(A Random Post)

No excuses. Any time that you’re called out on a lack of updates by Dan “Hotshot” Hocking, you have to step it up. Regardless – always nice to hear from Danny Boy, since I’m never on MSN and I’m certainly not going to hear anything about him from his blog. (Take THAT, white man!) Sad that yet another posting slump has immediately followed an earlier slump that was supposedly ended with a vow to never slump again. But if you honestly thought that we would stop being lazy and actually believed something we said, then really, you have only yourself to blame. I mean, trick you once, shame on me. Trick you five hundred and sixty two times…shame on you.

With that said, I hereby vow never to slump again.

I was actually at a point where I wanted to post, but I just didn’t know what to post. And that’s a silly thing to think. I’ve always believed that there was never an inappropriate time to throw up two dozen words of gibberish followed by a YouTube link or italicized Ferrellism, even if you hadn’t posted in like…I don’t know, three years or something. But the first one is always the hardest, justified or not. So to get that one out of the way first, I thought I’d share something that’s been bouncing around inside my head for the last little while.

Lately I’ve been having fantasties about being in a car crash.

Which is a fact that I shared with AL and Max last week while on the highway to Ajax, much to their delight. Note that they aren’t “premonitions” or “fears” – I’m talking about “fantasties.” I’m finding my mind wandering sometimes – often on the highway – and a lot of times I end up having daydreams of automotive collisions while operating my automotive at speeds in excess of 100 kilometres per hour. And my reactions to those are always among the lines of “Oh totally sweet, dude! Awesome!” So I’m gonna go out on a limb here and venture that I may not be in a fully mentally healthy state of mind.

Also that I probably shouldn’t be listening to Heart on the long trips home from downtown, Markham, Ajax, Hamilton or the mailbox thirty yards from my house. No Heart in general would be a good idea.

Don’t get me wrong though, I’m not talking about suicide. I’m too young to die – there’s still years and years left, full of Saturday evenings spent rotting away in front of video games until 2:00 AM waiting for me. I can’t lose that. Not yet. The logic of suicide is something I have never been able to wrap my head around. Death is something that everyone eventually gets around to, regardless of how lazy they are. And personally, I just don’t see it as all that exciting of a process – certainly not exciting enough to put in some cheatcodes to jump ahead to the ending and spoil everything. I hate spoilers. I could be wrong – death really might be a totally awesome and sweet experience, and maybe I’m wasting my time here in the mortal plane when I could be chilling up in heaven doing lines of holy cocaine of a solid gold coffee table with Jesus or something. But I’ll get to it eventually if I’m wrong. And if I’m right, then I get to hang out here for a little while longer, while you’ll…you know…just be dead.

Anyway. I’m not talking about fatal car crashes. I don’t even really want to be hurt all that badly. It’s not that crawling-in-my-skin type of deal, because I can’t stand pain, and I really do, in fact, want these wounds to heal. No luleerah rides for me, please. It can take off a non-big toe or two, maybe, but that’s it. These fantasties always involve getting into the most horrific and action packed crash possible without any serious injury. I just want to get nicked up a bit, that’s all. Maybe a cool scar for the chicks to dig and that’s it. But nothing to the face. I want to keep pretty. I don’t even want it to be my fault, because then I’ll be an irresponsible driver and my insurance premiums will break me. Plus I don’t want to be inflicting pain and suffering on strangers in my non-sexual fantasties.

It’s not even that funny, and it doesn’t really amuse me as much as it may seem. It scared me at first. But it’s been going on for so long that it’s just stopped bothering me. One of the many great benefits of having an overdeveloped capacity of apathy as my mutant power. Sure beats having my chest blown out by pure psionic energy. It’s not something I consciously want to do. Not so much because of the personal injury stuff, but mainly because that would mean my car would be wrecked, and I really like my car right now. Also there exists the very real possibility that because of the lack of injury that I’m hoping for, I’d get more anger and incredulous disbelief from people than pity.

If I were a licensed psychiatrist I’d say it was a depressing cry for attention. Like suicide, but not as loud of a cry. Just a little nick or two. Maybe even a cast for people to sign with magic markers if I’m lucky. Nothing much. Just enough for people to call me up and ask how I’m doing or someone from the office going around to collect signatures for a “get well soon” card from people I have never heard of.

And also perhaps evidence of a desire for some huge event to happen in my life to shakeup the boring, empty, and meaningless existence I wake up to everyday. Maybe I’m secretly hoping for that one huge embarrassing loss that Team Choking Yak can rally around and make a late season charge towards a championship. That one defining moment that makes you step back and reevaluate everything, the turning point in your life that will ultimately decide what path you’re going to go down. Something that jolts you out of your comfortable existence and forces you to decide what type of person you are and where you want to go. Something that makes me realize just what an awesome life I lead and puts all those doubts to rest.

Also the desire to have sex with men could be explained by the fact that I am gay and I desire to have sex with men, but I knew all that anyway.

If I were a licensed psychiatrist then I would be able to correctly identify these classic symptoms of depression which would then enable me to take steps to improve the quality of my life.

However, sadly, I do not have an officially recognized psychiatry license, and so I’ll never know why I think these things.

And for some reason, that doesn’t really bother me.

“A new car built by my company leaves somewhere traveling at 60 miles per hour. The rear differential locks up. The car crashes and burns with everyone trapped inside. Now, should we initiate a recall? Take the number of vehicles in the field, A, multiply by the probable rate of failure, B, multiply by the average out-of-court settlement, C. A times B times C equals X. If X is less than the cost of a recall, we don’t do one.”
“Are there a lot of these kinds of accidents?”
“You wouldn’t believe.”
“Which car company do you work for?”
“A major one.”



Destined to fight the world's evil, The WAMBAG endures massive battles involving impossible stunts, races on horse-pulled carriages, and the desecration of enchanting medieval castles (all done with dizzying computer graphics). Not only does the eye candy keep on coming, the tongue-in-cheek writing and deep Transylvanian accents perfect the film with a dose of dark humor.



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