Tuesday, September 4, 2012


Given that I have only managed to write a couple of tiny blurbs here in the last year (and NEVER fulfilled the promise that I made to myself when I wrote a post called "WHERE THE CHEESE AT?!?!?!?") I feel that it's time to just put this sucker out of its misery.  It is time to officially put this mother on indefinite hiatus.

Now before you cry TOO MUCH, I'm not disappearing / haven't disappeared from the blogging community, since I am still actively and furiously ridiculing zombie films left, right and center at that other place, Zombie Hall.  Have I mentioned Zombie Hall before?

Anyways, speaking of Zombie Hall, do me a solid and check out Zombie Hall if you have not yet checked it out.

Outside of some other non-blogging writing that I'm trying to actually work on, that (Zombie Hall) is where I do all of my writing now.  Well, Zombie Hall and Twitter, but Twitter hardly counts, what with the whole short snippet nature of it all and all that TRENDING HASHTAG FOLLOW FOLLOW FOLLOW caca.

But feel free to give that a look too, if such a thing tickles your fancy.

Is there a chance that someday I will pick HXR back up and resume with my often shallow observations about life?  Of course.  But I'm not making any promises.  Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a bajillion zombie movies to watch.  

Turn on, tune in, drop out.

That's it.  Thanks for paying attention.


Saturday, April 21, 2012

Writer's Block, Vol. SOMETHING.

It’s 2012.  People.  It’s time to learn that at the traffic light, when the light is red, ADVANCE ALL THE WAY TO THE FUCKING LINE.  Rule of thumb: If I can parallel park a regular sized sedan between your front bumper and the stop line, you’re a fucking asshole.

Is there a driving instructor somewhere teaching people to do this?  Or is it just passed down generation to generation from one shitty driver to the fruit of that shitty driver’s loin?

Woah, hold up a second!  Don’t get too close to that there line Billy!  This traffic light might be on one of them sensors, and wouldn’t you rather just wait here forever?
Sure would Pa’, sure would.
Now, check all your mirrors, Son.
“Gee, there’s an angry man in my rear view mirror, oh wait, never mind, he just exploded.  From rage.

Do they originate from a town somewhere where elephants or really fat people often and randomly cross the street in front of them and need the extra wiggle room?  Are they hoping for a parade? Is there a ghost car in front of them that only they can see?

All of these questions whiz through my head as I sit wondering if my car has enough power to push their SUV up to the line.  Or into oncoming traffic, whichever.

That’s it, I’m leaving the car here, I can walk the rest of the way.

Friday, January 20, 2012

Good On Paper.

Often you will hear that something is ‘good on paper’.  This means that while it would seem like a delightful idea in theory, once you actually play it out, it doesn’t quite live up to the beautiful list of benefits that may or may not have once listed onto some sort of paper at an earlier moment in time.  There are things out there which are more obviously ‘good on paper’ but ‘bad in practice’, such as Communism, Adult Diapers, Napping, Water Beds, or Unprotected Sex.  However, some things are much more covertly ‘bad in practice’.  Leave it to me to assist you in avoiding the following list of ‘good on paper – bad in practice’ things and shit and whatnot that may otherwise take you by surprise.

Smelly Candles.

Who wouldn’t like fresh cookie smell?  Or pumpkin pie smell?  Or laundry smell?  Or Christmas Tree?  The thing is if you have a bunch of good smelling candles lying around, at some point, you’ll end up lighting one up before sex, or, on the opposite side of the spectrum after taking a huge dump.  And given how connected smell is to memory, over time, the given smell will act as a trigger.  Which means that this particular smell will either make you pop a boner or completely relax your colon, neither of which are very desirable when you are standing at ‘Mrs Fields’ at the mall, or cutting down the Griswold family Christmas tree, or eating dessert with the In-Laws, or folding clothes, and so on and so forth.  If you are female, replace ‘pop a boner’ with the female equivalent.

Digital Cameras / Camera Phones.

I realize that this is old news, but I wish that I could have prevented this one, and warned so many people of what was to come.  On paper, it reads that “I can take so many pictures!” In practice it becomes “I must take so many pictures” or “I need to take pictures of everything forever” and everyone ends up with a never ending library of photos that no one will ever look at.   I’ve covered this before, though (see: Picture Perfect).  I guess I’d just love to go somewhere, ANYWHERE, and not see people taking pictures of everything.  Just once please.


Again, I’m far too late to have prevented this, but on paper, we all love the ease of use, the accessibility and the huge selection that Netflix and the like have to offer.  In practice, however, there are no more movie stores and I miss browsing.  And fuck Redbox too, especially since the one at Shaw’s was busted tonight.

Drinking Eight Glasses of Water per Day.

On paper – I’ve never felt so alive, hydrated and healthy.  In practice – I’ve never peed so much.  I can’t commit to a one hour meeting, out of fear of pissing myself.  The commute home becomes a race to not pee all over my car.

Stalls with Walls that Go All the Way to the Floor.

I learned this on a recent business trip, where the office building I visited had bathrooms equipped with stalls of this kind.  I know what you’re thinking “but Kev, what about the added ankle privacy?”  While it is true that no one will be able to figure out who you are by the crumpled up pants and shoes normally put on display, it is also horrifyingly true that every smell that has ever been in the stall up until that point will be trapped in this poorly aerated stall, possibly forever and ever.  The smells all mingle together to create some sort of perpetual super smell mixture. Stepping into the stall is like being slapped in the face by an old sweat sock drenched in piss, chock full of shit, and sprinkled with some sort of onion-garlic-curry hybrid.  Too much?

Ice Makers.

I agree that the old school method of having to fill little ice cube trays is both tedious and slow.  And I ALWAYS spill water on the floor when travelling from the sink to the freezer… But I don’t think I’ve ever had ice cubes from an ice maker that didn’t smell funny.  And not ‘ha ha’ funny.  I prefer my ice non-smelly.

Alpaca Sweater.

I honestly liked how it looked on me at the store.  It was slimming, it was warm.  So, dagnabbit, I bought it.  What I didn’t know about an Alpaca sweater, and you should know, is that little fluffs fly off the sweater and go everywhere.  The floor at home – covered.  The floor at work in and around my cubicle – also covered.  Belly button and ass crack – full to the brim.  But seriously, my little fluffs are all over the office.  You can actually tell where I have been.  And forgive me for once again bringing up the workplace poop, but I left more than just trace amounts of Alpaca on the floor in the stall.  HENCE, EVERYONE KNOWS WHERE I’VE BEEN – the frequent trips to the kitchen area and to the bathroom.  Alpaca Sweater makes my workplace routines completely transparent!  It didn’t take me long to throw it away.  I felt like taking it back to the stupid GAP where I bought it.  I don’t remember seeing fluffs on the floor around the display.  FALSE ADVERTISING.  They must have had someone armed with a ‘Ghostbuster’ backpack style vacuum cleaner to run out and clean house every five minutes while no one is looking.  Damn you GAP, your Alpaca sweaters and your stupid staff of vacuum ninjas.

Well, I’m sure there are plenty more examples rampaging out there and maybe I will get to them one day.  For now, I think that is a good start.  You’ve been warned.

That’s it.  My Alpaca just came out of the dryer and I need to use the potty.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Writer's Block, Vol. VI.

I recently took a huge dump at Barnes & Noble.  Anyone who knows me, or has read enough of the things that I write will know that browsing leads to photo finishes in the restroom.  Bookstores are the worst for this, especially since I usually end up with a coffee in my hand, which is yet another of my favorite and most effective laxatives.  So there I was, racing from the bargain bin to the lavatories, desperately hoping that my usual stall was free.

Yeah, I have a usual stall.

Yeah, I am worried that the Barnes & Noble people refer to me as “The Shit Guy” or “Mr. Poo Dude” or “Maybe we should just stop serving him coffee”.

So I did my business.  I won’t get into graphic details, but let’s just say I lost about five pounds.  As I was pressing the little flush handle (by the way, I love that they haven't switched to those automatic flushers yet, because it allows me to better control courtesy flushing, as well as the timing of everything as I stand up to wipe), someone who must have recently entered the bathroom (like a ninja, I must say, since I didn’t even hear the door open) shouted something out to me. 


It was too late, I had already flushed, but everything seemed to go down correctly.  When I exited the stall I saw a guy, probably in his twenties, holding a wrench, and wearing some sort of tool belt.  He looked at me and said, "Sorry for yelling, I wasn't sure it would flush right, I'm here to fix that one" as he walks past me and heads directly into the stall I just annihilated with a few days’ worth of bad eating (Chinese food, pizza, brie… some kind of onion soup… many eggs).

I turned around to advise him against immediate entry into the danger zone, but I was too late.  So I say to him, "Well, in that case, let me apologize for the air quality in there."  I was tempted to add in a “That skid mark on the bottom was totally already there when I arrived.”  Also worried that he might lift up the seat, I could have potentially added “Any below the seat markings were probably not from me.”

Anyways, before I could add anything else onto my apology (for what had to be a brutal scene), without skipping a beat, this is what the guy says to me, from his KNEES in the stall, FACING a toilet that I had just destroyed. 

"Welcome to my office."

It sounded so HARD and so wise.  The dude was twenty-something, but clearly, as my brother said, "When you work a shitty job like that, you grow up real fast."  I don't think my brother actually said 'SHITTY' job, but I felt the pun worked rather well.  Sorry big brother, if I misquoted you.

I realize that the holidays are over, and many of us are bummed that we have to wake up early again, go to the office, and pretend to work for eight hours.  Well, the next time you go to the washroom, any washroom really, and are face to face with a clogged poopy toilet, just remember, THAT could be your office.  

Suddenly the cubicle seems pretty nice, doesn’t it?

That's it.  I need to go look at books, I’m pretty backed up from all that holiday eating.