YOLO
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I’ve been hearing a lot about this YOLO shit. Read the rest of this entry »
How to do a Demo
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Here are a few simple steps that I’ve learned over the years on how give a successful product demo.
1) Be sure to talk to the screen. The screen is your audience. Fuck the people. Well, don’t fuck the people (until step 4).
2) NEVER TEST. If you’re going to show off something you’ve built. Such as a cannon, perhaps. Don’t bother testing it. How hard is that shit?? Explosives go in one end of the tube. Sharp things go in next. Light a match. BOOM! Freedom. It’s not like its going to explode in your hands taking your arm off at the shoulder or anything. Pussy.
3) If you screw up be sure to sweat. A LOT. Sweat is the lubricant of a successful presentation. You don’t want your demo to overheat and sieze up.
4) Fuck the audience. They’ll love you for it. All night long.
5) Reference the cloud. That shit is the future. THE FUTURE.
6) When you’re asked about the price – make it a shitload of money. Its worth it – you’re solid gold. Just look at your suit. Gold threads, gold tie, gold watch, gold boots. GOLD.
Down With O.M.D.
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I went swimming the other day. It was fun, despite only barely managing not to drown. Swimming is hard work fyi.
After about 35 minutes of swimming, I hit the hottub to relax my rippling abdominals and get warm before I had to trudge back out into the cold weather. It was about 5 minutes to closing time and I had a brilliant notion. The type of idea that warrants a press conference and shakes the very foundations of life as we know it:
I would leave early to beat the rush!
Looking around the pool area, there were a lot of people still swimming and lounging – surely by leaving right now I would be the only one in the change room! Brilliant!
Post Haste, I gathered my goggles and walked gingerly, but as fast as humanly possible, to the mens.
Boy was I wrong.
Immediately upon entering the shower area I was overwhelmed by a tsunami of Old Man Dicks that were also beating the rush.
Dear god. What have I done?
I showered frantically. Eyes clamped shut like a Nun’s vagina, I pleaded silently with the shower head. Please send the water faster, please I beg you, more water!
After what felt like an eternity in darkness, I was done. I bolted.
Most of the old men were still showering. I had some time, but I had to work quickly. I opened my locker (one of the bring your own lock types on the bottom row surrounded by still locked lockers), stripped down and began towelling off as fast as humanly possible.
All too soon my time was up.
I glanced towards the shower area and locked eyes with one of the Old Men. He turned on his heel and steamed towards me – not in my direction, but directly at me. I was caught like a deer in headlights, gripping my towel tightly and backing away slowly wishing my towel could also cover up my eyes and long-term memory.
He was totally naked. No towel, no swim trunks, nothing. Not even any fucking goggles.
Where did he come from that he is now totally and completely naked? What the hell kind of sick pool is this?!?
A fraction of a second before he would have bowled me over, he juked left to the locker beside mine and bent over at the waist to open his locker.
My eyes! My poor eyes!
It was like looking into the tail lights of a wrinkled F-150 with truck nuts hanging from the bumper.
The Old Man furiously attacked the lock using only the numbers that were invented when he was in grade school: ”4″ through “bushel”. Needless to say, this didn’t open the lock. He was getting more and more agitated with each attempt, shaking the lock and his truck accessories around with each failure.
I started to feel bad for him and noticed the locker immediately to the right of mine had the exact same lock as the current one he was trying to open. I sighed.
*AHEM* “Sorry, but I just noticed this locker over here has the same lock, maybe this one is your locker?” I offered gingerly.
“AHA! You might be right!” he replied and proceeded to SQUEEZE BETWEEN ME AND MY LOCKER on his way to the locker on the right. I recoiled.
WHAT THE FUCK
Thats it. I’m not toweling off anymore. Soaking wet, I threw on whatever clothes I could grab with my eyes closed and bolted.
Jacket around my left leg. Sock on one arm. Fuck it, I’m out of here.
Old Men: They love to show you their wrinkled cocks.
My Back Hurts
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Paintballing is fucking hard work.
I might be getting old as hell, but I went to a bachelor party on the weekend that started out with a couple of hours of paintballing. Should be fun I thought, a couple of hours casually strolling through a field exercising all of my hard earned Goldeneye skills shooting the groom-to-be in the ass with some paintballs, willfully staining his little pink dress in what is surely foreshadowing the wedding night. Except, in theory, the dress wouldn’t have to be duct taped on, and the bride really should be much less hairy.
In theory.
Those ideas were summarily shattered, however, once the first round was over. Each of us emerged from the bush 4 minutes later dripping with sweat, covered in paint and bruises, and looking for buckets of water to drink. CP got the worst of it. As soon as the guide said go, CP thought there would be plenty of time to uncork his gun barrel, turn off the safety, and stroll over to a safe hiding spot. Immediately he was pelted with a dozen paintballs from 4 guys who had obviously done this before. Poor bastard.
After that first round, I learned that paintball was actually a thin mask for “do squats for 2 straight hours and try not to fall into a disgusting slough while avoiding getting nailed by a little ball going 330 km/h”.
Paintballing is bullshit.
After a nice steak dinner (surrounded by people wearing jackets and ties, and us, covered in paint and smelling of jungle fever) we moved on to the casino and then a bar on 109st and 107ave. The only things around there are this bar and a bunch of stabbings. To call this place a Dive would be to discredit many rundown dungeons unfit for human occupation. It was an utter shithole. It looked exactly like the utility room of a rundown slum, complete with wires hanging from the ceiling and a drain in the floor.
WELCOME TO MY BAR CAN I GET YOU A DRINK WE HAVE A VERY NICE PINOT NOIR ON SPECIAL TONIGHT
When the 12 of us strolled in, we tripled the patronage. I guess one of the dudes in the bachelor party “knew the owner” who turned out to look and act just like Andrew WK does. Only without any margin of “talent”. Except to be drunk and not fall down. Which Andrew WK also does. We went there under the auspice of a band and rock show, but it ended up being a small riser in the corner stuffed full of a huge old dude in a scraggly beard and fedora aptly named “Dirty Larry” and his octogenarian accompanying ladies called the “money honies”. The mental image of the threesome that was sure to develop by the end of the night had me snorting hydrogen peroxide like I was Amy Winehouse, in a feeble attempt to cleanse my brain.
3 minutes later we left.
Next on the stop was Divas. The pipe fitters among you might recall that Divas was formerly Crazy Horse at Mayfield common. I’ve never been there, but it was billed as an “Exotic Ultra Lounge” and we had a tube sock with 200 loonies rusting a hole in the trunk of the best man’s 87 Buick Century. I haven’t been to the strippers in a couple of years but not much has changed. I’m going to quit my job to teach stripping, since it basically seems to be: Step, Step, Turn, Step, Step, Step, Turn, Jiggle, Step <repeat>. At least the pool table was free. Such as it was. There were 9 solids, 6 stripes and no 8. And the table sloped at least 40 degrees toward the door. In the end though, it was still a fun time and we closed Divas down.
Maybe for good. You all missed your chance.
Yesterday I woke up and my legs were burning like we’d pushed that Buick to Calgary. Let this be a lesson kids:
Don’t go to paintball and don’t trust a guy that looks like Andrew WK or smells like Dirty Larry.
Happy 4/20
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Today is April 20th, also known by snowboarders and the unemployed as 4/20!
I’ve heard that, today, at precisely 4:20pm, there is going to be a province wide protest of the fact that the government doesn’t allow smoking weed in schools, operating rooms, churches, and airplanes. This is a beautiful thing. Not the protest itself – that’s idiotic. Rather the very idea that a bunch of pot heads are going to get together, at a specific time, on a specific day to do anything, besides play xbox and eat chimichangas, is glorious. Never mind they intend to actually protest something – it’s gorgeously ironic.
All in all, we're just like sand through the hourglass
I can’t wait to see the immediate reaction the government will have to strong public outcry on this important issue, when 4 dudes in a 1968 Volkswagen camper van show up at 4:38 looking confused. No doubt public opinion will be swayed directly by the shanty town of broken lawn chairs and impromptu compost piles that represents slacker utopia. Ghandi would be so proud – a bunch of stoners rallying is tantamount to a parade put on by a group of nhilists. Or, you know, whatever.
Irregardless of the upcoming siesta of a protest, the better part of 4/20 is the fact that it is also Adolph Hitler’s birthday today. This is great news if you’re heading down listen to some spoken word poetry and slow, out of time, bongo music at the aforementioned protest. Here is a sample conversation that I had in actual real life today:
me: Dude happy 4/20
Matthew McConoughey: Thanks Brah!
me: I didn’t know you celebrated 4/20
Matthew McConoughey: Oh hell ya dude. 4/20 everyday
me: That’s awesome – are all these people here to celebrate Hitler’s Birthday? Which was your favourite Nazi? Rommel?
Matthew McConoughey: Bogus :(
~~fin~~
Also, Pink Floyd sucks. There, I said it.