do me a favour

Tell me that the tiny white flaky things wafting down from the sky on my freezing cold ride home were, in actuality, one or more of the following:

  • Volcanic ash from an eruption I somehow missed while forearm deep in CRM
  • God’s dandruff
  • The aftermath of a catastrophic Office Depot explosion in which no people were hurt but thousands of innocent loose-leaf pages perished in the resulting inferno (then kicked up by a sudden windstorm and spread throughout the night sky)
  • Cigarette ash from the butts of every person in every car in front of me (which actually happened yesterday; I was never so happy to have your disgusting, repulsive ash in my face)
  • This guy, sloppily doing blow:

.. tell me ANYTHING. Just .. not that. Please, not that.

I think I may have just ridden my last pantless* ride of the year.

(*while I technically rode pantless due to the dress I wore today, I am far more protected than if I were wearing actual pants thanks to knee-high boots with thick soles and the sexy shin guard/knee pad combo I wear over them)

though poppies grow in flanders fields

Tomorrow will be my very first Remembrance Day with someone to remember. Other than going out and getting myself a raging case of Super Gonorrhea, I don’t quite know what else I can do – I think about the grandfather I never knew on a regular basis, and I respect his sacrifice (and appreciate the fact that he helped make my dad before the war and before dallying with the most diseased French prostitutes 1916 had ever seen so I could be here 94 years later to poke fun at him). I have to work tomorrow so I can’t go to any ceremonies .. but I don’t know that I would go even if I could. I’m not a ceremony person – I pay my respects in my own way, and it generally doesn’t involve Amazing Grace played on bagpipes.

Did You Know: I memorized “In Flanders Fields” in grade 8 for fun (I was a weird kid), and I still remember it to this day. I recite it when I can’t fall asleep – and if it doesn’t work, I move on to Shakespeare. If THAT doesn’t work .. well, there’s masturbation involved. Warm milk is for pussies.

In honour of my grandfather’s Super Gonorrhea, I give you some wartime STD Awareness Posters. I’m thinking he could have really used these in France, but Wangzillas aren’t known for our common sense – also, these are from WWII. Perhaps VD wasn’t as big an issue in WWI, or something.

it's a (booby) trap!

coming MY way?

those are terrible, terrible odds but it still doesn't explain the severity of my grandfather's super mega godzilla gonorrhea


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