6.30.2004

And in this corner...Spiderman

Time: 5.5 hours to go
Location: fortress of solitude (back of Rolf’s store)

Dane and Joel finally removed their superhero costumes for a quick wash. The duo can’t wait until 7 p.m. when Spiderman 2 opens.

Dane wraps his lips around a straw and sucks up a huge amount of watermelon slurpee. A momentary brainfreeze cripples the crimefighter who can push big rocks with the greatest of ease. The second gulp does the same. Dane can’t take the pain anymore and slams the slush against the wall.

Joel comes back after attending to a customer, lights a cigarette and exhales a breath of pure smoke. A satisfying look crosses his face. With all the criminal inactivity in the Rocky area, Joel’s sobered up. He’s been too busy slaving for the man, Rolf, to devour gallons and gallons of rye serum. Dane wonders if this superhero team will disband in the near future.

“Only five and a half fucking hours to go,” states Joel, who has taken up swearing instead of drinking. “Shit! Spiderman 2 is going to fucking rock ass!”

“Yep,” Dane replies. “They should really make a new Superman movie.”

Joel begins a rant about some site with all the latest Superman movie gossip. Dane stares at the slurpee slowly dripping down the wall. How could a cup of delicious fluid defeat the mighty Dung Beetle Guy? It must be some ingenious weapon from some super villain, or maybe frozen drinks are DBG’s kryptonite.

“You know, fuck, Spiderman could kick the living shit out of fucking Superman, don’t you assface?” Joel inquires of Dane.

Dane gives Joel the glance of death. It doesn’t work. Dane wonders if his super powers are fading.

“How the hell could you say that!?” Dane yells back. “There is no possible way. Spiderman wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Fuck you! All he’d need is some kryptonite crap,” Joel says. “Asshole Superman would be a useless piece of shit.”

“Damn it, you’re right,” concedes Dane. “But without kryptonite, Superman would smash Spiderman. Hell, even Superdog could squish Spiderman.”

“Well, that’s a given,” is Joel’s only reply.

The front door chimes. Joel rushes to the till ready to serve his next customer. He’s taking care of his duty to society. He sells legal drugs to addicts. Whether it’s sugar to kids, nicotine to smokers or porn to sexaholics, Joel is right there ready to feed the needs of the citizens of Rocky. Without Joel, they'd have to buy their stuff from someone else.

6.29.2004

The Results Are In...

Sung to the tune of Victory Day by Tom Cochrane:

He's got no reason, but he's got pride
People thought Martin was through
Sponsorship trouble? No, he cried
We'll turn to see what is true
Martin's Canada came into play
On this Election Day

He's stuck it out, He's hung in tough
Today just wasn't his day
Attack ads came, but each time they did
He managed to keep them at bay
But plurality, it's escaped him today
Harper grumbles, then goes on to say
Pollsters need a big cut in their pay
On this Election Day

Election Day, Election Day
There's no rockets flaring, there's no loud display
This country's Red shone through anyway
On this Election Day

Oh Layton, think of the children, said Layton
But a two percent margin, that's kind of small
It's all he could hope for, winning his seat
That smiling ass didn't help his party at all
And the Bloc-heads came through as usual
Seperation coming? Well, they just can't say
Four percent vote, just for the Greens
They'll receive funding and I guess that's okay
On this Election Day

Election Day, Election Day
There's no rockets flaring, there's no loud display
Third and fourth parties got down and prayed
On this Election Day

So this is the news as it happens
A Liberal minority will now take the stage
But don't get too comfy, because it seems
That with no alliance you won't get to stay
Just a matter of time
Till the House says "We hate you and we want you to pay"

Election Day, Election Day
There's no rockets flaring, there's no loud display
See you in six months, or at least by next May
The next Election Day, the next Election Day

6.28.2004

Election Day

After casting your ballot and before heading out to get totally sloshed while awaiting the results, you might want to check out some [booming voice]Federal Election Trivia!

On another note, I was shocked to see a picture of George W. Bush mixed among pictures of the Canadian party leaders on the front page of the National Post. However, closer inspection revealed that it was actually Paul Martin squinting rather fiercely. This must mean something.

Sick to death of local radio stations and having an acute case of election fever, I've decided to connect to the live feed of CBC over the net. If we had decent reception in the area, I wouldn't have to do tie up the store's phone line doing this. And there's another small problem: election coverage doesn't start until six, and I'm not not planning on disconnecting until well after we close at eleven. But since I don't feel like fielding questions from fat assholes asking if there's tax on our candy, this is no big loss for me.

Dane has posted in the interim but because there was no editor around to correct his mistakes it posted on June 23. Go figure.

6.26.2004

In Bloom

Dane should've written something by now, but when he viewed our hit count yesterday he freaked out and is currently huddled under a coffee table and whimpering. I somehow knew it was a bad idea to get Extreme Tracking, but I never foresaw something like this. I guess I better throw something up here while the poor bastard recovers. I've got to quell the demands of our loyal readers (HAH!) before they start rioting in the streets...

But thanks to a bout of creative constipation - an all-too-apt metaphor considering the quality of my work - I'm currently undetermined about which comedic cliché I should abuse next. So in the meantime I'm going to toss up an old Outland cartoon. Trust me, it's a classic.





If you're an ignorant jackass or an avid fan of Nickelback (although those two things aren't mutually exclusive) you need to click on the picture to view the strip at full size.

Also, if you don't know about Outland and its far better predecessor Bloom County, and are interesting in learning more, may I suggest clicking here? And if you're not, may I suggest that you get the hell off of this site? Thank you, folks; and have yourself a wonderful night!

6.24.2004

With Apologies

Okay, it's been almost a week, and neither Dane and I have made an effort to thank a very special person who's done our fledgling website right. Who am I talking about? Why, it's none other than Steve Smith, who I'm sure needs no introduction. At least, if you're reaching this humble page through the means I'm sure you are. Thanks to his link to our site, our hit count has shot through the roof! So, as an effort to thank him, both of us have tried to unearth a photo so that we may glorify him to the masses. From what we've read this should've been a lot easier task than it turned out to be. However, after a strenuous effort involving equal parts luck, grit, and moxie we've managed to do it; and even better, it's one of him participating in council. So without further ado, we here at Super Fun Happy Amazing Hour present Mr. Steve Smith:





That's it, Steve! You go legislate evil a new asshole!

Grraagh!!!

Dane went to see Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story without me. The following cartoon encapsulates my feelings about this perfectly.







Beware Dane, beware.



Also, I'm very annoyed that this page has a much higher hit count than my personal blog; mostly because I put a lot more effort into making the posts there than I do here. So I should let you know that if you're looking for marginally more intelligent discourse than stories about drunken superheroes, you should go check it out.

6.23.2004

One stepping stone I tripped over. Then Joel used it to crack open my skull.

In the past month, I've had the pleasure to attend four graduations. I only participated in my convocation from MRC. I've had to endure inspirational speech after inspirational speech. You can do whatever you put your mind to. The sky's the limit. You're about to embrace life. It's all the same.

I thought my graduation was special. I thought I was part of the only class that could become rich, famous and successful. I can't believe it's not true.

What did I want to do when I left high school? Damned if I knew, so I went to the University of Calgary for a semester. I studied psychology and economics. After I turned 18, I found the lib. I had to wait until the end of October to legally drink. I pretty much flunked out of UofC.

I took some time off before returning to MRC. I enrolled in some general study classes, keeping some of my schedule free for the liberty lounge. I ended up in the Journalism program. Fun times. Lots of drinking and laughs.

Four years later, I'm done. I just have two months of working at the Mountaineer before I'm mailed my degree. Yippy.

I don't remember any grad speech preparing me for that.

What's the point of graduating? I guess it's for the parents and the sentimental students.

Maybe I'm just sick of graduations. If you made it this far, thanks for reading my speal.

It's a bird. It's a plane. It's nothing important.

It’s been three weeks since their last encounter with evil and they were starting to get bored. Dane, with his chips, and Joel, with the remote, were about to embark on another day of nothingness.

Dane thrusts his hand high into the air and brings it down with a loud crunch into the chip bowl. He grabs a handful and shoves them into his mouth. Smoky bacon chips are his favorite. Crumbs fall onto his chest. He doesn’t care.

“Why the hell don’t we ever get an email of distress from mayor Lou Soppit?” Joel demands.

Dane shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe email isn’t the best method,” Dane comments. “Batman and Commissioner Gordon used a phone. Maybe we should use a phone.”

“Shut up! You fool.” Joel yells and readies his hand for a bitch slap, but doesn’t execute. Dane is momentarily startled. “I’m the brains. You stupid ass. You do what I say.” Joel clenches his fist and raises it into the air. His elbow is at a ninety degree angle. A bright light shines in through the window, silhouetting Joel. A truly perfect superhero moment. Too bad Dane was the only one to see it, and he just doesn’t care.

Dane crams more delicious Lay potato chips into his mouth. Joel’s face returns to a normal skin tone after his burst of rage. Joel changes the channel. It’s muchmusic.

“Why the hell did they take Bob and Dave off TV?” Joel’s face regains its fiery red colour. The discontinuation of Bob and Dave is a sensitive subject for Joel.

“Calm down Joel. It’s just a show,” Dane says, regretting it moments later.

“JUST A SHOW. Mr. Show was more than JUST-A-SHOW.” Joel’s rage can’t be controlled. He stands up, spins three times and erupts. “Whoooop, whooop, whoop, whoop, whoop.” He does a perfect imitation of Dr. Zoidberg.

Dane bolts to his feet. He doesn’t have a clue what Joel is capable of. The last time Joel got this upset, Orlin found himself on the floor after a failed homework snatching. Dane’s hands raise to shoulder height and he begins pushing the air in front of him. It’s a defensive posture. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. The pair circle one another. It looks like a fight to the death is about to commence. The milkshake song plays in the background.

Bing! The computer chimes. “You have mail,” a robotic voice informs the crime fighting heroes. They rush to the laptop with delight. Their death match put on hold.

Joel clicks a couple buttons. Dane looks over Joel’s shoulder in anticipation. He wonders what kind of crime it could be. Godzilla? An alien invasion? Hell, he’d settle for a common nazi ninja fight.

“Spam. Fucking spam,” Joel looks to roof and screams. “AARRRRRGGGH.” Dane grabs his chips, sits back down and stuffs his face.

6.22.2004

Evil gets crushed!

Anthony is a busy guy on Mondays. You can tell by the way he wanders around the office with a disgruntled look on his face. Anthony is another reporter at the Rocky Mountain House Mountaineer, and Monday is production day, so it's busy.

I often wonder if all his wandering is really him planning out the quickest possible way to kill everyone. He counts his steps, and looks for problem areas. Where would the resistance come from? Where is the best and most likely place to reload? Is a nice circle route the best or would a quick in and out straight line be appropriate? Could he make it out the back door before the cops get to the paper? I'm sure he's clocked out how long it takes to drive from the police station the Mountaineer.

Then it happens. Snap! Anthony pulls his gun out of his camera bag. We all thought it was a Nikon D-100. It turned out to be an AK-47. Bullets spray the office. Two secretaries are left for dead. Little bloody holes appear on their bodies. The remaining employees panic. They yell and scream. The loudest cry comes from the desk in the corner, by the window. Dane didn't believe today could be the last of his life.

The only problem Anthony didn't foresee was Joel Nielsen: Disorientedman. He stumbles into the office with the first cries for help. Anthony, with his gun, tries and shoot the superhero. Unfortunately, the DoM's movements are unpredictable. One minute he's lurching to the right and the next moment he's face first on the ground. There's no way to anticipate the DoM's actions.

"Ssstoppp," slurs the DoM, spittle flies from his mouth as he unknowingly exaggerates his P in stop.

Anthony lets out a laugh. He has no idea the ass kicking he's going to get.

"dOOn't U laffff at meeee," the DoM utters as he crashes into the photocopier. A gush of blood erupts from his forehead. "Eowwww." Blood stings the DoM's eyes. His vision blurs, which doesn't help the double vision he already has.

"You stupid drunk bastard. Get out of here before you kill yourself," Anthony states. He points his gun at the DoM and makes a threatening face. It's really scary.

"I'mm not druunkk. I'm just disoriented, man," responds Joel Nielsen with DoM written on his chest. The reek of rye is on his breath and urine stains his pants. It's been a rough day of disorienting people at the local strip club. The DoM is starting to realize his tolerance to his rye transformation solution is increasing. He'll have to increase his dosage to doubles. It won't belong before he's downing triples.

Bang! Anthony fires his gun. Disorientedman can't stand up straight and falls over to his left, narrowly eluding the bullet.

"Hold still you piece of shit," yells Anthony, frustrated with the DoM's inability to stay still.

In the corner of the office, hidden under his desk another superhero is about to make an appearance.

Bang! A second shot. A second miss. Anthony lets loose a ferocious scream of frustration. The DoM falls to the ground and covers his ears.

"Whaaatt de helll waas thhat?" asks Joel's alter ego, as we grabs his flask of serum and downs a little. He gets to his feet after two failed attempts.

In the corner, a mask is pulled over a face.

Anthony lets loose a couple rounds. A bunch more employees are bloodied up. The DoM reacts. He falls forward straight onto Anthony's shoes. Just enough to hold Anothony in one spot.
A death cry errupts from the corner of the room.

"Oh my god, it's the guy with the abilities of a dung beetle," Stu proclaims. It was earlier in the week Stu won a celebrity look alike contest for his Brent Butt impersonation.

"Yes it is I. Dungbeetleguy." DBG runs over to Anthony and pushes him against the wall. He rolls Anthony into a ball. The sounds of bones snapping can be heard by the radio station upstairs. DBG finally quits rolling Anthony into a bloodied pulp. He wakes the DoM up. The DoM passed out as soon as his head his the carpet.

Evil was vanquished and a new superhero duo formed. A pair that could rival Clark Kent and Superman, weed and Rob, Dave and Bob, peanut butter and jam on bread. Villains beware! Rocky Mountain House has a pair of crime fighters who aren't smart enough to get out of your way. With the DoM as the peanut butter and DBG as the jam, they're going to make one tasty sandwich.

6.21.2004

He's no Siskel, but he's got Ebert down to a tee

Joel advised me about Prey for Rock and Roll. He said Gina Gershon supposedly sucked. She did. The movie did and I'm pissed off I sat through the entire thing.

If a movie has a hot girl with a tight leather outfit on the cover, it should have some nudity. The movie needed something. At least Showgirls knew enough to put naked girls in the film. The back cover of Prey for Rock and Roll even mentions a sexy thrill ride. There was no sex, no thrill and I've had better rides on donkeys.

I did however watch dumb and dumberer. It was funny. Not as good as the first but decent. I would recommend it to friends, but only watch it once. After that, it becomes stupid. The jokes aren't funny after the one time. The actors are very similar to Jim Carey and Jeff Daniels, but they're not the same. Watch it though. It's stupid, but puts a smile on your face.

Now I'm back to thinking up schemes to keep the ladies away from Joel.



Dane's part tonight will be played by his understudy GARY MAR

Since Dane has deigned it beneath his station to post to the blog for the time being, I guess it's up to me to keep the home fires burning. So, howzabout a joke?

What's my favorite kind of bee?

Boo bee.

With luck on our side, Dane will be posting again soon. Then I'll never have to subject you to this again.

6.19.2004

Doggone it. Hah.

This story was considered important enough to make the front page of yesterday's Edmonton Sun, but for the benefit of our readers who are either shut-ins or from Texas, I've decided to mention it here. It's yet another reason to give out a guttural snort of derision whenever somebody talks wistfully about married life.


6.18.2004

Clay Vs George. George is going down.

Once again Joel is using his superior intelligence to get back at me, check my bio. Damn your huge cranium. I shake my fist in your general direction. Why can’t you leave my obsession with Clay Aiken alone. He should have won. You know it; I know it. What’s wrong with the American people who voted? Don’t they know talent when they see it? Man, I’m starting to tear up. Time for a short break to regain my composure.

I’m back. What do I have to say? It’s a good thing George Michaels, Joel's hero, didn’t attempt to become an American Idol. He could never do it. Only the best of the best make it, like Van Dam in that movie with the fighting. What was it called?. So yeah. Take that. In your face Joel. Boo-yaaa. Rocky West Side. Out.

Announcement

Well, my blog partner has decided to start making posts. And just about all of them has something derogatory about me. It's almost to the point where Dane seems to have some psycho-sexual obsession with yours truly. However, I've decided to take the high road and not dignify this donkey braying with a response.

In other news, Dane has posted his bio.

6.17.2004

That’s it? It’s just a little harmless bunny.....Run away. Run away.

I run out my front door, down the stairs and along the gravel road. Abruptly the road becomes a trail and the trail leads to a rocky, dusty clearing. The sky is blood red with black clouds. Lightning flashes in the background. Thunder rumbles. What world am I in?

Sweat drips down my forehead. My lungs burn. I’m exhausted. I can’t stop to catch my breath. I don’t know what I’m fleeing from. All I know is that it’s evil. I look back. There’s nothing. Why am I running? Fear.

Finally my legs give way. I fall to the ground. I crawl forward a couple metres. My hands clasp red dirt as I pull myself forward.

Out of the corner of my eye, a blurry specter appears. My mind panics. Who is it? What does it want with me? The ghost takes shape. It wears a black hooded robe, carries a scythe, has skeleton hands and two beady red eyes. Death has come to claim my life.

I roll on my back and stare. I try to scream but my throat is dry.

“Do you know who I am?” Death’s voice booms.

I nod my head. I’ve met him before. My skin crawls.

“I’m here to guide you to the land of the dead.” The wraith lifts its blade high in the air. It has to kill my body before my soul can leave the world of the living behind.

I don’t want to leave my life, my family, my friends. I grab a handful of rocks. I throw them.

Death chuckles at my pitiful attempt. My last glimpse is the scythe’s shiny, silver tip penetrating my chest. Blood splatters everywhere. I shut my eyes.

When my eyelids open, I’m standing next to Death, naked. I don’t feel any pain. My chest bears no scars. I’m no longer afraid. I’m curious. What’s happening now?

“Follow me,” orders Death. It’s not a scary voice anymore. It’s almost soothing. A James Earl Jones type voice. The earth feels like a sandy beach on my bare feet.

“Where to?” I ask.

“You’ll find out shortly,” is its reply. I follow.

We head towards a black portal. Just before I step into the darkness, I awake in my bed. Blankets drenched in sweat. I feel good though. I take five deep breaths, roll over and fall back asleep.

Dying equals death.
I’ve heard it’s supposed to be a bad omen to die in your dreams, well your nightmares. I’ve been told that you die in real life shortly after. It’s not true. I’ve been killed numerous times in my dreams and one time I even went out looking to kill Death. I didn’t succeed, but damn was I close. Death beheaded me on an altar that time.

I’ve been hit by cars. I’ve been shot. I’ve plummeted to my death. I don’t just wake up at time of impact. I actually leave my body, rise up and look down upon myself. The first time was creepy. The second time wasn’t any better, but now I’m used to it.

I don’t know what happens in the afterlife, but I’m getting very curious. It's a new mystery to explore. It's something totally new and exciting. No one can warn you. No one can prepare you for what to expect. Religions try, but there are so many of them. Who is right? Are we reincarnated? Do we become that new baby born in the maternity ward and begin on another life? Heaven? Hell? Do we sail across the sea for eternal life like the elves in Lord of the Rings? Maybe our bodies are unplugged from the Matrix? We’re tossed into the used battery drawer.

Whatever it is I hope it’s fun. I hope it’s like Mardi Gras, spring break, the 4th of July all wrapped up as a Christmas present.

I'm sure Joel will tell me it's dark, gloomy and not fun. Screw you Joel.

Life is fun and exciting, especially when I bitch about it

Being a journalist, I get to cover some fun and exciting stuff. One example is town council. Seven councilors battle it out on a bi-weekly basis to keep the town thriving. They discuss the important issues and tackle the most minuscule details. I wouldn’t take their job for anything in the world, not even to put Mr. Show back on television. Sorry Joel.

At the latest meeting, one hot debate sticks out in my mind. It was the wording of a bylaw. The bylaw dealt with skating on frozen ponds and rivers and the posting of thin ice signs. The controversy was between “not uniformly consistent” versus “uniformly inconsistent.” The conversation went back and forth between two councilors. The public gathering, three people, found the whole ordeal amusing. The council took the matter very seriously. Now whenever the ice is not uniformly consistent, thin ice signs must be posted 75 metres apart. God bless the councilors and all their hard work.

Another subject on the agenda was the smoking bylaw. Should the town regulate where, when and who can smoke? Should the town stay out of the situation? The local bottle depot lady came with a report. Surprisingly enough places that make business off smokers didn’t want the town to do anything. Places that didn’t care, just didn’t care. And the minority of people who don’t want to die from a slow, painful cancerous death were opposed. I’m a non-smoker and don’t really care. My lungs enjoy clean, fresh air, but they don’t cry every time some second hand smoke comes their way. I’m still sitting on the fence on this subject. Should I leave because I don’t smoke and want some fresh air or should smokers leave because they have a nicotine addiction? In a perfect world, we’d invent a cigarette that didn’t give off second hand smoke. Everyone would be happy then. Or why don’t cigarette companies cure cancer. They have the money, and then more people would smoke, if they didn’t have to worry about dying from cancer.

Should the town of Rocky pay for the maintenance of our beloved windmill, or tear it down and replace it with a plaque on a rock? The windmill remembers all the Dutch/Canadian war heroes during world war 1, but that doesn’t really matter. Who cares about WWI? I do. I can’t believe the town would even think about demolishing something so important. We should just start kicking over tombstones and pissing on the graves. So it costs a little money. It’s a small price to pay. I’m glad I’m not in the bottom of some bloody, muddy trench awaiting my death. They’ll throw money at a $10,000 dollar clock, but remembering our war heroes is too much to ask.

The next greatest event in a small town journalist’s week is police briefs. The amount of small stupid crimes is outstanding. People report everything. “RCMP were informed about a student who left for school and failed to show up. The youth was located in Rocky a short time later.” Who cares? Amazingly it’s crime that sparks the readers interest the most.

“A complaint was made under the Mental Health Act about an unstable person who had left the Rocky hospital.” I believe this person was none other than Joel. His not wearing any pants antic finally made its way into the news. There’s even a pantless picture of Joel on this blog. After seven long years, Joel finally achieved his goal of being known as the pantless guy. Check that off the to-do list. He tried the backwards, inside-out shirt routine for a while, butt that didn’t last too long. Actually it was for only one day. A thumbs up for trying though. Not too many people would dare attempt the feat, but Joel wasn’t afraid of what his classmates thought.

Crouching Rumsfeld, Hidden Cheney

I'm not much of a political animal, so I can't rightly claim that I found this piece of utter brilliance by myself. Kudos goes to some Steve Smith guy, who makes the only blog I read on a regular basis. Apparently he's a hack, which I'm guessing means he's in desperate need of some Buckley's, or he's a washed-up cab driver. Or maybe some other concept I'm entirely ignorant of. Anyway, check it out; you won't regret it. Or don't, it's entirely up to you...

1987 News

Just because everyone cares about 1987, here is some interesting stuff.


News Headlines

Evngelist Jim Baker Admits To Making Payments To Cover sexual Infidelity

Iraqi Missile Hits SS "Stark" In Persian Gulf And Kills 37

19 Year Old German Flies Small Plane Into Moscow Square

Federal Reserve Chairman Paul Volcker Is Replaced By Alan Greenspan

Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher Is Re-elected For Third Time

Oliver North Takes Fifth Amendment In Contra Investigation

Dow Suffers Worst One Day Fall In History, 508 Points

In The News

Gary Hart withdraws from Presidential race when sexual indiscretion is exposed

Dow tops 2,700

338 of 452 are convicted in Mafia trial in Polermo, Italy

Died; Fred Astaire , jackie Gleson, Liberace, Rita Hayworth

Dow one day drop of 508 points becomes know as "Black Monday"

50,000 gather at "Graceland", on the 10th anniversary of Elvis's death

6.16.2004

Behind the Apocalypse

I was driving to work today, and like every convenience store clerk does in their free moments, I was pondering the mysteries of the universe. After kneading the old what is reality question in my brain for a while, I decide to turn to what is wrong with our world. Then, in a flash of brilliance, it hit me.

Flash back to 1987. What was a female sex symbol like back then? Well, for example:





Ah, good old Heather Locklear. Still attractive by today's standards. Now let's take a look at a male sex symbol:





George Michael. Ummm, yeah. Anyway, let's flash forward four years, to 1991. Female sex symbol, step right up:





Hmmm, Sharon Stone! The woman who made icepicks sexy! I know you don't want to, but let's look at a male sex symbol:





Vanilla Ice. Dammit. Puts everything into perspective, doesn't it?

If only Tipping was a city in China.

I have decided to increase my standards when it comes to leaving servers gratuities. I hate the way society deems it mandatory to leave a tip for every bit of service. I go to lunch; I have to leave a tip. I order a drink from the bar; I have to leave a tip. Enough is enough.

I could just be a pissed off cook bitching about the amount of money waitresses make. I could be whining and complaining because they’d treat the kitchen like shit. I might be pissed off because they didn’t see past all the drunks hitting on them that they weren’t the only ones with crappy jobs. I’d have traded jobs quicker than I can cut mushrooms, which is really fast I just don’t think the average server should get free money. I’m speaking about the bar industry waitresses. Not the ones in restaurants. They’re okay.

It really yanks my crank when a bartender needs a tip. Grab a beer, twist off the top and serve. Why should I tip for that? I do the exact same thing all the time. I don’t go to the fridge, stare at it and wish I had someone to open the door remove the cap and hand the beer to me. I don’t mind leaving a little change if the beer is brought directly to my table, but how much is it worth? And what is their hourly wage for? Wiping down a table?

Don’t get me wrong, some waitresses are very nice and worth a little extra, but for all those who have been in the industry too long and have become bitter get a new job. And for all those who make mistakes because you’re too stupid, it’s not cute. And yes we are laughing at you for being so stupid. The minute you walk away we’re bitching about the crappy job you’re doing, but of course we’ll succumb and you leave that tip. It might not be as much, but it’ll still be there.

How hard is it to be a server? I don’t know, but from what the servers tell me it’s the worst experience in the world. The atmosphere is loud, it’s hard to hear orders and the smoke makes their eyes water. Ninety-nine per cent of them are smokers, so I don’t see what they’re bitching about. I have to say. Serving is probably the highest paid uneducated job. I think it should be mandatory for servers to go to serving school. If the job is as hard as they make it out to be, there should be some kind of education. Maybe a two year apprenticeship course at SAIT. I don’t think there’s enough to know for a four year degree, but a little actual training would be nice. A course at figuring out when to refill drinks, how to take orders, how many free shots can you accept and still serve at a decent level and how to properly flirt to maximize tips. All important skills.

I really believe every table should have a little electronic menu. The customer just presses a button and the food or drink has been ordered. The grub would come in a timely manner by a food runner. We could eliminate the position of server all together. It would save people money. Enough money, you could get another one or two drinks a night. That’s all anyone really wants is another couple drinks.

I advise everyone to be weary when they leave a tip. Actually think about what they did and what you’re paying them for. Here’s what I do. Fifty cents for every trip to the table. It’s twenty steps and usually they don’t have to do anything. An extra dollar for kindness. Be aware of the servers section. Is it busy? If it is, let a couple things slide. It’s not their fault management didn’t schedule enough workers. If it’s slow, they better be on top of shit. If they leave me with an empty drink, I leave them no tip. NO TIP. Don’t throw you’re money away on crappy service. Instead give me an email and I’ll let you know where to send it.

Remember, don’t drink and read comics. You’ll fuck up the spines and they’ll be worthless.

99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer. Take one down. Pass it to Superman. 98 bottles of beer on the wall.

Since Superman is my childhood hero, I fully believe he could complete a centurion (100 shots of beer in 100 minutes) no problem. He could shotgun a can of beer for each drink and still fly back to the fortress of solitude in a straight line. I’m guessing beer is Superman’s drink of choice. There's nothing better than a nice cold, frosty mug of ale, not lager, on a nice, hot sunny day in the city of Metropolis. I’m guessing Jerry Siegel would have him drinking a Budweiser, but Joe Shuster would put a case of Canadian beer in the superhero’s fridge.Yeah Canada. In a bar, Superman would be the guy playing golden tee, pool or darts. He is very competitive and needs to be the best at everything.

Batman could also pound back quite a few. He has mental problems and needs something to suppress the death of his parents, Robin 1 and 2 and all the people he couldn’t save. Hell, I’m surprised he’s not throwing up all over the batcave and wrapping the batmobile around lampposts throughout Gothem. I know I would. Batman seems like a rye guy. A glass of JD on the rocks. He likes the way Jack burns his throat on the way down. Batman would sit in his chair and drink. He’d think about all the ways to kick the shit out of the others sitting near him.

The Flash would always be the first one drunk. The drinks would warm his belly at a speed only matched by Superman. Flash does have a super metabolism which could hinder his attempts to get drunk, so I’m guessing he’d be a shot guy. One after the other, until they started to take effect. He’s a sissy so I’m guessing he’d order fuzzy navels and electric popsicles. Once drunk Flash wouldn’t shutup. He’d keep jibbering and jabbering until Batman knocked him out.

Why am I spouting off about the drinking habits of the greatest men on the planet? Well, this past weekend, I happened to witness one drunk superhero. He let his secret identity slip out for the world to see. After enough rye and beer to sufficiently buzz the average man, Joel became Disorientatedman. He can stumble to the ground quicker than the common drunk and has a hard time taking a piss at a urinal. Underneath his shirt, he has a wobbly DoM etched on his chest with black marker. He’s better known as the DoM to the regulars of the drunk tank.

I’ve heard the legend of a guy wandering around the streets of Rocky Mountain House in a disorganized fashion, but I didn’t believe them. Now, I know better. I never had the chance to see the famous acronym, but I saw the well-known stagger, the slurring and the reckless spending. I happened to see the DoM’s finishing move: the pass out. His eyes roll deep into the back of his skull, he emits a heavy laboured snoring noise to repel off intruders and he didn’t even use blankets. Blankets slow down his reaction time. What if someone needs a disorientating right away? I had suspicions that Joel was the DoM ever since my 18th birthday party; now I know for sure. I’m spreading his secret identity to everyone who reads this blog. Beware of the DoM. He’ll make you feel uninebriated and capable of driving. He’s so disorientated that you feel fine.

Where ever the DoM can be found, the Ball of Fury isn’t far away. He’s a 5 foot five inch being of pure blubber mixed in with a dash of rage. Mike Spoor is the man behind the anger. He’s fiercer than a snapping turtle and has the ferocious beak to match. He likes to yell and scream and isn’t afraid of crying. I’d like to give you a warning, but he’s hard to describe. He’s either Spanish, Mexican, Canadian or American. He has that lovable, kill-dem-all American attitude. The only person who can put a lid on the Ball of Fury’s incredible can of whupass is Hoser. They have a strange relationship. It could be a gay love affair or just two drinking buddies who never get out of the I love you stage.

After all the superhero sightings over the past weekend. I can’t wait to party like it’s June 12, 2004 again. With the help of my spindly little arms, I’m going to raise the roof. Whoop, Whoop.

6.10.2004

A Heart Breaking in 3/4 Time

A relationship in the Joel-verse is not quite like a relationship in the real world. To illustrate my point, I've slapped together some panels from a couple of comics I've been reading. All thanks go to Grant Morrison, Phillip Bond, Cameron Stewart, and a group of inkers, colourers, and letterers I've forgot; even though this is without their express written consent. Oh yeah, this should go without saying but some people are idiots; this post will be very graphic intensive. Don't be a whiny bitch. Just wait, and watch brilliance unfold in front of your eyes.

So Without Further Ado...


The Beginning - Stasis Period : Relationship Inertia


The Courtship - First Contact ? Emotional Calculus


The Honeymoon Period - Unreality ! Synaptical Jazz


The End - Heart of Mind * Fatally Yours


The Aftermath - Female Agression + Affection Inverse


So there you go. It's only a matter of time before Vertigo comes and gang rapes me, so enjoy it while it lasts.


6.09.2004

It's Super Fun Happy Amazing Hour, Boy-eee!!!

Welcome, welcome, welcome to a brand new freshly minted blog, brought to you by Dane Nielsen and Joel Lutz! In this space we hope to take you an amazing journey of wonderment and derring-do, as we present to you mind-blowing missives shot straight from our third eyes! Here's Dane with a word...


I love you!!!!
MREEEEEEEEEEEOW!!!!


Thank you for that Dane. Oh, it looks like Joel wants to say something...


STUD MUFFIN ON YOUR SIX!!! AWOOGA!!!
I'm not wearing any pants.


How insightful! Well, keep your address bar pointed at this site, because you never know what kind of crazy shenanigans we'll be getting up to. Bookmark us today! But in the meantime, direct your browser here for more of Joel's insane ramblings.