Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Let me show you my sticker book


This glorious book was initially supposed to be an activity book; one where each page contained puzzles or backgrounds for your stickers to correspond with. And though that was initially how I used it, in the end, it merely became a dumping ground for all my stickers. Now, you will feel my pain. I mean, see my memories. Or something.


This page is full of love and kittens. The Rugrats play nearby, while the holographic lord of all felines watches closely.


This page is a work in progress.


This page is clearly the best page, with Fatso and Curly. I wonder what the fox and the Scottie dog were doing behind that bush?


This page is a fascinating combination of Mario and 'advertisement'. Toad inquisitively ponders what's on the next page.


This page declares it is TIME FOR PUZZLES.


This page has stickers of a unique smell, as well as rabbits from a short-lived road safety campaign.


This page is the end. Brett Hull is clearly out of place.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

#0042: Wild Republic Python Plush


Occasionally, I look through the progress I’ve made in this blog with a hint of dismay. Though surely I have unearthed some treasures; classics that deserved revisiting, as a whole, I can’t really say that I’ve entirely succeeded with the objective: clearing my life of clutter. You might ask, how can I really expect ridding myself of a tiny Snoopy toy to free up a lot of room, but in all fairness, you don’t know the set-up I’ve got. For all you know, I could have had an entire pedestal dedicated to that Snoopy, complete with flashing lights and soft-serve dispenser.

So every now and then, I crack my knuckles, flex my muscle, and throw around my proverbial weight. This is especially important now when you consider that I’ve been on an eBay binge, and for every McDonald’s toy that’s going out, I’ve got large Titans figures and Ghostbusters soundtracks coming in. In my mind, this is a good thing. With all that being said, I have had it with this motherfucking Wild Republic python plush in my motherfucking closet!!

…These harsh words are only intended to mirror a quote. In actuality, I was quite happy with the Wild Republic python plush in my motherfucking closet. It’s awful pretty.


I haven’t really got a great deal of history surrounding this piece here, because its origins are as spotty as its exterior: all that I have gathered of its details have come from a quick squiz through the world of Google. I state it to be a Wild Republic python, but that’s just because that’s the result that it most resembles. …I’m finding this paragraph hard to continue because Cops is on in the background, and all I can think about right now is crack and probation. These are not relevant things for a snake.

Other than its exaggerated size, I don’t know what else to talk about. It’s just a very nicely made plush toy, and in all honesty, it’s probably the best thing I’ve covered in this blog. Which should surely be a noteworthy topic of discussion, but personally, I prefer to observe the oddities of the items in my possession. For something to basically be excellent leaves me lacking for words. Other than crack and probation.

Is my plush snake on crack and probation? I don’t think so. He’s such a sleek character, if he’s on anything right now, it’d be the good stuff. Plus, he’d be able to buy off the cops, so he wouldn’t even know the definition of the word ‘probation’. He rolls in the finest of circles, rubbing elbows with the greats.

And that’s all I’ll really say. Because this was not going to get better after it got worse. Just worse, I swear to god. So long, classy cocaine snake.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

The box of Titans


Oh, lookie here! It appears as though I have a package labelled 'action figures' waiting for me from the United States postal service. What thrills! What suspense! What a contradiction in a blog where my supposed objective is to clear away a house full of toys.


Upon unwrapping it, I was shocked to be met with my old friends, Steve McNair and Eddie George, formerly of Tennesee Titans fame. But of course, I wasn't really surprised. I ordered them a week ago.


Emmitt Smith ran with the best of them. Eddie George was a fierce blocker for his quarterback. And in the fourth quarter, Randy Moss was excellent at getting out of the way.

They're hardly action figures, because they're modelled after certain poses, and feel rather fragile, but they're marketed as action figures all the same. Eddie and Steve are from a collectible series of McFarlane toys, from 2001 and 2004 respectively, so they're only going to appreciate in value, but I'm not interested in keeping these fellas boxed up. They wouldn't like that, and it's far beyond me to evoke the ire of a pair of pro athletes.

Right after the snap, we have to burst up the seam.


Then, we have to break through the middle. Eddie George was king of this.


Finally, there's sticky tape. I hate it when the opponent uses sticky tape.


Stellar. Now let's get a look at those bad boys in their finery.


This is an exact replica of Steve McNair with his offensive line of 2004. Unfortunately, I haven't figured out how to get the tiny little bit of metal on his foot to fit in the hole and keep him upright, so I have to balance him like a drunkard. Champion move, Tony.


Eddie George, on the other hand, stays firmly in place. For this reason, he's stoic, but hardly efficient on the football field, garnering a 0.0 rushing average. At least McNair in his current state is able to fall over for a short gain.


Eddie: "I don't get it, why do we have two balls?"
Steve: "Because we're boys, Eddie."

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

The world works in mysterious ways

While I was at work last night, I was paid a visit by my sister, who had brought with her my early birthday present. And you might be surprised to see what it was...


Coincidence? Entirely. But an awesome coincidence? You bet!

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Your First Pokémon

It's Valentine's Day today, and more importantly, the birthday of the late, great Steve McNair, and as such, today is too important to merely dismiss with little more than a eulogy for a typewriter.

So, today, we shall reminisce about one of our first true loves. ...Do you remember your first Pokémon?


Bulbasaur was my first Pokémon. It did not get past the first day, unfortunately. I was trying to formulate a clever nickname for it, and clumsily typed in Bulba(PKMN) by accident. Somehow, my thumb then landed upon the start button, and though by all accounts it sounds almost purposeful, I really did not intend to have a Bulbasaur named Bulba(PKMN).

...So I restarted my game. Bulba(PKMN) was no more.

The second Bulbasaur, who I wisely decided to leave unnamed, fared much better. It schooled Gary's Charmander with ease, not even needing assistance from the Potion that I apparently kept in my computer.

And so, me and my Bulbasaur travelled the land. All the while, we seeked other mighty Pokémon to join our six-man posse. And of course, this was back before we all knew about which Pokémon were good, and which were crappy. Toting a Rattata, Pidgey and Caterpie, I was most definitely not an impressive sight to see. I was one of the sad, pitiful fools who learnt the hard way that a wild Metapod knows only how to Harden. What a god-forsaken battle that was, I can scarcely remember who won (oh yeah, not me).

Later, I finally saw fit to name my newly-evolved Venusaur. As the harbinger of all things mighty and grassy, I dubbed that warty mofo Leaves.


Having somehow managed to defeat all eight Gym Leaders, Leaves and I had finally hit the plateau. Quite literally. For we were at the Indigo Plateau. Though not entirely literally, because then we would have actually physically hit the plateau, and that would surely have been pointless.

Armed with a tactfully woeful and simply foolish team, Leaves and I would tackle the Elite Four. Articuno and Zapdos were crucial that day. Leaves held its own in the fray. Vulpix did absolutely nothing, but it looked very pretty. Historic records are hard to find of those epic battles, because a fateful encounter with a MISSINGNO. led to a virus in the Pokémon League computer. Or maybe it was hacked. I can't be sure.

The point is, I would become champion. And, like any great champion, my reign would be surrounded with a great deal of controversy. I burst into the delicate ecosystem of the Cerulean Cave, and killed various rare fauna before snaring the mutated lab creation Mewtwo within the experimental Master Ball.

I had previously considered catching a Weedle in this ball, but cooler heads prevailed. To the victor go the spoils!

But I wanted more. I wanted to be the most powerful trainer in the land, but I didn't want to work for it. I would seek out that same MISSINGNO. and, through some sort of wicked magic I can't decipher, battling it multiplied the seventh item I had been carrying by the hundreds. It took two attempts to get this right, because the first time I had a bicycle there. It was a really awkward moment when hundreds of bicycles shot from out of my pants. Good thing Cinnabar Island only has a population of about eight, otherwise people might have started asking questions.

So now, I had a jackpot of Rare Candies. Their properties caused Pokémon growth to accelerate, and as their name implied, they were harder to find than the McDonald's Lowly Worm. However, I had outsmarted the system. In my possession, they were practically Common Candy. I force-fed Leaves the lollies by the shovel-load, and now, the Level 100 Venusaur was the pride of Canada, worthy of joining the greats.


The next few years would pass without incident, until I made a visit to Goldenrod City in Johto. I left Leaves at the daycare like a responsible parent while I played the slots at the Game Corner, and when I returned, I made a shocking discovery.

Leaves was a broad. And she had been knocked up by an Ampharos.

I of course sued the daycare for negligence, and after months that seemed like merely 5355 steps, Leaves had given birth to two sons; Leaves II and Shrubs. At least something good came out of such a dark encounter. To this day, however, I've never trusted a sheep, for fear that it'll sprout a ruby orb from its tail, shed its fur, and make love to my plants. Note, I said PLANTS. With an 'L'.

Leaves has since retired, and recently celebrated her thirteenth birthday. She watches as these fancy new creatures come and go, and as each bright-eyed trainer receives their very own first Pokémon from a professor named after a tree. These are the golden years, she thinks, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Every now and then, she gathers with her old friends, and reminisces over the good old days, and their glorious reign as supplement-taking behemoths. The Ninetales, formerly the dainty Vulpix, still a looker at this ripe old age. The Dragonite, who destroyed all in his path, and has the history of arrests to prove it. All except the Alakazam, who was a know-it-all and a prick. Plus, Leaves could hardly ever understand a word he said.


...Do you remember your first Pokémon?

Goodbye, Mr. Typewriter!

Today, we gather to honour an old, dear friend, who has lived to a ripe old age, and is ready for the next stage of his existence: to be disassembled at a recycling factory of some description. A day that we all soon shall meet.


This is my old typewriter. Magnificent, he was. You may call him Aragog, if you'd like. He would tippy-tappy-type with such expedience, and he even came with a built-in dictionary, and when you dared test him with a word he didn't recognise, he'd beep angrily, and flash a fierce green light, either in an effort to warn you, or to blind the illiterate.

Then, one day (circa 1998), his stores of eraser fluid ran dry. And suddenly, I was confronted with the realisation of what a horrible typist I was. I had resisted the computer movement for long enough, it was time to continue my great American (Canadian) novel in a new medium. It was a novel about a family of cats who went on excellent adventures. It's still awaiting a revision.

So thank you, Mr. Smith Corona. I would drink a Corona in your honour, but I can't afford that shit, and I'm working later tonight. I don't think they'd accept alcohol in the breath in honour of a typewriter I threw out.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

#0041: The Great Tricycle Race


Golden Books are a staple of my childhood. My closet was lined with the suckers, and I vaguely remember the magical adventures they took me on. Yeah, I’d like to say I vividly remember them, but upon constructing that sentence, I realised the sad truth that I really don’t remember them that well. Certainly, this isn’t meant to be a slight on their quality; they’re damned good children’s books, it’s just… my mind is instead filled with memories of playing Donkey Kong Country while listening to the Beach Boys. Yup. Nobody at Golden Books bothered to write a story about that one, though.

You have different kinds of book for different age groups, as the child’s mind is a rapidly evolving thing. When you’re a toddler, all you care about is colours, shapes and Elmo. Then, you suddenly learn about morals like sharing and being polite. Next, you progress onto characters you can relate to, often rebelling against the system. Then, you’re plowing through novels about Japanese school kids killing each other. Finally, all you care about is colours, shapes and Elmo.

It’s a beautiful cycle. And here, we have a beautiful tricycle. That was certainly no scooter, but it was in fact, a segue way. But enough with the verbal gymnastics and terrible puns. We have serious business to attend to, in the form of P.J. Funnybunny in The Great Tricycle Race.


Unlike the beloved RoboBugs of yesteryear, I’m not going to take you on a page by page journey from start to finish, because I can’t particularly commit to doing that every time I want to jettison a book. Also, I’m pretty sure there are messy legal connotations in such. The people at Sight ‘n’ Sound are surely hunting me down as we speak. Undoubtedly, if I were to come upon Connie "Awesome" Kash in the street, I’d be as good as dead. I have strange enemies, it seems.

To condense (because 23 pages often need to be condensed), the sub-titular P.J. Funnybunny is feeling particularly emo one night. When confronted about this by his parents, who typically use finger screws to gain such information, P.J. confesses that he desperately wants to enter and win the Great Turtle Creek Tricycle Race. The prize is immortality. The punishment, severe. Like Mortal Kombat fatality severe.

P.J. fears that his sub-par tricycle skills will not be enough to claim victory, because his opponents are fierce; a beaver, a pig, a raccoon and a ducky. It’s like the daily battles of a hungry Canadian.

However, his family is not so fretful. They will train for a solid week, and P.J. will win! For the honour of the name Funnybunny!


I like the domestic situation going on in the background there. “If you lose, Potts Pig, I will fucking destroy you.”

And that’s where we’ll leave it. Because that’s half the book, and I’ve shown my cards more than intended. I don’t need the Golden thugs to be on my ass. They’re more powerful than the mayor of Albuquerque, even.

So hey, it’s a good book. I think the kids of my fiancé’s grade two class might gain something from it. I don’t know when they’ll ever find themselves in such a scenario, racing tricycles against woodland creatures, but who knows what the next acid trip holds?

I’m sure there’s some moral to this that I missed. Love your family, train hard, don’t trust ducks, I don’t know. Because frankly, Buzz Beaver was practicing all summer, we should really be hoping and praying for his victory. P.J. trained for a week, and Ritchie Raccoon is one of those bastard rich kids whose parents bought him a new tricycle. If Buzz Beaver doesn’t win, it’ll really be one in the eye for ‘work hard, and you can do anything’ mantras. Because no matter how hard you try, sometimes in life, you’re just a shitty beaver who can’t pull ahead of a wealthy raccoon.

Tragic. To cheer you up, particularly those of you who are beavers, let me close with an image of my favourite character: the unnamed bear thing who is officiating the race. I like him because he’s hairy as fuck.


…their clothes. Titty-boom.
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