The Monk Bought Lunch

whip? what is this, little rascals?

"They can't whip our militaries. They can't whip our militaries". What boggles me is not that he said it, but that he said it and liked the sound of it so much he said it again.
Also: is "suiciders" a word? What's next?
"Fifteen months ago, Iraq was full of poopy, poopy guys. But today, Iraq is sunshiny and looks like a big ol' Love is... cartoon. Except without the naked people. Well, except for them prisoners in Apoo Garoob. Some of them were naked. But what you have to remember is this: some of those guys are big stinkers with nasty ideas about democracy. They want to cut yer head off. Nobody wants their head cutted off. That stings like a bitch. Thank you and God Bless".

we didn't start the fire

This just in: Bustah Rhymes undergoes Jackson-esque skin bleach procedure, records "Firestarter". Okay, it's really Gene Simmons and it's REALLY bad.

liar liar...

Take the quiz: "Which Random Irish Gaelic Phrase Are You? "

Ta mo bhriste tri thine
Ta mo bhriste tri thine - 'My trousers are on fire.'You're a few bricks short of a load, aren't you? You're probably not allowed to use sharp objects and you should be locked in a rubber room. With Rubber rats. Rubber rats? I hate rubber rats. They drive me crazy. Crazy? I was crazy once. They put me in a rubber room. With rubber rats. Rubber rats? I hate rubber rats...

This reminds me of a Scottish record we had at the store where I used to work. On the track listing, they had written the song titles phonetically, and there was one called "Donald, Whar's yer Troosers?". Of course, that became the catchphrase for some time.

don't pay the ferryman

This weekend saw the maiden voyages of the Spirit of Ontario (nickname: the Breeze) (subsequent nickname, the Bruise). It's route? On one end, a "cluster of portables". On the other, the Penny Arcade. Now we can see how much Torontonians will pay to see the Good Rats and Molly Hatchet in a foreign land.

can we get a spot on my dear friend Helen Thomas who's here tonight? stand up, Helen!

I love the new banner they have for crooner/press secretary Scotty McClellan's floor show. Ringading!

somebody shouted 'fair warning'

We have a bell on our circulation desk that is there so that if the staff is busy in the stacks and a patron needs help, they can ring it and I'll come runnin' yes I will 'cause you got a friend.
Problem: people are fuckin' idiots and can't look at a bell without ringing it. I've seen 'em.
So, one of these days, after having interrupted what I'm doing (ie. thinking) for the umpteenth time because another fuckin' idiot has fallen under the irresistible spell of the desk bell, I will well and truly lose my shit:
"DON'T RING THE BELL DON'T RING THE BELL IM GONNA SHOVE THAT GODDAMN BELL UP YOUR ASS DON'T! RING! THE! GOD! DAMN! BELL!".
Fair warning.

better than beer (for some things)

Fly Guy.

everybody's workin' for the weekend

It seems as though I've been slacking in the requisite weekend recap blog feature. It's not that I'm keeping anything from you, It's more that I don't really ever do anything. But I'll give it a try. But first, a question: When a woman tells you she doesn't want to see you anymore, is it bad form to reply "Okey dokey!"?
So you've already guessed one thing I did this weekend. I also mowed the lawn. I went to this art/music/installation thing for about two minutes. I walked past a mass of smoking young people into a "refurbished" warehouse (by "refurbished" I mean that the kids who took it over managed to make it look crappier than it had before) into a room with more kids sitting against the wall and trying to look sullen because its depressing when you're twenty-two and Mom won't do your laundry anymore. That's okay, though, because you apparently don't really have to do your laundry, since all the other twenty-two year olds stink too. I'm pretty sure I was the only one in the room that had visited a shower in the past week. I surmised this from the fact that a.) they looked dirty, and b.) the smell of fresh paint mixed with B.O. nearly triggered my gag reflex, and I live with two cats. This, coupled with the smell of pretention and hippy-style vegetarian food (we're not talking Moosewood Restaurant here- more like Niel's lentils) were almost enough to chase me from the place. There were instruments being set up by some guys I knew from a "band" who measures there success by the number of people who need to leave the room when they play.
So I said "uh-uh" to that and went home and took a nap.
Then I went to my bar to announce to as many people as I could my newfound availability. I interpreted their apparent disinterest as deliberate coyness. I'm so on to you, my sweets.
Went home from the bar and watched Elimidate.
Watched some boring foreign films. The French have apparently forgotten that they're supposed to be really good at the whole cinema thing.
Now do you understand why I never recap my weekend?
Also- sorry about that last post. It seemed really funny until I saw it written out.

"list"-omania

So, I watched the DVD of Schindler's List that finally came out. I'm one of those movie nerds that loves the special features on DVD's, so imagine my delight upon seeing a "bloopers and outtakes" feature in the main menu!
-Ralph Fiennes cracks up the cast and crew by lapsing into a Colonel Klink impression.
-Then, while doing the scene in which he shoots the prisoners from the window, starts screaming "It's pronounced 'Rayph', you bastards! RAYPH!" 'til Spielberg stops laughing long enough to yell "Cut".
-Some wag replaces Ben Kingsley's abacus with a spinning wheel. Kingsley: "Real fucking funny, guys- did Attenborough put you up to this?".
-Liam Neeson, during a scene in which he's walking around his factory, does spot-on version of "Pure Imagination" from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, including dance steps.

hand some

My friend William B. Hand is a genius, of the "mad- quite mad" variety. Not all of his art is really up my alley, but I hope one day he decides to publish his sketchbooks.
Which reminds me- I gotta call him.

it ain't no good, it's a perpetual jive

Voidoid and Reed guitarist Robert Quine is dead of an apparent suicide. Well, that sucks. Here's a site devoted to him.