tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33173298026564263742024-02-18T22:21:51.248-05:00THE UNIQUE RABBIT HOLEA place for people like you to do the things that people like you like to do...judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.comBlogger213125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-25354891567712188722015-01-22T10:06:00.004-05:002015-01-22T10:07:04.335-05:00One of the reasons I don't like doctors...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-5844031864346113892015-01-07T19:49:00.000-05:002015-01-07T19:58:09.289-05:00Cuba<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-52548110842719300622014-12-02T09:02:00.001-05:002014-12-02T09:04:35.157-05:00Lunch break ideas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-60078216995105101802013-07-19T15:00:00.004-04:002013-07-19T15:00:36.795-04:00Trust, etc...<br />
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I don't trust dark-skinned, dark-haired women who don't have hair on their legs.<br />
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I feel like they're trying to hide something other than hirsuteness.<br />
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I realise that this may sound racist and/or misogynist. It's not. I ALSO don't trust white men who walk around in business suits in 30 degree weather (That's Celsius, by the way. Do whatever you have to do to convert it if you need to. I think you're supposed to double it, add 30, move to Arkansas, buy a nice house and get a dog... Or something like that).<br />
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Just to be clear, I don't trust white men in business suits IN GENERAL but the ones who walk around in them in 30 degree (Celsius) weather are definitely trying to hide something and I'm pretty sure it's not their hirsuteness...<br />
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I also don't trust Voodoo priests and priestesses. Again, this isn't a black/white thing. It's a fucking VOODOO thing.<br />
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I know, I know... Voodoo is a religion, and just like every other religion, it has its own inherent creepy rituals and iconography. But <u>zombies</u>? Really?<br />
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Yes, the argument could be made that Christianity is also based on a zombie-like premise, but at least Christians don't use Zombie Jesus to do shit like scare people for them.<br />
<br />
Wait a second. That's actually pretty much the entire foundation of the Christian religion, isn't it?<br />
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The main difference for someone like me - who actually doesn't know much about religions - is that no one ever made an "Angel Heart" or a "Serpent and the Rainbow"-type movie about Christianity.<br />
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I know what you're thinking (Relax... I don't really, I'm no Voodoo priest). If you're over 35 and watched a lot of movies in the 80s, you're saying, "Actually Judes... The entire plot of "Angel Heart" revolves around Christian notions of the struggle between good and evil and trying to find redemption in a world where Satan (the Devil) meddles in human affairs..." I see your point, but you need to breathe more when you talk. Seriously. It will make you feel better. Also, you should look into that nasal tone of yours. It's unbecoming.<br />
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But let's face facts: The parts of "Angel Heart" that you remember the most - the ones that are burned into the splinter of your mind's eye - are the ones that involve a naked Lisa Bonet dancing naked as she cuts a chicken's throat and rubs all over her shiny, sweaty body and....<br />
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You know what? Now that I think about it, I actually kind of like Voodoo priestesses.<br />
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And dark-haired, dark-skinned ladies who don't have hair on their legs...judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-32929811076334914502013-06-21T13:43:00.001-04:002013-06-21T14:16:39.788-04:00Des choses dont je ne suis pas particulièrement fier - 1ère partie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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En 2003, j'étais le plus vieux camelot en Australie.<br />
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Bon... Ce n'est pas tout à fait vrai. Je n'étais pas un camelot. Je faisais du porte à porte pour vendre des abonnements au Herald Sun (le Journal de Montréal de Melbourne). J'avais 31 ans et tous mes collègues (ainsi que me patrons) en avaient entre 21 et 27. J'étais le vieux louche de la place. Ce n'était pas la première fois, ni la dernière.<br />
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Quand on fait du porte à porte pour vendre des abonnements à un journal qui est surtout utile pour essuyer la merde de chien qui reste prise entre les fentes des semelles, il faut travailler fort. Il n'a pas de salaire. On se fait payer 5$ par abonnement... Il faut donc essayer de rejoindre le plus de gens possible et de les convaincre de s'abonner au journal sans avoir recours à une pile de merde de chien (ou de kangourou, tout dépendant...).<br />
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Sans me vanter, je me débrouillais assez bien. Parfois, je me donnais un accent québécois pour que les gens aient pitié de moi. Si ça ne fonctionnait pas dans le quartier où je me trouvais, je prenais un accent des maritimes. Ça, ça fonctionne toujours si vous voulez donner l'impression d'être un pauvre voyageur qui ne mangerait pas s'il ne vendait pas ses maudits abonnements.<br />
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Un jour, nous nous sommes retrouvés en banlieue de Melbourne... À Geelong. Si vous ne connaissez pas Geelong, imaginez Hochelaga-Maisonneuve mais avec moins de classe, moins de dents et plus de bière australienne. Vous le voyez? Dans votre tête? C'est beau, non?<br />
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Vendre des abonnements à Geelong, ce n'était pas évident. Une des premières personnes que j'ai abordée m'a répondu - sans ironie (je crois honnêtement que l'ironie n'existe pas à Geelong) - qu'il ne voulait pas de journal parce qu'il était "ittelleré". Pas "illettré"... "ittelleré". Heureusement sa femme était tellerée et j'ai quand même réussi à vendre ma salade (avec mon accent normal, en plus).<br />
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Le soleil australien (qui, malgré ce que l'ont dit, n'est pas une lune) avait atteint son zénith. Il ne me restait que quelques heures pour essayer de gagner l'argent pour que ma beuverie mercredinienne devienne réalité. J'ai cogné à la porte d'une petite maison (et voilà la différence entre Geelong et Hochelaga-Maisonneuve... Eux, ils ont des maisons) qui sortait d'un film de Peter Weir.<br />
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"Entrez!" (Je traduis, bien sûr. Les australiens et le français, c'est une peu comme les Montréalais et les bonnes manières.) Je suis entré dans un salon qui aurait pu servir dans le tournage de Psychose de Hitchcock. Un hommage à la taxidermie et les ballerines en porcelaine.<br />
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Et là, sur le sofa recouvert de plastique, il y a avait une madame. Elle avait peut-être 73 ans (C'est assez spécifique?) et elle pesait environ 200 kilos (Je dois noter qu'elle devient plus grosse à chaque fois que je raconte cette histoire. Je suis honnête quand même. Disons seulement qu'elle était grosse). Elle avait une bonbonne d'oxygène et elle lisait un genre d'Echos-Vedettes australien (j'imagine que Kylie Minogue y figurait).<br />
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J'ai fait mon pitch avec mon sourire canadien et ma voix de radio. Rien. Rien de rien. Elle ne voulait rien savoir. Avec un soupir, je suis reparti par la porte/moustiquaire... précisément au même moment qu'une adolescente arrivait avec un boîte d'épicerie. On s'est dit bonjour (en anglais... Vous voyez comme je suis cohérent?) et je suis allé à la prochaine maison.<br />
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J'avais fait 2 ou 3 autres pitchs (toujours rien... rien de rien) et la frustration commençait à paraître malgré le soleil qui n'est pas une lune et l'odeur de fruits qui semble imprégner l'Australie.<br />
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"HEY!"<br />
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C'était l'adolescente qui s’avançait vers moi. "La madame là-bas a changé d'idée. Elle veut ton journal."<br />
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"Merci!", lui ai-je dit en courant vers la maison, un beau 5$ qui brillait dans mes yeux.<br />
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Un déjà vu. J'ai cogné à la porte.<br />
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"Entrez!"<br />
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Mais quelque chose avait changé. Les animaux empaillés et les ballerines me regardaient encore, mais la madame n'était plus sur le sofa plasticisé. Elle était couché par terre. Son Echos-Vedettes australien était à côté d'elle et quelques ballerines avaient décidé de se coucher avec elle, malgré l'état lamentable de son tapis. Elle me regarda et elle a dit (et là, je ne vais pas traduire pour que les bilingues d'un certain âge puissent apprécier le moment) "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQlpDiXPZHQ">I've fallen and I can't get up!</a>". Je vous le jure. C'est ça qu'elle m'a dit. Et moi, étant le jeune homme élevé par la culture populaire et les infopubs que je suis... Je suis parti à rire.<br />
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Elle m'a regardé avec un air incrédule. "Tu ris de moi?"<br />
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"NON! Non, madame... C'est juste que... Vous connaissez? La pub?" Elle ne connaissait visiblement pas la pub et elle n'était pas contente la madame. Je me suis réveillé du moment surréaliste et j'ai tenté de l'aider. J'ai ramassé les ballerines, l'Écho-Vedettes australien et des crayons éparpillés. Mais elle... N'oubliez pas, elle pesait 235 kilos et moi j'étais plus ou moins jeune et svelte (Ne riez pas. C'est vrai.). J'ai réussi à la déplacer pour qu'elle soit plus confortable mais je ne pouvais pas la relever. Impossible.<br />
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"Tiens. Appelle l'ambulance...", me dit-elle en me donnant le téléphone. J'ai composé l'équivalent du 911 (je crois que c'est le 119, si je me souviens bien) et quand la gentille madame au téléphone m'a demandé quelle était mon urgence, j'ai répondu:<br />
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"There's a lady here. She's fallen and she can't get up..." Et, fidèle à moi même, je suis parti à rire. Encore.<br />
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J'ai expliqué la situation et on m'a dit qu'une ambulance était en route. J'ai raccroché le téléphone. Moi et la madame couchée par terre nous nous sommes regardés. Il y avait comme un malaise dans l'air. Un malaise qui s'est présenté sous forme de silence oppressif. Je n'aime pas le silence oppressif. Je le trouve... oppressif. Et il me rend nerveux. Pour couper le silence je lui ai dit, "Il semblerait que vous voulez prendre l'abonnement?". Qu'on ne dise jamais que je ne suis pas un caméléon culturel. Ça ne faisait que quelques heures que j'étais à Geelong et j'étais déjà assimilé au niveau de la classe et des bonnes manières.<br />
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J'ai expliqué comment ça fonctionnait et elle m'a dit qu'elle était d'accord. Je lui ai donné le formulaire pour qu'elle écrive son nom, son numéro de téléphone et sa carte de crédit. C'était un peu pénible. Avez-vous déjà essayé d'écrire quand vous êtes couché par terre? Ce n'est vraiment pas facile... Un peu comme vendre des abonnements au Herald Sun à Geelong.<br />
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J'avais l'information nécessaire et ça faisait une dizaine de minutes que nous attendions l'ambulance. Je commençais à être un peu stressé. Il fallait que je continue ma journée si je voulais avoir un autre 5$ avant que le soleil qui n'est pas une lune se couche. En plus, le silence était revenu. Je vous l'ai déjà dit... Je ne sais pas quoi faire avec un tel silence. Nerveux, stressé et inconfortable, j'ai dit la première chose qui m'est venu à l'esprit: "Est-ce que ça vous dérange si je pars? Je dois continuer ma journée.".<br />
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Je pensais qu'elle allait me tuer, ou qu'elle allait déchiré notre entente. Mais non. Elle était devenue très gentille la madame qui n'étaient pas contente 15 minutes auparavant. "Ah oui. Vas-y! Normalement, ça prend entre 15 ou 20 minutes avant qu'ils arrivent. Ils ne devraient pas tarder..." Je lui ai serré la main (c'est un peu malaisant, serrer la main de quelqu'un qui ne peut pas se lever). J'ai ouvert la porte et je suis reparti dans le soleil qui n'est pas une lune de Geelong.<br />
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P.S. Mon total de ventes pour la journée: 12. J'avais donc 60$ pour la beuverie mercredinienne qui s'est terminé le jeudi matin dans un bar qui sortait de Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, suite aux conseils d'un policier. Mais ça, c'est une autre histoire.judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-75545580868525365152013-04-29T12:16:00.003-04:002013-07-31T12:06:19.870-04:00The Not-So Magical Mystery BusIt's 6:30pm. I'm sitting on a bus and wondering what would happen if I stood up and screamed "EUREKA!" as loud as humanly possible. My guess is that the other people on the bus probably wouldn't believe me and things would get rather awkward rather quickly. I don't like awkward bus rides, so I'm sitting here. Looking out the window as the city turns into a bumpy blur.<br />
<br />
I wonder if platypus (or is it <i>platypi</i>? I can never remember) have feelings. If they do, I imagine that platypus/pi feelings are probably quite far removed from human feelings. But you never know. Maybe we have more in common with platypi than we can possibly imagine (I'm pretty sure it's platypi at this point. It just sounds... right).<br />
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The bus just started making a strange noise. It's not a bus-like noise at all but I'm not worried about it because we just passed a guy walking on a tightrope in a park. He's concentrating. He's not a very good tightrope-walker, but he's better than someone who has never walked on a tightrope (That's just a guess, but probably a fairly good one).<br />
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I hope he hasn't lost something. Not now, I mean... Not WHILE he's actually tightrope-walking. It would be a bad time to lose something. Not at all convenient.<br />
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I just noticed the guy sitting beside me. He's wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses and a sports coat as he reads Molière. He looks like he should (or rather that he wants to be) in a Truffaut film. Not a movie. A <i>film</i>. It's not annoying, but really, it is...<br />
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A very serious-looking man just sat next to him. His face is serious. The rest of him is just... odd. He's wearing cycling shorts. No scratch that. He's wearing a full-on cycling outfit. He looks like he's going to a Tour de France party. Maybe he's an extremely fashion-conscious jogger. Regardless, he doesn't look like he should be on a bus and yet... Here he is.<br />
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Tour de France guy just took his fluorescent-lined sneakers. Truffaut doesn't seem at all happy about this. Oh. He's putting on a pair of Adidas workout pants. They're vinyl, or Gore-Tex (I can never tell the difference). What is this guy? A walking commercial?<br />
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Wouldn't companies love that? If they could start sponsoring regular people, instead of athletes and celebrities? They could just take over some poor sap's life. "You wear our clothes and tell people how great they are. Simple, isn't it... uh... Frank?"<br />
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It probably already happens. I just don't know any of them. Maybe I do. Maybe I'm one of them. Why am I wearing this stuff? And where's my cheque?<br />
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I see trees of green. Clouds of white. And I think to myself...<br />
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What a Wonderbra world...<br />
<br />judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-74172118710705889072012-11-20T13:06:00.001-05:002012-11-20T18:14:25.967-05:00The @peopleofcanada Situation<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">A quick word on the recent events on the @peopleofcanada twitter feed:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">(Disclaimer: This is not a justification for what happened or for my actions. I freely admit that I fucked up. I do however feel that I should be allowed to discuss these events from my perspective as receiving "you're a sexist, misogynist pig" messages is not only disturbing... It is not true.)</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Firstly, I did not make rape jokes. I responded to a retweet of the recent Jenny McCarthy / Justin Bieber "cougarrape" photo with an (admittedly) bad Pulp Fiction reference. I find the image of Ving Rhames choking Justin Bieber to be funny. I now see that it was a bonehead move as in the context of her original tweet, it came out as a rape joke. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">The person then reacted to my (again... admittedly) stupid joke by bringing up the fact that rape jokes aren't funny. After the Daniel Tosh incident this summer, there was a lot of talk about this in various media. I tried to turn the discussion towards this controversy and the use of rape jokes in comedy. I don't think that my intention came across (it was a discussion I had on my personal account many times) </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">and I didn't handle it as well as I should have, considering I was using the @peopleofcanada account . People got upset as they thought I was defending rape jokes. I wasn't I was trying to talk about the issue of rape jokes in comedy and it snowballed. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I apologised to the person in question. A VERY SINCERE apology (that I cannot repeat often enough) as I saw that it had upset them personally and although my humour can be abrasive and offensive, I do not think that I should use it if someone feels vulnerable. If you read the articles on the recent rape joke situation, the consensus is that most rape jokes don't work because they ridicule victims. I would never, and I repeat NEVER use humour to exploit someone's vulnerability. There is offensive humour and there is downright mean humour. And yes... I know that line.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Before these events had even taken place, someone (who, incidentally, was male) had sent me a message telling me what a jerk I was because I had made a joke about beavers having sex. On my personal account, I called this person a cunt. I call people cunts all the time. I blame it on Australia, that damn country corrupted me with bad language and delicious Rum and Coke... </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">This set off another chain of events...</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">The person I had upset earlier saw this tweet and assumed it was directed at them. It wasn't. I don't know how many more ways there are to say it... That tweet went out before I had interacted with this person. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">An while I'm trying to be clear, Iet me say that I COMPLETELY understand the reasons I was pulled from the account. Because of the misunderstandings that lead up to it, I agree that it could be argued that I'd violated the terms I had agreed to. But I would like it to be clear that I was not being the </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">shameful, woman-hating sexist that some people now think I am. Yes, my jokes can be distasteful and offensive </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">but they are jokes and some people don't like them. I don't believe in hate speech (which is what some are </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">accusing me of) and anyone who follows me knows this. I believe in equality, strength, compassion and solidarity. That's me, that who I am... Unfortunately, that is attached to a big mouth that spews inappropriate things. I also did not participate in hate speech. I called someone who had insulted me a cunt. It had NOTHING to do with women, with rape or with any of the other things that people who did not know the whole story have accused me of. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Basically, I screwed up and handled a bad situation badly. It wasn't the first time and it probably won't be the last. I'm working on it....</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I apologise to everyone on the @peopleofcanada feed who was offended by the way this all played out... Especially to Divyesh Mistry... for having created what must be an Advil-sized headache and to the person who was originally affected by all this. I wish you nothing but the best and hope that you will read this explanation. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Be good to yourselves,</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">j.</span>judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-37998656255819537972012-10-25T20:06:00.002-04:002012-10-25T20:21:09.272-04:00Photos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I got a new camera a few months back and I've finally had time to sit down and look at some of the photos I've taken with it. I'm in a sharing mood. So without further ado, (basically) my summer vacation: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivAL5UtjC_hULrS1FCpgeflPAM5dyJGowvBYHPhGLWeYskldWjW6nN6xK5G9WtqF_0yCM9gFe9hbRzWeOi5p5q_Vi6ScTq01k3RrysBlj9g11ooWadlqNaQQfAKOKkZdSqz44lIYx__2E/s1600/CSC_0375.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivAL5UtjC_hULrS1FCpgeflPAM5dyJGowvBYHPhGLWeYskldWjW6nN6xK5G9WtqF_0yCM9gFe9hbRzWeOi5p5q_Vi6ScTq01k3RrysBlj9g11ooWadlqNaQQfAKOKkZdSqz44lIYx__2E/s320/CSC_0375.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;"> This Turtle is Making Me Thirsty.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuknR_Ltz_QmREaERSq5hD4QDtj1nwiYz5OFRlmQJCVkoPUdbXNxRvMzlSOXRIafYMgHl9QRgc7J16b4J5XWn_4P7hAakVHFTaqQ5KqA6YOga6ltcZD5pvHY0LLvobkJGwSjuSDNQp9_k/s1600/CSC_0377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuknR_Ltz_QmREaERSq5hD4QDtj1nwiYz5OFRlmQJCVkoPUdbXNxRvMzlSOXRIafYMgHl9QRgc7J16b4J5XWn_4P7hAakVHFTaqQ5KqA6YOga6ltcZD5pvHY0LLvobkJGwSjuSDNQp9_k/s320/CSC_0377.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">Tree. Wind. Tree.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWraW6fGpt44XGkbzSX8Qq_zR05LmKjNK-wZBc3e6if1-aoAxOQ4M6P8iYe02o8neitIn3_aHGuYd7FPDfhJXXX0DRyHrZtMAr5hdj2KH-EK7qJeYFzMFo08gBkzhqQbqCCx5dPNHyRCM/s1600/DSC_0152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWraW6fGpt44XGkbzSX8Qq_zR05LmKjNK-wZBc3e6if1-aoAxOQ4M6P8iYe02o8neitIn3_aHGuYd7FPDfhJXXX0DRyHrZtMAr5hdj2KH-EK7qJeYFzMFo08gBkzhqQbqCCx5dPNHyRCM/s320/DSC_0152.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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O. Getting Ready For His Future Career</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXJ0ovCXIHhvB_eiAEKaAQX6P5UijFDtm5IFXUQsjYr11nLxxH_d28wTKwe30HUDzP8Z8vmDvyMeMQdt2dNKb6KpJ2Sp5flKU2RGBuxXgfIBWiwrlcqhR2Q_79-sIwr6c2rqBHf-fXdE/s1600/DSC_0163.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXJ0ovCXIHhvB_eiAEKaAQX6P5UijFDtm5IFXUQsjYr11nLxxH_d28wTKwe30HUDzP8Z8vmDvyMeMQdt2dNKb6KpJ2Sp5flKU2RGBuxXgfIBWiwrlcqhR2Q_79-sIwr6c2rqBHf-fXdE/s320/DSC_0163.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I Love You Berry Much.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdEaOvzec3tSh3k_jjV5ujVL_1FGO6aRfRVzj3p_mW7viazQAdj5Q3b67Hwb7En32AppwNmwS475C227o5lYUF592s-Y1e6irNNDnxAG-_Yyzse5JSmA69tLR8qDzfHxEtjwqMundRVP0/s1600/DSC_0165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdEaOvzec3tSh3k_jjV5ujVL_1FGO6aRfRVzj3p_mW7viazQAdj5Q3b67Hwb7En32AppwNmwS475C227o5lYUF592s-Y1e6irNNDnxAG-_Yyzse5JSmA69tLR8qDzfHxEtjwqMundRVP0/s320/DSC_0165.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Oh Shit. Really?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIu84jceNrWwp1onx56NwS5kw5LFMKpNo5txICFsGQqPaR_CEe-9ZEIINQDh4GhHfNp9E9-SfyjQiL1TiQaCt6VPqP4XBzAhv3V6ClJn0HACCFi66lY4U15ztRV5jiMDIZZQMJRmnUeA/s1600/DSC_0172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIu84jceNrWwp1onx56NwS5kw5LFMKpNo5txICFsGQqPaR_CEe-9ZEIINQDh4GhHfNp9E9-SfyjQiL1TiQaCt6VPqP4XBzAhv3V6ClJn0HACCFi66lY4U15ztRV5jiMDIZZQMJRmnUeA/s320/DSC_0172.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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OK... Let's.</div>
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Dear Ass...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq9eYcWvNe1nvWnNgi2qx1AcjYlSks24Gz057SLlTO5akdUmiYlraUoe97GGwlT1Lh35bsrvSHarb5n4Xu_dfyzxYmCqeq8Xt8Uv9KZ2C0Cf_fiFo67sTcBzXWyQ5tTxIER_vsx6TZJns/s1600/DSC_0214.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq9eYcWvNe1nvWnNgi2qx1AcjYlSks24Gz057SLlTO5akdUmiYlraUoe97GGwlT1Lh35bsrvSHarb5n4Xu_dfyzxYmCqeq8Xt8Uv9KZ2C0Cf_fiFo67sTcBzXWyQ5tTxIER_vsx6TZJns/s320/DSC_0214.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Tree. Mirror. Tree</div>
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Nom. Nom.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihLi4kFNFVUIVfGoMabZPCfmaggl_Gjsoqm6OrzO_STMrXZwLPQ9Y-JGsDaQj2h3-q_z8HzfSXYhTxFr5f6u2_p8CDUZ_nFsGejp3mKchkaCONnG7QuVbrPnaMTmBXNKejCK6uuroAPQU/s1600/DSC_0218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihLi4kFNFVUIVfGoMabZPCfmaggl_Gjsoqm6OrzO_STMrXZwLPQ9Y-JGsDaQj2h3-q_z8HzfSXYhTxFr5f6u2_p8CDUZ_nFsGejp3mKchkaCONnG7QuVbrPnaMTmBXNKejCK6uuroAPQU/s320/DSC_0218.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Adequate Indeed.</div>
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Rattlesnake I Accidentally Pissed Off.</div>
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Fire. Man. Or Am I?</div>
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Ram.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoq_DLz843hxyTOAj9WrlgLtbt-gXQ-edpbD-EfbMYRVln1LU_IlK_r5GQzETfzEUmUg20fW_gTCZ_sjzPpeeU3BJLBULZsz1r3dkk6T-hIcaXHvCN8XCgJedvbD7Ie6MITYm83pYA97g/s1600/DSC_0261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoq_DLz843hxyTOAj9WrlgLtbt-gXQ-edpbD-EfbMYRVln1LU_IlK_r5GQzETfzEUmUg20fW_gTCZ_sjzPpeeU3BJLBULZsz1r3dkk6T-hIcaXHvCN8XCgJedvbD7Ie6MITYm83pYA97g/s320/DSC_0261.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Le Québec brûle.</div>
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Enough Said.</div>
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Sun. Set. Sun.</div>
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Confused Lizard.</div>
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Firetruck In The Sky.</div>
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O and D.</div>
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The Natives Are Neither Restless Nor Impressed.</div>
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Set. Sun. Set.</div>
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Jesus. What Could Be That High Up?</div>
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I'm Not Berry Sure About This Anymore.</div>
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Sasquatch Made This Sign.</div>
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Veryy Hidden.</div>
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Luke Gage.</div>
<br />judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-66826541705870162122012-09-26T10:00:00.003-04:002012-09-26T10:01:26.809-04:00Parking lot memories<br />
<br />
I must have been eight years old. Maybe nine...<br />
<br />
When you look back on your life, there's a thin line between eight and nine. Moreso than other years, it seems. You don't realise this when you're nine because you're too busy celebrating the fact that you're not eight anymore. So maybe the line isn't as thin as I think it is. If a nine year old is aware of it, it must be pretty obvious.<br />
<br />
It was the summer. that much I'm sure of. I remember the heat. I remember the green of the trees as my mom's Rambler followed the winding road that led to Mic Mac Mall. It was a 10 minute drive and when I look back on it now, it seems ridiculous that we did it so often. I suspect that the ice shelves breaking in the Arctic as I write this are a direct result of those 10 minute drives in a hulking boat of a car.<br />
<br />
My mother was doing groceries and she decided to leave me in the car. It was the 70s. You could do things like that with impunity. In the romanticised absurdist version of this memory that runs in my head, I recall looking out on the ocean of Ramblers, Chevrettes and Pintos and seeing at least 20 other kids sitting in locked cars as the Nova Scotian sun beat down on the Mic Mac parking lot. (Wouldn't the Mi'kmaq be proud?) I like to think that 30-odd years later, these imaginary kids are all secretly wishing they could be as "irresponsible" as our parents were.<br />
<br />
I had a pencil and a paper (my mother knew this would distract me) and I was drawing clouds. This was a phase I went through and to be honest, I think I should take it up again. The windows were rolled up, but I heard a noise from not too far away, so I looked up from the paper clouds.<br />
<br />
There was a blind man. He had a beard, a fedora-type hat and a white cane. I swear to God. It was like a blind person had jumped out of a New Yorker cartoon and decided to wander around in the Mic Mac Mall parking lot.<br />
<br />
Just beside the New Yorker cartoon blind man, there was a woman heading to her car with a shopping cart. There weren't any kids in her car. That, I remember. He approached her and held out his hand as he said something that I couldn't hear because, as I mentioned, the windows were rolled up . Being the inquisitive (ok... nosy) little punk that I was, I rolled down the window. By hand. That's how you used to roll down windows, in case you're reading this and you're twenty. She shook her head and mumbled something as she walked past him without even really looking at whatever it was he had in his hand.<br />
<br />
With hindsight, I don't know why I did what I did next. I don't know why I do most of the things I do, but maybe I did when I was eight (or nine). "Excuse me?", I called out. "Sir?"<br />
<br />
The New Yorker cartoon blind man cocked his head and followed my voice. He came up to the burgundy Rambler that he had no way of identifying as a burgundy Rambler.<br />
<br />
"Yes? Hello?", he said.<br />
<br />
"Hi. What do you have in your hand?", I asked. So much for that whole "Don't talk to strangers" pep talk. He showed me. It was a pile of cards. Not playing cards. He wasn't a blind magician. Well... Maybe he was, but I can't pronounce myself on those matters. No, they were ASL cards that explained how to sign the alphabet. He asked if I wanted to buy one for a dollar. I was eight (or nine) years old, sitting in a car in a parking lot. I didn't have any money. I explained this to him and he walked away. I felt his disappointment. I think I even saw it in the way he walked.<br />
<br />
As he got closer to the mall... Another woman, another shopping cart, another attempt. She brushed him off as easily as the first woman had and pushed her cart to her oversized car.<br />
<br />
And that's when I started to cry.<br />
<br />
When I say "cry", that's exactly what I mean. These weren't eight (or nine) year-old sniffles. It was full fledged bawling. I felt this profound sadness that I had never experienced before. A complete stranger's misery (OK, Maybe I'm reading into a bit. Maybe he wasn't miserable) had triggered something and seeing the complete indifference that he had to confront on a regular basis was more than I could handle. It was the first time that I remember thinking "The world just isn't fair" and it opened up a strange door that, over the next 32 (or 31) years, has lead to that exact same emotional response whenever I am confronted with that particular feeling.<br />
<br />
My mother came back a few minutes later. I was still crying. She looked worried... I still remember the look on her face as she asked me what was wrong. The problem then(and , yes... The problem now) is that I didn't have an answer. I couldn't explain these emotions. This "feeling". I still can't, most of the time.<br />
<br />
I'm remembering this story and thinking about these things after having read Kelly Pentland (aka @mmesurly)'s wonderful (and much more concise) blog post On Sincerity <a href="http://mmesurly.tumblr.com/post/32324661060/on-sincerity">http://mmesurly.tumblr.com/post/32324661060/on-sincerity</a>.<br />
<br />
It's hard sometimes. There are people (and I hope you are one of them) who just feel things so deeply and so completely that asking them to find what's wrong is next to impossible. When this happens to me, when I feel exposed... raw, even... it terrifies me. It terrifies me to see that we can be so close to people we don't know and to things we don't understand that an ASL card can trigger such a deep emotional response. It terrifies me, but as Mrs Pentland says:<span style="background-color: black;"> <span style="font-family: inherit;">"<span style="line-height: 21px;">the alternative is scarier."</span></span></span><br />
<br />
So, as the strapping young men in Journey once said, "Be good to yourself".judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-51599976953089039762012-09-14T12:55:00.001-04:002012-09-14T13:00:02.445-04:00Fun with MS Paint<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: start;">When I get bored, I sometimes open paint because... well, I'm not sure why I do it, but I do. For some reason, this week I decided to draw people (using paint... Wow this is going to be confusing to people reading in 1981) who are on the twitter machine. Some are good, some are terrible. I guess what I'm trying to say is that drawing with paint is a lot like a marriage...</span>
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<br />judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-26136428580182945912012-09-05T11:18:00.000-04:002013-08-06T13:08:38.289-04:00The "I" of Survivor: An open letter to those who choose to read it (including CBS-honcho-types)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It has come to my attention that Survivor will be back on TV this autumn.<br />
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I am referring to Survivor - the television programme. Not Survivor the early 80s rock band… that one you love to listen to when you hit the gym.<br />
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That's a peculiar expression. How does one "hit" a gym, precisely? It makes me nervous. I can only assume that it’s steroid-related…<br />
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Yes, Survivor - the television programme - is coming back AND it will be shot in the Philippines. I’m excited because I feel that my expertise could help producers, contestants and Survivor fans alike. It could potentially even make Survivor - the television programme - more pleasurable.<br />
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I am not a Survivor expert. I only watched the first season when it aired... what, ten years ago? I enjoyed it immensely, almost as much as I enjoyed watching Richard Hatch's life unravel afterwards. It was exciting, groundbreaking and several other questionable -ings. But I've been busy for the last twelve years and have missed the subsequent seasons. There must be at least fifteen now, correct?<br />
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I would love to be an expert on the Philippines but I’m not... in case you're wondering. You're not, but I thought I should clear that up as well. I don't even remember how to say "hello" in Tagalog.I did spend a week in Boracay once, so that must count for something. Boracay (in case you’re still wondering) is a resort-type island over there. It would actually be a good location for Survivor - the television programme - they are both places where foreigners go to behave badly.<br />
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No, my expertise lies in giving unsolicited advice that nobody wants to hear. I therefore think it's fair to combine this talent with my aforementioned experience to tell the makers of Survivor - the television programme - how to take full advantage of the Filipino experience to ensure that what must be their fourteenth season is the best one yet.<br />
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(Related: Why does the PH-noun turn into a F-adjective?)<br />
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First, we need a "hook" to reel in the viewers, much like the spears people use on the show itself. This could be achieved by using the airline that flies the Manila-Boracay route to drop the contestants off at the "secret location" (Is it a secret?). Fear of death is a great motivator and makes for great television, or so I'm told... I tend to watch Bob Ross reruns on PBS. Air Duct-Tape could provide this in spades. Air Duct-Tape earned its name, as you may gather, by having no qualms about using duct-tape to hold their planes together. The silver almost matches the colour of the wings. Almost. Sadly, this was one of their more brilliant business decisions.<br />
<br />
If this doesn’t meet CBS’ fear standards, they could also hire Richard the taxi driver to fly the Air Duct-Tape plane. Richard's Manila taxi permit clearly states that his name is Manuel but he insists that you call him Richard. I'm certain that with this sort of blind determination, Richard/Manuel could easily fly a plane whilst the contestants defecate. Also, Richard/Manuel would be more than happy to bring the machete he keeps beside the passenger seat in his taxi. It could come in handy if any duct-tape-related repairs are needed.<br />
<br />
One of the most engaging parts of Survivor - the television programme - is the "immunity challenge". When I think “immunity”, I see “alcohol tolerance”. Richard/Manuel could airlift the contestants to Boracay where they would be dropped off at Dick's. Dick's is a bar just off the beach that is owned, oddly enough, by an Australian named Dick. I'm not sure how Dick ended up there and to be honest, I'd rather not know. There is only one rule at Dick’s: It is strictly forbidden to wear a shirt whilst in the bar. This fits into the Survivor-ethos and shouldn’t cause too much confusion. Also, Dick likes to drink and expects his customers to do the same. As far as challenges go, can you think of a better way to eliminate the weak? If you like to wear shirts or are prone to developing cirrhosis of the liver during one night of drinking, you're out.Immunity should be earned, not won...<br />
<br />
This brings us to the season finale, where two contestants match wits to see who will win the million dollars (is it still a million dollars or has inflation caught up with realityTV?). The Philippines are well-known for two things: The Marcoses and ladyboys. Imelda Marcos seems rather busy lately, so this leaves us with the ladyboys to decide the winner. The last two (drunken) contestants could be blindfolded and led to a clearing with four attractive (in a drunken kind of way)… I believe the correct term here is "convincing ladyboys". We would watch with baited breath as said ladyboys wind through dark jungles and cramped city streets in the middle of the night with our Survivors.<br />
<br />
Our almost-millionaire contestants would then find themselves in a dingy, menacing no-bedroom house where they would be offered oral sex by the ladyboys. They would also be warned about making too much noise and waking the fourteen brothers and sisters who are sleeping in beds, sofas and on the floor.<br />
<br />
Think of the drama! We could watch our survivors wrestle with their conscience and/or ladyboys (possibly even with the whole family). Difficult decisions would be made. We would then follow them as they cry and stumble through the maze of shantytown houses, desperately trying to find their way back to the producers' air-conditioned office/trailer. The first person to find his or her way back with his pride, dignity and clothing intact wins!!<br />
<br />
I'm quite certain that these suggestions would be beneficial. It has it all... Drama, danger AND sexy ladyboys. So let’s start a letter-writing campaign! Drop what you’re doing. Write to CBS and Mark Burnett. Together, we can make this happen. We can rise up, back on the street. We just need to take our time... Take our chances. We can go the distance! We will survive! Right after we hit the gym.<br />
<br />
Mabuhay! (That's Tagalog. You can look it up.)judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-40404192711213752762012-02-20T13:55:00.002-05:002012-02-20T13:55:15.618-05:00Extrait du journal intime de Vic Toews :Le jeudi, 16 février, 2012<br />
<br />
8h<br />
Oof. <br />
C’était quand mon dernier lendemain de veille?!? Ah oui! Stephen et moi sommes allés voir les danseuses à Hull. C’était là qu’on avait eu l’idée pour le C-11! Ça me fait penser. Il faut que je trouve une façon de relancer ça, C-11. <br />
<br />
NOTE : Appeler Péladeau pour qu’on en parle à Sun News. <br />
<br />
Sont où les aspirines? J’avais demandé à Magda de mettre une bouteille sur la table de chevet. J’aurais dû écouter Baird. Les Mexicaines sont vraiment lâches. Elle savait qu’on allait faire la fiesta… Ce n’est pas à tous les jours qu’on réussit à détruire un registre d’armes à feu. Ça valait la peine rien que pour voir la face du petit Trudeau quand on buvait les shooters. Petit morveux. <br />
<br />
Grosse journée aujourd’hui. Je rencontre 3 gardiennes potentielles… Faut que je parle à Van Loan. Il m’a dit que le rapport de la GRC sera prêt ce matin. J’espère qu’il y en a au moins une qui sait être discrète.<br />
<br />
9h30<br />
En retard et… Personne ne s’en est rendu compte! Sauf Coderre (je me demande s’il dort Coderre… Faut que j’en parle à Van Loan) mais personne l’écoute de ces temps-ci. C’est toujours « Maire de ci, maire de ça ». Il m’énerve. <br />
<br />
10h15<br />
Je viens de voir mon reflet dans le corridor du Sénat. J’ai oublié de me raser! Mais maudit qu’elle est belle ma moustache. Je pense que je vais aller la regarder dans la toilette de Layton. Ha! Dans les dents Layton! Qu’est-ce que tu vas faire!?!?!?!?!<br />
<br />
11h<br />
Hazel m’a donné les journaux de ce matin. La pauvre conne m’a donné ceux du Québec. Je lui ai dit de ne plus jamais faire ça. Mais pour qui ils se prennent, eux? Stephen m’a dit qu’on verra ça quand ils se séparent. J’aime ça un boss qui a un sens d’humour… Bref. La gaffe avait un bon côté. J’ai lu Marie-Claude Lortie pour la première fois.<br />
<br />
NOTE : Dire à Van Loan de placer Madame Lortie sous surveillance. Je vais t’en faire un, un « danser sur des tombes ». Faut dire qu’elle est jolie, par exemple… Je me demande si elle a déjà gardé des enfants...<br />
<br />
12h<br />
Fuck… Stephen veut qu’on aille luncher pour me parler de C-30. J’ai demandé à Hazel de me trouver une copie (je pense qu’il y en a avait une dans l’enveloppe avec les papiers de divorce…). J’avais pris un verre avant de faire la dernière version et il y a une couple de trucs dont je ne me souviens plus. Est-ce que j’ai donné accès à la police municipale? Je pense que oui mais je veux être sûr. Voir Stephen frustré avec une gueule de bois une fois dans la vie, c’est assez!<br />
<br />
15h<br />
Je quitte la colline pour aller rencontrer les filles. Honnêtement, je suis heureux d’avoir changé l’âge de consentement. Ça rend la vie tellement plus simple. Stephen est content avec C-30 en plus! Bon, les nerds vont gueuler, mais on s’en fout. Bande de twits. <br />
<br />
Ha! En parlant de twit… Van Loan vient de m’envoyer un courriel. Il me dit que je « devrais aller voir un compte de twitter ». C’est quoi ça Twitter?? Ça doit avoir rapport avec les gardiennes. Je vais y jeter un coup d’œil avant de partir…judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-72004952978574067612012-02-17T11:51:00.001-05:002012-02-20T17:34:58.972-05:00PrésentatationIl y a des choses qu’on n’aime pas dans la vie.<br />
<br />
Il y a les choses importantes, bien sûr… Les gouvernements, les voisins, les gens qui s’inscrivent à Occupation double… Ce sont toutes des choses que nous avons le droit de ne pas aimer et qui - suite à mon ascension au trône du Québec – seront punissables de peines lourdes. Très lourdes.<br />
<br />
Mais ce ne sont pas ces choses là dont je vous parle. Je parle des petites choses. Les choses quotidiennes auxquelles nous nous sommes habituées, pour le meilleur et pour le pire (et non, je ne vous parlerai pas de mariage. Je sais que vous n’aimez pas ça. J’ai vu les statistiques. Je ne comprends pas les chiffres, mais je suis très bon pour faire semblant.) Pensez-y une seconde. Pensez-y deux minutes. Je suis prêt à gager qu’il y a au moins 9 ou 10 choses qui vous arrivent par jour qui vous font chier. La vraie diarrhée intellectuelle... <br />
<br />
Peut-être que vous êtes de ceux qui n’aiment pas attendre que le métro se vide avant de foncer dans la foule de gens qui veulent juste sortir du wagon trop chaud/trop froid, comme un joueur de hockey en manque de stéroïdes. Non? Ce n’est pas vous? Fiou. Je suis heureux, parce que si les dieux le veulent, ces gens-là se retrouveront un jour dans le métro qui va dérailler à la station Place St-Henri. Malheureusement, personne ne s’en rendra compte pendant quelques heures parce que personne n’est vraiment certain qu’elle existe la station Place St-Henri, mais bref… <br />
<br />
Ah! Non! Je l’ai! Vous êtes ce genre de personne qui n’aime pas les immigrants que vous croisez 250 fois par jour parce qu’ils sont mieux éduqués que vous et qu’ils savent parler 3 langues? Il y a une solution pour ça, vous savez. Ça s’appelle « Red Deer et un camion U-Haul ». On me dit qu’il fait très beau à Red Deer à ce temps-ci de l’année, en passant.<br />
<br />
Personnellement, de ma personne personnelle, je dois avouer que j’ai de la misère avec les présentations ou les introductions, si vous aimez les anglicismes. Et qui d’entre vous n’est jamais tombé en amour avec un anglicisme?<br />
<br />
Mais revenons à nos ognons. C’est bon les ognons. Bon pour la santé… C’est vrai. Lorsque je dois me présenter à des étrangers, je trouve ça difficile. Je pense que ça ne parait pas (j’espère que ça ne parait pas, devrais-je dire), mais je sue, je trébuche, je tourbillonne pour trouver une façon de le faire qui a de l’allure.<br />
<br />
Il faut trouver le juste milieu. « Bon… » je me dis « Qu’est-ce que je peux dire pour que cette personne sache qui je suis, tout en gardant un petit air mystérieux qui va lui donner le goût de continuer à me parler ». C’est ça que je me dis, dans ma tête. Souvent cette volonté bétonnière devient, « Bonjour! Je m’appelle Judes! Je bois trop, j’adore mes enfants et je masturbe d’une façon chronique et presque maladive! ». Au revoir le mystère… Bonne nuit l’intrigue. La personne a qui je parle, mal à l’aise, sourit un petit sourire maladroit et regarde ailleurs en disant « Ohh! Jacques! Allloooooo! » et swoosh! Elle est partie. Lorsque j’ai vu que cela ne fonctionnait pas trop bien, j’ai essayé la technique torontoise. Vous la connaissez? On débarque, on dit notre nom, notre emploi et notre salaire. Malheureusement, elle a suscité presque la même réaction.<br />
<br />
J’ai donc décidé d’être proactif. Les Québécois aiment ça les gens proactifs (je l’ai lu dans le pamphlet « Bienvenue au Québec! Faites-nous pas chier… » à mon arrivé) et connaissez-vous quelqu’un avec des ambitions royales qui ne l’est pas? Je travaille donc sur la présentation de ma personne personnelle. Voici ce que j’ai préparé :<br />
<br />
Bonjour! Je m’appelle Judes. Je suis la personne avec qui tu travailles qui rentre chez-elle le soir pour chialer contre toi. Je fais le strict minimum, en espérant que personne ne s’en rende compte et j’ai mis sur pied un projet qui devrait détruire les compagnies auxquelles nous louons nos vies pour payer la Mercedes du PDGénéré qui ignore notre existence. Est-ce que tu veux te joindre à moi? Si oui, viens me rejoindre dans la salle de bain à 14h36…. C’est ma pause masturbation de l’après-midi. Elle m’aide à être plus productif.<br />
<br />
Je pense que c’est bon. On apprend l’essentiel (sans que Ginette Reno s’en mêle) mais avec la promesse d’en apprendre davantage! Je suis presque prêt à faire un test de cette nouvelle approche mais j’attends le moment idéal. Ça fait un bout qu’on ne m’a pas invité dans une soirée, à un souper, au bowling ou à un spectacle des finissants de Star Académie. <br />
Je crois que la solution c’est d’amener ça au peuple. Donc, à 9h00 demain matin, je serai à la station Place St-Henri. Si vous êtes de ces gens qui n’aiment pas attendre que les wagons se vident, c’est à vous que je veux parler. Je veux faire votre connaissance et je veux que vous me connaissiez. <br />
<br />
Je suis conscient que ça pourrait ne pas fonctionner. Il faut être prévoyant, comme un Jacques Parizeau scotché dans une chambre d’hôtel. J’ai donc un plan B. Bref, bilingue et surtout, ciblé. « Bonjour! Je m’appelle Judes. Connaissez- vous Red Deer? I hear it’s woooonderful at this time of the year ».judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-90746581762490227372012-02-15T13:46:00.001-05:002012-02-15T15:16:36.100-05:00Un cauchemar canadien...Ça m'arrive parfois d'avoir des idées. Je ne devrais peut-être pas toujours les suivre...<br />
<br />
<iframe width="640" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/YQsLesi4QG4" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
<br />
Et...<br />
<br />
<iframe width="640" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/eDcdv1UewLo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-86356227540199240322012-01-03T12:01:00.000-05:002012-01-03T12:01:53.071-05:00Japan!<iframe width="480" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3QPvp6qIDg8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-5532812712784339532012-01-03T10:54:00.000-05:002012-01-03T10:54:49.201-05:002012 : Le romantisme, les mayas et les films d'horreur...J'aime beaucoup le mois de janvier.<br />
<br />
Je déteste la météo, la gueule de bois collective, les listes "Meilleurs/Pires" de l'année précédente et les résolutions qui créent des attentes quasi herculéennes, mais pour le reste ça va.<br />
<br />
J'aime surtout essayer de deviner ce qui se passera pendant les douze prochains mois... personnellement bien sûr, mais surtout dans notre belle "société". Que voulez-vous? Quand les bananes brûlent, les singes s'amusent!<br />
<br />
Cette année, ce 2012 tant attendu, nous offre un véritable spectacle si on parle de divination, de délits des nations ou même des délices de la tentation.<br />
<br />
Je ne crois pas que c'est la <a href="http://www.lemonde.fr/planete/article/2009/11/10/la-nasa-balaye-les-rumeurs-sur-la-fin-du-monde-en-2012_1265181_3244.html">fin du monde</a>. Soyons clairs. J'aime bien les Mayas. J'aime leur calendrier (sérieusement, côté esthétique... avez-vous déjà vu un aussi beau calendrier? Sans parler de la précision astronomique de l'affaire). Mais non, faites-vous en pas, vous pourriez chialer contre le Bye Bye l'année prochaine. MAIS (car il y a toujours un mais par ici)ça ne prend pas la tête à Papineau pour voir qu'on vit dans une ère de malaise (Hmmm... si les Mayas s'étaient retrouvés en Asie, est-ce qu'on parlerait de Malaisie?). Et quand on parle de malaises en société, il y a toujours les mêmes <br />
éléments périphériques.<br />
<br />
Allumez la petite boîte dans votre salon (et votre chambre à coucher, et votre sous-sol) qui vous dit d'acheter des choses. Lisez un "journal" qui appartient aux mêmes gens qui vous disent quoi acheter sur la petite boîte dans la première phrase. Parlez à un crackpot chrétien qui tente encore de se remettre du fait que le bogue millénaire était un flop. Les choses ne vont pas bien. Polichique, pseudoconomie, reliZion... Ça chie partout. <br />
<br />
Et qui profite de cette merde préapocalyptique? Hollywood et Hallmark, bien sûr!<br />
<br />
On a souvent parlé du lien entre la popularité des <a href="http://www.jademyst.com/essays/10.html">films d'horreur et les malaises de la société qu'ils reflètent</a>. C'est fascinant. Je vous conseille d'y penser. Maintenant! Allez-y. Je vous attend...<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Bon. Arrêtez de penser. Vous me faites peur.<br />
<br />
Mais Hallmark? "C'est quoi le rapport avec Hallmark?", vous vous demandez peut-être. Ou peut-être que non. Peut-être que vous vous demandez si vous avez barré la porte, ou si le Dalai Lama aime le lait au chocolat. Wow. Vous êtes étrange...<br />
<br />
Est-ce que vous vous souvenez du 31 décembre 1999? Les médias nous avaient harcelé pendant des mois, ils voulaient qu'on ait peur, ils voulaient qu'on achète des piles, des génératrices, des bibulles, des gételles... Il fallait qu'on se prépare. Et c'était quoi le message primordial de ce nouveau zèle apocalyptique? "Restez avec vos familles. Dites-leur que vous les aimez. Aimez vous." 5 ans plus tard (au Québec, en tout cas...) POW! BANG! ZOOM! BABY BOOM! <br />
<br />
Bon, c'est un peu général et pas très cohérent comme argument. Mais vous êtes ici, vous me connaissez. C'est comme ça.<br />
<br />
Je trouve qu'on revient un peu dans ce cycle avec le l'apocalypse-du-jour, mais il y a une différence cette fois. On dirait que la tendance penche vers le côté romantique et non le côté horreur. J'ai survolé les sorties de films pour 2012. Les "majors" sortiront presque autant de comédies romantiques que de films d'horreur cette année (sans compter les 22 films "Twilight" qui sortiront cet été). Suite à cette analyse ultra-scientifique, j'ai aussi regardé plusieurs horoscopes pour l'année. L'amour, et l'importance des amoureux-ses... toujours la même chose. (J'avoue que je ne lis pas souvent les horoscopes. C'est peut-être toujours comme ça. Je l'ignore. Mais ça prouvait ma thèse donc, je cite. C'est comme ça que ça marche la science).<br />
<br />
Le plus qu'on entend parler de ce fameux calendrier des Mayas, le plus qu'on (par on, je veux dire ces fameux médias qui vont se taper une partouze d'info-consommation pendant les 10 prochains mois) parle du fait que "Bon finalement, ce n'est pas une "fin" comme tel, mais plus un "renouvellement"". J'aime ça une rangée de guillemets ensemble """""""""". C'est beau, non? Ce sera donc la première fois que la fin du monde est axée sur un nouveau début, et non une fin. Pouvez-vous penser à une meilleure analogie pour la vie de couple, pour l'amour, pour ce qu'on recherche dans l'amour? Et qui dit "analogie" dit "carte de souhait". -Mon amour, je veux renaître avec toi comme la civilisation renaîtra de ses cendres dans quelques mois. Ça aussi, c'est beau non? Non? Imaginez que ça vient avec une douzaine de roses. <br />
<br />
Bref, ma prédiction pour 2012 est qu'on va voir une renaissance romantique (avec un "r" minuscule, notez). Moi je le sens. J'ai commencé 2012 en faisant couler un bain pour ma copine. Avec des chandelles... Et un massage. Dans quelques mois, vous allez faire la même chose. Je le sais. Je le sens...<br />
<br />
Si vous n'êtes pas convaincus (et je vais être honnête, je vous comprends), on verra bientôt. Très bientôt, même. Je suis convaincu que cette St-Valentin va battre des records. Le message (inconscient) sera "C'est votre dernière St-Valentin... Profitez-en donc!". Si c'est le cas, vous pouvez me remercier en vous déshabillant pour faire vibrer la planète entière avec un orgasme collectif. On va dire le 7 mai? Ça vous va? Ce sera une très belle façon d'entamer la quarantaine.<br />
<br />
Que l'amour soit avec vous. I kiss you!<br />
<br />
Ju-Jujudeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-38742373577763842332011-12-15T10:36:00.002-05:002011-12-15T10:36:40.350-05:00Gélaté - Teaser 6<iframe width="640" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Pt7LsSTnljM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-88313919328621583032011-11-22T20:47:00.002-05:002011-11-22T20:47:28.662-05:00Jesus... When I think videogames, I still see Pong...<iframe width="640" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/mdWkKKSckNk" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-82831045713455535532011-11-22T20:36:00.000-05:002011-11-22T20:36:30.882-05:00Life, explained in 2m29s<iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/17576843?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" width="400" height="225" frameborder="0" webkitAllowFullScreen mozallowfullscreen allowFullScreen></iframe><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/17576843">My Friend Jason.</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/shotatthedark">Shot at The Dark</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-27859938972656368792011-11-22T20:20:00.000-05:002011-11-22T20:20:54.951-05:00MariageI'm filing this under: There's something you don't see everyday. If this woman ever gets divorced, I'm sure there will be a line of men... waiting patiently.<br />
<br />
<iframe width="480" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/V6Vewad_UKY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-81276534981016025962011-11-16T09:46:00.002-05:002011-11-16T09:46:34.947-05:00Gélaté - Teaser #5<iframe width="640" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/2xijd98mc9Q" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-13094124749598193832011-11-09T10:53:00.000-05:002011-11-09T10:53:00.892-05:00Gélaté - Episode 4 - Cathleen Rouleau<iframe width="640" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/81KmloGeL9o" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-88367994118606332872011-10-28T12:51:00.000-04:002011-10-28T12:51:03.841-04:00GélatéIn an effort to stay on top of things, here are the last 2 episodes of Gélaté that I forgot to put up here.<br />
Related : Is human cloning legal yet?<br />
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<iframe width="640" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/PdUVhfXxeXY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
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<iframe width="640" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1eX6WDVRovA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />
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Enjoy! You know... If you speak French...judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-85520823560995555792011-10-19T15:47:00.000-04:002011-10-19T15:47:14.426-04:00PISSED OFF!!I really enjoyed Sylvain Marcoux's blog entry about his take on the Occupy Wall Street movement. I thought other (English-speaking)people might enjoy it too, so with the man's blessing, I translated it and am posting it here. If you're interested, you can read the original <a href="http://www.sylvainmarcoux.com/?p=5">here</a>. Otherwise...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMgSzIKTGCMIv4X6QRuV3gQvbn_eWFq0PT1R0BeVIn2EtSauuT31XHKexcbzNtytDTCMhIXnRCYPue7zDvVUcParUFMuqDY3ag6efIOKKSpNRfoGbaeAhHb0PdXz0FunCVBjYNZT8bSI/s1600/f3e1959103cb6d125dc508d530c0a1d72-300x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKMgSzIKTGCMIv4X6QRuV3gQvbn_eWFq0PT1R0BeVIn2EtSauuT31XHKexcbzNtytDTCMhIXnRCYPue7zDvVUcParUFMuqDY3ag6efIOKKSpNRfoGbaeAhHb0PdXz0FunCVBjYNZT8bSI/s320/f3e1959103cb6d125dc508d530c0a1d72-300x300.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I had just spent the night working on a small contract (“small” describes the salary – not the actual workload). I was about to get breakfast ready for my kids but logged into facebook… only to find someone bitching about the Occupy Wall Street movement.<span> </span>My blood boiled over and this is what came out…</span></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Why do I support the Occupy movement?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Because my wife and I work our asses off and get very little in return.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Because we’re a small family and the aforementioned work gets in the way of the time we spend with our kids.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Because our budget is very quickly becoming a financial labyrinth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Because our schedules work around finding a way to put food on the table.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- Because we’re not the only ones stuck in this situation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</span></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I guess we COULD cut our budget. We COULD make some sacrifices.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We don’t need to buy so much food. Are 3 meals a day really necessary?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We don’t need to go out so much. Why spend family time actually DOING things with our kids?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We don’t need so many clothes. Why buy new jeans when there’s a perfectly good pair from 2009 that still fits?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We don’t need to use so much electricity. Our clothes from 2009 are still pretty warm, right?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">No! We’re tired…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We’re tired of seeing people getting married at <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Versailles</st1:place></st1:city>. Tired of seeing people book a wee-long trip on Virgin Galactic because it’s “something to do”. Tired of seeing nepotism in action… or is that inaction? Tired of seeing governments cut social programs and services that are already out of reach to most people. Tired of seeing friends and family dying of cancer that drops from the sky or hides in our food. Tired of hearing our son asking, “Why do you work all the time?”. Tired of explaining to potential employers that there’s a gap in our résumé because we wanted to stay home with our kids. Tired of hearing that we’re the reason the economy is melting down… because we aren’t buying enough crap. Tired of hearing the top 1% tell us that we don’t work hard enough. Tired… Just sick and TIRED OF IT ALL!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I’m not on the Right. I’m not on the Left… There is no left or right anymore, crooked politicians are making those lines disappear. I’m PISSED OFF!<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I support the Occupy movement because I’m pissed off and it’s showing me that I’m not alone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Can you hear me? Can you hear how pissed off I am? Can you hear all those people, out in the street as you read this? Can you hear how pissed off they are? Can you hear the wind blowing through the wrought iron gates at the end of your mansion’s driveway? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Can you?</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3317329802656426374.post-3151614627480611562011-10-06T14:54:00.000-04:002011-10-06T14:54:43.568-04:00Gélaté - My New Web Thing...This is a new web series I'm doing in French. I've got a few episodes ready to go, but here's the 1st one. Enjoy! (if you can French, that is)...<br />
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<iframe width="640" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/zukxnOKeV64" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>judeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13603358314061431631noreply@blogger.com0