital to remember that they do not respond to logic. If they are harassing you, one way to divert their attentions is to throw a drink onto their shiny, button-down shirts. This will anger the choch, but do not worry, since like I mentioned they are normally grossly underweight and cannot cause any serious harm. They’ll scream at you and may say some nasty things, but they will have to leave. Remember, they cannot do their own laundry, so they have to get the shirt home to mom quickly, so the stain doesn’t set, yo. You can wave as they drive away.

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Universal Truth #65

Truth #65: If it is 10:20 AM, and you are ordering a double burger, I will grant you some leniancy. Perhaps you’ve been up since 5 AM, making me look like a total lazy schmuck.

HowEVER.

 If it is 10:20 AM, you are 50 pounds overweight and you are ordering a double burger, that leniancy might be a little less…….leniant. Especially when you are barking orders at the woman on the other side of the counter about how you want more mayo….no, more…..yep, now, on the other side of the bun too. Then when you insist on more cheese, and lots of honey garlic sauce, I start thinking you probably weren’t up at 5 AM. Then when you demand sauteed mushrooms to be put atop your burger and look like you are about to start bawling when you are informed that that is a 40 cent charge, I’m positive now you’re just a fatty. When you throw a fit because she nearly put too much pepper on your burger (and why shouldn’t she? You’re already eating too much of everything else…..ZING!), you deserve a kick in the shins. Then, when you snatch the box of fries from her like you’re reuniting with your kidnapped infant, I’m pretty sure you have a problem.

My point? This universal truth is………..if you are ordering that much high fat, disgusting food and getting uber bitchy about it since you think you are wasting away at 10 fucking 20 in the morning, and you’re the reason the glass is there (to prevent your drool from contaminating others food), you will never make more than $25,000 a year.

Why? Because you are destined to be the Fat Bitchy Secretary. The one who has total secretary butt, seven stomach rolls and is only kind to people when they come bearing gifts of a pastry-like resemblance. When you are that desperate for food and that terribly mean to those with the power to delay your sad gratification, you are too horrible a person to ever be promoted. Your life will consist of phones and couriers and nothing more fulfilling than a dead cow between two pieces of bread. Honestly, you kind of deserve it for being such a cow yourself.

CALM DOWN! It’s just a burger! And it’s 10:20 in the morning. You lose. Thanks for coming out.

Oh Dalton, I was THIS close……

Last night, wandering the streets near our apartment in search of take-out since we’re both lazy fucks who barely cook and forgot to grocery shop, we meandered past City TV. Nothing new, it is like, two blocks away (for all you non Torontonians, that’s where MuchMusic, Bravo, and a wide variety of other crappy Canadian television stations are located).

But on this particular evening, the Liberal bus was parked outside. Dalton McGuinty’s campaign bus. Ohhhhhh sweet. Now, if you are an avid reader of this blog, you know I have serious problems with this man. Mostly, because he is a wanker. A lying wanker in need of shoulderpads. I’m just saying is all. Anywho. I do have actually have serious political disagreements with the man, but I won’t delve into them here, for fear of backlash. For once, I shall heed the old ‘never discuss politics’ thing.

So the boyfriend was really worked up. Me, slightly less worked up, but excited nonetheless to finally stick my foot up Mr. McGuinty’s arse. I mean, the boyfriend is very political. VERY political. All forms of news are banned in our house, due to his the rants he engages in after watching something political he doesn’t agree with. He has this magical ability to ALWAYS get through on call in shows on TV to argue with politicians. In fact, he was the first one on the Talk to the Mayor (or whatever it’s called) on CP24 last week, and got David Miller super pissed off on TV. It was prety awesome. He took particular offense to the boyfriends questioning of why City Hall is threatening us with cuts on this and that and the other, which they clearly don’t intend to carry through on (come on, are you seriously going to shut down the Sheppard sTubway? Me thinks not). He even turned slightly pinkish. Awesome.

Back to the topic at hand. So, we abandoned our foraging for dinner, and cut across traffic to his bus. We scoped it out. This is also not the first political bus we’ve scoped out. Ha. At the last federal election, we made our way to where Paul Martin (insert wretching noises here) was holding a rah-rah-yay-Paul sort of thing. We arrived with nasty posters in hand, and were kindly escorted off the property by security guards. This didn’t sit well with us, since it was public property and we live in a fucking democracy, thank you very much. So we stood just on the other side of the imaginary line they had drawn, until my pal Paul’s bus pulled in. Now, long story short, we managed to get right up to his bus, directly under his window, close enough to see the man’s freaking nose hairs, and no, we did nothing illegal. BUT, we COULD have. Seriously, security was terrible, we could have shot him if we so desired. Way to go Canada.

Back to Dalton. So we went to this super fat Liberal guy wearing the most overstretched shirt you’ve ever seen (I could almost hear it asking me to put it out of it’s misery, it had clearly been purchased 50 pounds ago), smoking a big fat cigar outside of the bus’s open door. We asked this guy if Mr. McGuinty was in his bus, and he responded by simply jerking his thumb backwards towards the building. I was sad, I was kind of looking forward to causing another political fiasco by storming his bus and doing…..well, I hadn’ t thought that far ahead yet.

But the boyfriend had other ideas. He goes to the guy, “Oh, is he taping something? Are fans allowed in?” (At this point, I threw up in my mouth a little bit….being referred to as a fan was slightly nauseau inducing to me, but I knew where this was going). The guy radioed up and was like, ‘Sorry man, no room’. The boyfriend insisted he really was a big supporter (more vomit), but alas, we weren’t allowed up. Clearly, he was hoping to go in all pro-Liberal and then tear him a new one. Mahahahhaa. Awesome.

We instead went to eat Indian food across the street. It was sub-par. I felt gipped.

It was a night of high expectations and low outcomes. Anticlimactic I believe they say. I had high hopes for causing a brou-ha-ha with my friend Dalton and living out my violent fantasies against him. I also was seriously excited to eat my butter chicken. But it was gross. Boo-urns to that I say.

Oh Dalton, I’m sure we’ll meet again. We’re like star-crossed lovers or something. Be sure you’re wearing a cup though my friend, that’s all I’m saying.

Love, Talea.

Why Weddings are a Farce

Ah, the wedding. Who doesn’t love a good one? I know I do. They’re always a fun time. What better way to seal your love than an overblown, overpriced, overrated ceremony where people watch you sign your life away for tax breaks? Ah, the romance. Drunken speeches, embarassing kiddie pictures, spilled wine on white dresses, inappropriate come-ons, and free booze! Who could ask for more? Today I have decided to delve into why it is I find weddings so damned hilarious and awesome, though totally stupid at the same time. So here we go.

Phenomenon #1: Attire:      I like to get dressed up (though it is stressful, trying to cover up my super white legs in a dress….I can’t let these babies out au naturel, I’d blind people) and strut my stuff. They’re good for the ego, weddings. There is always some far-removed family member there who hasn’t stumbled out of the trailer park for a few years, but had to be invited due to some long standing family practice, who will look 600 times worse than you, and you will feel HOT. Your dress isn’t stained, or stretching to cover your ponch in the front. Your hair isn’t frizzled or mulleted and you have all your teeth. Self esteem goes up a few notches. Sweet.

Phenomenon #2: The Bridal Party:     Oh yes, those tangerine nightmares (that’s a nod to you, Lovely Friend). Those too tight, too short, too poufy, too hideous, completely ill-coloured and unwearable bridesmaid dresses. They’re hawt. You can see the shame in the girls’ eyes if you look closely enough. They know they look like trolls and they’re regretting saying yes to being a bridesmaid. They’ve had enough of that bitch of a bride to their right and are ready to smash her face in with their hideous, drooping bouquets. Plus, they’re seriously pissed about having ringlets in their hair. It’s awesome.

Phenomenon #3: THE Dress:       Okay, first of all, it’s usually white or a relative thereof, which is a fucking joke as it is. I for one, do not know anybody who is really qualified to wear white by the time they walk down the aisle. A scarlett letter may be more appropriate. But it’s tradition, and I’d wear white too, if one day aliens invade my brain and I decide to get married (shit, I’m funny, I loved that line). Ahem. Now ladies, we all know white makes you look fat and points out all the lovely lumps and such that nobody needs to see. So what I don’t get is why so many brides choose a dress that is skinnnnnn tight. I know they had dreams of dropping away the pounds before they walked down the aisle, but let’s be honest here. The stress made them eat pints of cookie dough ice cream, and now, you get to see every morsel. It’s horrible. And laughable. And oh! What was that? The self esteem meter going up a bit more? Yeahhhhhh. Also, lace, flowers, beads, sequins, ruffles, oversized bows and toule are always good for a laugh. It’s like a train wreck, you can’t look away. Though I will admit, many brides look good, but it seems to me that you only remember the ones who don’t. Moving on.

Phenomenon #4: The receiving line:     You don’t want to go through it. Cuz it’s awkward and slow. But you have to, cuz they’ve set it up in front of the doors to the reception site. And you totally can’t be that jerkface who skips it. Everyone will see, they will point and gasp and then you’ll be kicked out and you totally won’t get a thank you card in the mail the next month. Grrrrrr. Shuffle, shuffle. You finally make it up to the parents of the happy couple. You probably don’t know all four of them. You tell them their kids are pretty, which may be a total lie (see #3), because you don’t really have anything else to say. Maybe you thank them for having you. All you’re thinking about is getting through those doors and to the open bar. You make it to the bride and groom. You might actually have something to say to them, but you can’t, because the line is moving ever forward. Slowly, slowly, you get pushed away by all the other ‘well wishers’. Damn, and you had a witty joke planned and everything. Oh well. On to the reception.

Phenomenon #5: The seating arrangements:      These are always super fun. You get to go in and try to find your little place card and then your little table and then wait to see what freaks and geeks you’ll be sharing your meal with. Are you close to the head table? Or shoved in the corner beside the speakers? Are you going to go back and grab your gift off the table, cuz they had the nerve to sit you at the kiddie table? Ohhhh, who knows? The seating arrangement is always a crapshoot. Fun!

Phenomenon #6: The ‘Looking Back’ Slideshow/Speech:      Finally, the day you’ve dreamed of. Seeing your friend/coworker/relative naked in the bath. As they project stupid images of themselves as ugly, snot covered kids, you have to pretend to care. You have to politely laugh at the stories of them and how they used to eat crayons and wet their beds til they were 9. This involves a special kind of laugh. The wedding/important function laugh, akin to the ever popular ‘golf clap’. The upside to this is you can totally have blackmail against them forever, and you may even be able to spawn some sort of wacky nickname for them. Awesome. And yes, this is another opportunity for your self esteem meter to go up. You totally stopped pissing your bed way before them.

Phenomenon #7: Drunken Debauchery:        Everyone gets tanked at weddings. It’s probably the only reason they bother showing up. And this means a lot of things. It means hilarious speeches from weirdo uncles, it means inappropriate dancing, strange hook-ups and many admissions of love.As in, “I love you man! You’re the greatest!” “No, yeeeeeeeerr the great-uh……what?” And I guarantee there will be girls crying in the bathroom. Guaranteed. The bride might trip on her gown or get really pissed at the groom when he starts leering at her younger cousin. Secrets about past lovers and flings could come out. All sorts of craziness can ensue. All you have to do is stay sober enough to laugh at it.

Phenomenon #8: The Wedding Singer:        So if you’re lucky enough to attend a wedding with live music, you’re in for a treat. These guys haven’t yet realized that this level of fame is the top of their career. They’re not going any higher. But since they don’t know that, or refuse to accept it, they sing their hearts out and act as though an Emmy were on the line, in case one of the well-wishers happens to know a guy who knows a guy whos niece knows a guy at a record company. Sing on boys, sing on.

Phenomenon #9: The Bouquet Toss:          This is the stupidest wedding tradition ever. I can’t stand it. Whenever it comes time and people who are dumb enough to enjoy this type of thing try to push me forward to go catch some overspent flowers, I lose it. I do NOT want to stand up there with a bunch of fatties and uglies, desperate to find a man, really anything with a man-part will do, jumping up and down and trampling each other like hogs in the hopes that some stupid tradition will actually come true and they’ll be the next one wearing an ill-fitting white dress. Not my scene. I find feigning projectile vomitting or explosive diarrhea are about to ensue are surefire ways of getting out of this dumb display of sadness. Just mutter, “Oh my God! Dinner’s coming back!” and they’ll totally stop pushing you, cuz nobody wants to be covered in it. Awesome.

Phenomenon #10: Stupid Wedding Games:          Clink, clink, clink. As in, ‘kiss each other please! I’m having far too easy a time holding my food down!’ Taking the garter off the bride with your teeth. Having women pretend to give up their keys to the groom’s apartment. Having the couple answer questions correctly or else they have to smooch. Oh, haha. Break out that wedding laugh again. Cuz it’s not funny, but you have to pretend it is. I always want to play, ‘Bring Talea more food,’ but everyone’s caught up in kissing games and they don’t concede to my wishes. Jerkfaces.

This is what we do to commemorate love in our society. Get drunk, eat too much and embarass each other as spectacularly as we can.

Shit, no wonder everyone gets divorced. I say live in sin! The perks are the same, but the bills are way cheaper! If the boyfriend and I want to embarass each other, we can do it for way less than the cost of renting out a hall, buying a white dress, feeding hundreds of people that we dont’ really care about and listening to crap music all night. We’ve got it all figured out.

I’m the best girlfriend ever.

The boyfriend went out today. I stayed in.

When he returned, he was carrying two bags from Best Buy. He seemed to have only bought a cable of some sort and a surge protector that looked like it was intended for some type of huge-ass piece of very important equipment.

I asked him what he bought.

Ha. Hahahahaha.

What did my boyfriend buy while he was out? Oh, you know. A DVD player. Okay. A new TV stand…….alright, didn’t think we needed one, but ours is kind of ugly.

Then he gets out the measuring tape and starts measuring one of the walls. I asked him why, and he goes, “Oh, while, I bought a 47″ flat screen. It isn’t going to fit on this wall.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAAAAA.

Me: “I’m sorry, how many inches??”

Him: “47.”

Me: “Uh….huh….How much money did you spend exactly??”

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Him: [An amount you don’t want to know, but it could have easily taken me to Europe, or on a cruise, or to Europe with a fucking Greek Islands cruise].

Me: “I didn’t know there was anything wrong with our current TV. I’m not helping you set it up.”

I couldn’t get mad. I frankly don’t care. It wasn’t my money. But he’s damned if he thinks for a second I’m ever paying for repairs, maintenance, or lifting a finger to help put this monstrosity together and keep it that way. I’ve never understood the male compulsion to have large TV’s, but I accept it.

 

It’ll be like this. But if there’s random Asian women with it, he’s going to have some serious explaining to do.

On the plus side? I get the old TV put in the bedroom, where I can watch alllllll sorts of lame reality TV and tons of guilty-pleasure girlie shows without his peanut gallery comments. Oh, Gilmore Girls marathons, here I come!

Lecturing me is bad for your health.

You know what I hate? When people who are in no way related to me, or friends with me, or have any pull in my life at all feel the need to become my own personal surgeon general.

Observe:

– One day while making a coffee in the kitchen at work, happily minding my own business, I reached over and took two sweetener packets out of the jar. I opened them and put them into my coffee. Random person who has an office here says to me, “You shouldn’t eat that. It is worse than rat poison.” It was weird, cuz I totally don’t recall asking his opinion on it. Dear random guy: until you are a 20 something female, watching her body fall apart rapidly and realizing it’ll never be what it was during her 13 years of ballet and you are grasping at straws by using sweetener instead of sugar, you do not get to tell me what to put in my bloody coffee.

– Another day in the office kitchen, I was heating up my soup. (We all know I don’t cook, it was yummy can-soup). While the soup went round and round in the microwave, I stood in front of it, patiently waiting. Some totally random person that I worked with came up and started lecturing me about how I was destroying my lady parts and how I shouldn’t do that since it’ll be harder to get pregnant. At that point, I informed her that I don’t want kids. She of course didn’t believe me. She gave me the ‘you’ll change your mind’ shpiel. I stepped closer to the microwave. If I could have humped it, I would have, just to spite her, but it was too high on the counter.

– Today I was reheating my coffee. Random tenant turns to me and says, ‘You shouldn’t reheat your coffee in that cup. It’ll leach carcinogens.’ Okay. Well, my coffee’s cold and it’s far worse for my mental health to buy a second cup of hot coffee cuz then I’ll convince myself I’m going bankrupt than it is for my physical health to run the risk of wacky chemicals coming out of the coffee. Don’t worry, the sweetener/rat poison’ll probably get to me first.

– I worked with this guy once who was obsessed with wheatgrass juice. He wrangled all my co-workers into buying it from him, since he was connected in the wheatgrass world, yo. Every week he would harass me to buy it. And every week I basically told him he was full of shit. He went so far as to randomly print out literature  about the fantasticness of wheatgrass, and how his was even more fantastic cuz it was grown in some wacky ocean soil (which he provided me literature on). He didn’t seem to understand he was wasting his time, and I was really worried as to how to get him to leave me the hell alone. Then, he got fired. Yeah, the wheatgrass didn’t help with that one. Haha. Sucker.

To all of these folks, the countless others who have done just the same thing, and those who will do the same thing in the future, let me give YOU a warning. Lecturing me is bad for your health. It will result in a kick to the back of the knees and a very cynical laugh.

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You have been warned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a coffee I need to covertly spike with with some Sugar Twin.

Damn you knitting!

As I mentioned earlier (in the post about my grandma wanting grandbabies…..haha, yeah, go bug someone else with a uterus), I have recently learned to knit.

At that point, I knew how to knit. Now I know how to purl. Apparently, this is all one needs to delve wholeheartedly into the knitting world, which, by the way, is incredibly hot right now.

I’m a bit scared. I can see the obsession coming down the line already. I’m going to be fucking bankrupt due to my unstoppable knitting habit, I just know it. I’m going to scrounge up loose change from the streets and steal money from the cups of bums on street corners to go and buy more yarn. More yarn! More needles! More cool do dads I don’t even know the names of yet!Gaaaaahhhhhh! Give me more, moooore!

I’m totally gonna go OCD on this. I’m going to have to apply for welfare, since I won’t be able to work. I’ll be at home all day. Knitting. Constantly.

I just thought I’d let you all know in case I suddenly drop off the earth. Then you’ll know I’ve made my full conversion to Crazy Knitting Talea.

Feel free to swing by and drop off some soup or something. I’ll probably give you some doilies in return.

I’ll be mumbling this to myself all day.

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