Talk About Being Born Under a Bad Sign

Okay, can we all just agree that astrology and horoscopes are bullshit? The same people that believe in horoscopes are the same loonies that trust tarot cards and magic crystals to decide which muffin to have with their coffee each morning. It’s ludicrous, plain and simple. Some of these knuckle heads even go so far as to use this system to make financial decisions! Financial decisions…come on people! Would you trust your stocks, bonds and life savings in the hands of a broker that reads from 'Mystic Mel' each morning before he hurls your money into the market? I think I would trust Paul the Psychic Octopus over any human psychic (you know the one that was predicting all the wins for Germany in 2010’s FIFA world cup). People even play the lotto based on their ‘lucky’ numbers as stated in their horoscope. Think about that one people, 12 signs of the Zodiac and each sign is allocated 6 ‘magic’ numbers, extrapolating the math, that makes 72 ‘mystical’ numbers. There is only 80 numbers used in the lottery, your so called psychic has simply picked random numbers between 1 and 80! How come I’ve never seen a horoscope state that my magic number is 1,428? Is that just an unlucky number? Maybe.

How about when people come up to you and say ‘What star sign are you?’ and you answer with ‘[insert star sign here]’ ‘Oh you totally are! I knew it’ how the fuck could you possibly have known? I’ve never had someone come up to me and say ‘Shut your mouth…you’re a Goddamn [insert star sign here]’ nope, not once.

It just gets under my skin when I hear someone say ‘Oh, her husband is definitely cheating on her, he’s a water sign and she’s an air sign… it was never going to work out’ that’s right, some people actually make decisions about their love life based on the stars! Can you imagine meeting the person of your dreams and they are perfect in every way, beautiful, funny, charismatic, charming and the sexual chemistry is astounding…but, wait a minute, what’s that? You’re a Taurus? Whoa…hold it right there you horned devil, I can’t be seen with a Taurus! I’m a proud Leo. Away with you!

When someone asks me which sign I am, I’m going to start carrying around the below image so I can pull it out and say ‘This one! This is my star sign alright!’

 (Can’t you see it when you look to the heavens?)

How about when the horoscope is so fucking vague, that the exact same passage of words could apply to you as well as a heroin junkie coming down from his methadone high. How does that shit work? Take a read of the following passage I found in today’s papers:

Have you got a hover-board? Is there a teleportation function on your wrist-watch? Oh dear. Don't you remember? You come from a world where everyone wears silver suits and there are hourly shuttles to Mars. How did you get here? How are you supposed to cope in a time like this when everything is so primitive? People are so respectfully deferential to the laws of space, time and gravity. You may not come from the future - but you are going there!

I swear to God, I did not make that up! What a bunch of hogwash. How on Earth will that help anyone today? (I won’t say which star sign it came from, I don’t want to disappoint anyone).

Can you just picture the author of these horoscopes? This poor bastard has to come up with 12 unique affirmations each and every day, no wonder they start to become more and more aloof and impersonal. It’s 10.30pm, the editor needs to send the paper to the printers, everyone has their articles in, the sports journo, the classifieds…they are all ready, they’re just waiting for Mystic Bob to deliver the goods…he’s sweating, his gut is hanging four inches over his belt, a cigarette smoldering away between his pursed lips… ‘Just one more paragraph of bullshit’ he screams internally at himself. ‘Fuck it, this will do’ and the result? The passage above.

Yes my friends, if it helps you get through the mundane days of life, then please, continue to read and be mystified by the creative writing skills of the journalist that just got fired from his role as the film critic, and not wanting to find real work, begged and pleaded with the editor-in-chief ‘Please, don’t send me out there, not to the real world, I won’t survive, please let me stay here…I’ll do anything! Anything I tells ya! I’ll write the horoscopes, I swear I’ll behave, please…please’

Until next time,

-Chris

Oliver says 'YEAR OF THE DOG ANYONE?'

THE DIARY OF A 30 YEAR OLD NOBODY

By

Somebody (but nobody in particular)

January 1st

 8.37am

Today is the day. Today I wake up and become the person I want to be. It’s my time. Carpe Diem, seize the day. Get up, shower, dress and get outside. Ahh, the fresh air, I can smell it already. Head is still kind of hurting from last night though. What happened? How did I get home? Don’t tell me I drove home, hold on, let me check the driveway…

FUCK. Alright, good news is, you’re alive. What if I hit someone while driving home? What if I took down an innocent cyclist? I better check the news…

9.13am

A stabbing,  some guy was king hit in a random attack and an old lady lost her pug during the fireworks, other than that it was a quiet and tame New Years for Darling Cove. Thank Christ for that. Note to self ‘Do not drink and drive’, New Year’s resolution numero uno. Last night was one of those nights that really just got out of hand. “Come on, just one drink” he said (That’s Paul, my colleague at the Council Office). Paul has a problem, no scratch that, that Paul has many problems. Right off the bat, he is an alcoholic. Not one of those alcoholics that you see roaming the streets at 3am with a brown paper bag, not at all. He is a functioning alcoholic. By functioning I mean he can sit up straight at his desk and make it look like he is working. He was moaning all day yesterday about joining him for a drink at the Suffolk Hotel, just across from where we work. You see, normally I would say no. The Suffolk Hotel, or as I like to call it ‘The Suffer Hotel’ is not a place one goes to have a quiet drink after work. It draws a crowd of middle class, middle management men and women trying to drown their sorrows about how everything about them is just average. In theory, I should fit right in, because that’s exactly what I am.

I’m Joe Nobody.

January 3rd

5.46pm

Sorry, two days without an entry. Went back to work today after having the festive season off. To be honest, I would have rather worked through it. Not much happened. Apart from the memory loss I have from New Year’s. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you! That pug, the one that went missing on New Year’s because it was scared of the fireworks, it didn’t run away, I kidnapped it. Is that called dognapping? After my last entry, I took a shower, got dressed, grabbed my keys and was about to head over to Paul’s house so he could fill me in with a few more details about our night out. I unlocked the car, jumped behind the wheel and out of nowhere this fucking dog jumps out from the backseat and licks the back of my neck. Damn near gave me a heart attack. When all you feel is a wet tongue on the back of your neck, it could be anything…or anyone! I know what you’re thinking, do I still have the dog?. Well, short answer, yes. I did try to return it. See, the owners of the pug (whom I’ve now named Cracker, as in firecracker) weren’t even home on New Year’s Eve. They went up the coast for a holiday. Again, I know what you’re thinking ‘Why not take the dog to the local pound?’ Well, I did. As it turns out, Cracker wasn’t the only dog that got scared and ran away that night (I know, I said kidnapped before, I’ll explain that in a little bit). The pound was swamped with dogs of all shapes and sizes and they didn’t have any spare cages for poor Cracker. The chubby girl behind the counter asked if I wouldn’t mind watching him for a few days, I said ‘Yes, I would mind’ we stared at each other for a few moments until I gave in, I’m a fucking pushover. Now, how exactly did I come into possession of this dog you ask? After Cracker and I made our formal introductions, I drove over to Paul’s house. As usual, he was asleep. Not wanting to leave Cracker in the car, I picked him up carried him to the front door. I knocked several times and on the fifth and loudest knock Paul answered the door. The conversation that followed went a little like this:

Me: Paul, Do you know what this is?

Paul: That’s the cutest fucking dog I’ve ever seen in my life.

Me: Yeah, it is. Do you know where it came from?

Paul: Is this a trick question? I just woke up.

Me: Paul, I found this dog in the backseat of my car this morning. Where did he come from? What did we do?

Paul: It looks as though you kidnapped a dog. Do they call that dognapping?

Me: Jesus Paul, did we kidnap this dog? Have we committed a felony? Do you know what these dogs are worth?

Paul: No

Me: Me either, but I’m sure a lot. You don’t see them all the time.

Paul: Hold on, it’s coming back to me now. Did we drive down Chalice Street? You know the street behind the Suffolk?

Me: How would I know?

Paul: Because you were driving. Hold on, I remember. It was just after midnight, we were driving down Chalice Street, next thing I remember was you slamming on the brakes, jumping out the car and running down the street. All of a sudden, you returned with this cute little guy.

Me: Cracker.

Paul: Excuse me?

Me: That’s what I’ve called him.

Paul: That’s kind of racial don’t you think? He’s not even white, more of a tan colour I’d say.

Me: What am I going to do with him?

Paul: Hold out until someone’s posts a reward?

Me: Fuck Paul, seriously.

Paul: Take him to the pound.

Anyway, we argued for a few more minutes about why he let me drive while I was drunk. Then I took Cracker to the pound and, as you already know, was told to hold on to him. Looks like a have a friend for the next few days. It’s getting kind of late, might turn in for the night.

January 4th

5.26am

Don’t be fooled, I never get up this early. This dog is an animal. Not in the traditional sense. He doesn’t sleep.  All night he paces and snorts. I think he is having trouble breathing. He is stressed? Have I stressed him out? I had no food in the house for a dog so I gave him some left over roast chicken, can that kill a dog? Fuck, I need to learn more about this breed. You know what? He farts. All night and not cute little doggy farts either. An offensive and rancid smell of what can best be described as the rotting flesh of a baboons arse. His face is starting to get on my nerves.

1.14pm

Just got back from lunch with Paul. He couldn’t stop talking about the new girl at work. Katie this and Katie that. To be completely honest I hadn’t really taken any notice of her. I wonder what Cracker is doing back home…

5.48pm

Fucker.

6.12pm

How can a dog so small, shit so much? Not just in one pile, but everywhere. He chooses not to shit on the kitchen tiles but rather on the carpet in the lounge room, the bedroom and the study. Fucking Paul letting me drive home, it’s all his fault. I’m hungry, I wonder what Cracker feels like eating?

January 7th

7.27pm

Apologies for not writing for a few days, I’ve been so tired. Cracker is a demon dog released from the gates of Hell. I did some research on him. Allegedly, his breed, sleep eighteen hours a day! The fuck he does. Snorting and sneezing all night through that squashed little face of his. I finally got him some dog food, I think he likes it.

I’ve noticed this pain in my lower abdomen. I think its cancer. What type of cancer would cause lower abdominal pain? I should see a doctor. I’ll call and make an appointment tomorrow.

January 8th

7.31am

Finally, an entire night with unbroken sleep. I don’t know where Cracker is, but he isn’t in the bedroom. Actually, I haven’t seen him all morning. Fuck, I better go check on him.

8.59am

I can’t believe it. He’s not even my dog and I’m running down the street yelling ‘Cracker’ in a predominately white neighborhood. The slippery little shit scaled up the couch, took a leap of faith towards the open window and jumped to freedom. I should have just let him go. I found the little rat bastard two blocks over, typically, taking a shit on someone’s flower bed of course. I shouldn’t even be writing, I’m late for work.

11.21am

I never did finish telling you about the rest of Paul’s problems. I’m only reminded because of his actions this morning at work. I swear I’m going to get called into court as a material witness to his sexual harassment case. Paul thinks he’s God’s gift to women and women think Paul was God’s practical joke on mankind. Basically, in a nut shell, Paul has his infantile brain set on getting the new girl, Katie, into bed. For the record, she is way out of his league. League, what am I saying? They aren’t even playing the same sport on the same continent. She’s pretty, smart and has a quirky sense of humor that would go over the heads of most common folk, especially Paul. Her dress sense is quiet and conservative but with just a little hint of sexiness. Natural blonde hair that sits just below her shoulders, and when she reads, she wears these cute little glasses that make her beautiful brown eyes the focal point of her perfect face…whoa, slow down tiger. Look, she’s okay. I should probably introduce myself to her, is it rude not to? I’m hungry, I’m going to get some lunch, I’ll talk to her after lunch, yeah…after lunch.

(TO BE CONTINUED…)

Hello and welcome to

‘Facts with Chris’

The following facts have been derived from various sources, but I assure you, all of them are accurate and have been 100% verified by a Portuguese street peddler. He sold me his one and only wrist watch and I trust this man with my life. Although, the watch doesn’t keep accurate time, I have no reason to doubt the validity of any of the following facts.

Enjoy.

Fact Numero the Uno: 2,500 left handed people are killed each year by using products designed for right handed people.

Let’s just stop right there. Can we just let those numbers simmer on your mind for awhile? 2,500 left handed people. 2,500 people. Dead. Each year. Using right handed products. 2,500.

I’m sorry, I can’t help but wonder if it was really the fact these people were left handed that killed them or if they were just mildly retarded. Secondly, what products are they using that are considered fatal for a leftie but safe for a rightie? Were they running with right handed scissors? I couldn’t help myself; I had to look up a handful (Geddit?) of left handed products after I heard this factoid from Humberto (my Portuguese street peddler friend). Turns out these lefties are quite serious about not being able to use certain products...but in some aspects, I honestly think they are just nit picking problems. I mean seriously, a left handed measuring cup for the kitchen? Or a left handed ruler? How does a right handed ruler disadvantage a leftopian? Just turn it around! Measure from the 30 centimetre mark backwards...what are you measuring that requires you to start from 1cm?...oh! wait a minute, I get it! You’re measuring your slightly curving to the left penis...Sorry, I see how you would need to start from the 1cm side of the ruler. Apologies, continue measuring.

Fact Numero the Dois: The shortest war on record was held between England and Zanzibar in 1896 and lasted only 38 minutes.

38 minutes! 38 minutes! They didn’t even last the length of an Asian massage, with or without the happy ending, the poor Zanzibarians. I’ll admit, when this fact was confirmed by Humberto, I had to look up Zanzibar on Wikipedia. Turns out that Zanzibar is a semi-autonomous part of Tanzania consisting of several islands. Who would have thought! Question though, why are the British invading this peaceful little seaside community? What on Earth could they have done to piss off the British Empire? Also, did they feel bad when Zanzibar surrendered after only 38 minutes? I know I would...it’s the school yard equivalent of picking on the smallest kid in the playground for his lunch money, you push him, he cries and hands over his $1.25 his mum gave him for ice cream. He doesn’t put up a fight and doesn’t argue; he simply admits defeat and sulks. I didn’t even want the buck twenty five in the first place! I certainly had no bad feelings towards the poor kid. All I wanted was to conquer and take what wasn’t mine, plain and simple. Shame on you British Empire!

(For those who might be interested, Zanzibar regained independence in 1963. If they had only held out a little longer they could have enjoyed the British invasion of the Beatles. Well, you win some and you lose some)

Fact Numero the Tres: The first bomb dropped by the Allies in World War II killed the only elephant in the Berlin Zoo.

Not much to say about this one, except poor fucking elephant, he had no idea a war was even going on! I'm sure if he had known, he might have strapped a helmet to his bulbous head.

Fact Numero the Quatro: A snail can sleep for up to three years.

Hold on, just hold on one snail trail of a minute! I want to meet the Gentleman (or Lass) who conducted this experiment. Three years? Honestly? Someone watched this snail for three years straight? They had a team of snail watchers working around the clock keeping an eye on sleeping beauty? Really? Aren’t snail eyes on top of those little tentacle things on their heads? You know the ones that when you touch them they retreat back into their squishy head. I used to poke them when I was a kid you know! Was I keeping him awake? Interesting. So, next time someone calls you lazy or tells you to get out of bed, just tell them that today, you’re a snail.

Fact Numero the Cinco: The barnacle has the largest penis in the animal kingdom in relation to its size.

The barnacle! A fucking barnacle! Unbelievable. All my life I’ve been making jokes like ‘Hung like a horse’ or ‘Swinging like a donkey’ instead I should have been saying ‘Packing a barnacle’. Quite the modest little arthropod isn’t he? He doesn’t really show a lot of hoop-la over his impressive member does he? Instead quietly he sits perched upon a jetty and contemplates “Gee I have an enormous cock!”... Actually, I just worked out why the takeaway joint is called ‘Barnacle Bills’!

Well, there you have it, five interesting little tid bits that you can pull out next time you’re at the pub with your mates. Enlighten them about the Berlin elephant or impress them with the mighty phallus of the barnacle.

The watch Humberto sold me is saying it’s time for a beer right now actually. God bless those Portuguese street peddlers.

Until next time,

-Chris

Oliver says 'PUGS ORIGINATE FROM CHINA! I'M CHINESE!'

My Job Description In 150 Words Or Less

I was going to do a really happy blog today. A fun and happy-go-lucky blog about fuck knows what, but instead, I’ve come to work this morning to be yet again, for lack of better wording, fucked over!

Sitting here sipping at my plunged, organic and certified fair-trade coffee (pretentious I know!) I’ve come to the conclusion that I am completely inept at my job. That news may shock some of you, especially those who actually know what I do for a living or have seen me in my role. I know what you’re thinking “How the fuck could you be inept at sitting behind a desk? How daft are ya?” honestly? I’m not daft or inept at all, I just don’t have my head infused with my own anus, which seems to be the prerequisite for this position. If only they advertised it that way, maybe I wouldn’t have applied. Maybe if the job description had looked a little like this, I would have thought twice…

SEEKING

One anus with a head attached. Must be fully trained and certified at being anally retentive. Past experience in anal retention will be highly regarded.

 JOB REQUIREMENT

To sit on your ass for eight hours a day with the occasional bending over so you can take a giant penis rectally. Performing this task without moaning or grunting will be highly advantageous. Make one peep and we will only push it in deeper and harder.

Desired attributes:

Experience at being anal

A working knowledge of your own anus and others

A complete understanding of how to place your anus into the air and having it fucked. Over and over.

If you are interested please send in a full resume with a photo of your ass to the following HR manager:

Anal McFuck Fuck

At

Fuck you all, I hate my job fuckers! I’m out of here. Fuck.

c/o

PO BOX

ASSFUCKelaide

***

See, a job advertisement like that might have raised a few alarms…maybe, I don’t know. I’m just saying maybe I would have thought twice.

Until next time,

-Chris

NB: Due to legal reasons I cannot disclose the situation that occurred at work. Let’s just say it involved two assholes and a cock.

Oliver says 'LET IT ALL OUT DAD, JUST LET IT ALL OUT'

Grammar With Chris

One thing I like about blogging and not actually having to sit down and talk for hours about the useless drivel I usually harp on about, is the simple fact that I don’t get pulled up on how to pronounce my words. I have a friend that constantly berates me for the way I pronounce words. Everyday words like ‘croissant’ ‘Arabica’ ‘coyote’ ‘tuna’…just to name a few. The word that actually takes the cake though is quite ironic. The word ‘pronunciation’ was constantly brought up in the battle of The Pronunciation Game.

I’ll be the first to admit it, I am a grammar Nazi. Your and you’re are the epitome of bad grammar, as is, to and too. The list is endless, and yes, I’m well aware English is a very difficult language to learn (for foreign and domestic residents alike). So, I would like to take this opportunity to educate the masses, to pass on my very basic knowledge and help out those less fortunate than I.

I’m talking about those assholes that didn’t listen in class. It’s not like you had to listen to every word the teacher was saying, you could have simply listened to every second word and still picked up the gist of it. You could have skipped every second class and had a better grasp of YOUR native language. Fuck, you could have tried reading a book once in a while (What am I thinking, you can’t read). Okay, forget the book, you could have engaged in proper conversation with a well spoken adult and picked up the correct wording and pronunciation of words. Instead, you chose to fuck around and look up girls skirts, eat pissed on sand from the playground and poke dog shit with a stick.

Alas, it’s not all over for you, uncle Chris is here to help. We are going to start with two aforementioned mistakes. Your and You’re and To and Too.

Okay, let’s go.

First up, ‘Your’, as in belonging to or associated with the person or people the speaker is addressing.

Example and repeat after me: “YOUR mother was addicted to crystal meth and couldn’t afford a decent education for you…YOUR”

Next, ‘You’re’ as in the contraction of the words ‘you are’.

Example and repeat after me: “YOU’RE a fucking ineffective individual, YOU’RE going to die diseased and lonely…YOU’RE’

Are we all following so far? I hope I’m not going too fast, remember, you can always stop, go back and read the example again until you are comfortable to move on. I don’t want push too far ahead of anyone, if you’re comfortable to continue learning, please continue reading. If not, then go back and practice reading those examples.

Next, ‘To’ as in expressing motion in the direction of a particular location (when used as a preposition)

Example and repeat after me: “When you turn 18, you are going straight TO welfare, you won’t be getting a job, you won’t be purchasing nice things because you are on welfare, you can’t afford nice things when you’re on welfare, you can only afford cheap housing and home brand food… TO.”

Now, see what I did there? I combined the word YOU’RE in that last example…see if you can spot it. Again, if I’m going too fast, stop, go back and read through the example until you feel comfortable to continue.

Okay, last lesson for the day. ‘Too’ as in to a higher or lower degree than is desirable, permissible or possible; excessively.

Example and repeat after me: “Your IQ is TOO low for living a good life. You will never succeed. Your inherited bad genes are not curable. It is because of this you’re destined for failure. You’re going to have a miserable life, but it won’t matter because you’re TOO ignorant and oblivious to your shortcomings. You can do one of two things from this juncture, you can give up now and end it all or you can continue on your shitty life path and carry on being a burden to society…TOO.”

Now, that one was tricky, if you noticed I put all the previous examples into that last sentence. See if you can spot them all. I also threw in a third and alternate spelling of the word To and Too, very sneaky of me! Try and see if you can find it…ask an adult for help if you get stuck.

Well, that’s the end of our first lesson. Stay tuned for more ‘Grammar with Chris’ in the coming weeks.

Until next time,

-Chris

Oliver says 'EVEN I PASSED PUPPY PRESCHOOL'

Once in a while

Will you try to give one little thought to me?

Even though someone may be nearer to your heart

Will you dream of the moments I shared with you,

Before we drifted apart?

Once in a while

In loves smouldering embers, one spark may remain

If love still can remember, the spark may burn again

I know that I’ll be contented with yesterday’s memory

Knowing you think of me

Once in a while

                                                                ‘Once in a While’ – Eddie Vedder, Ukulele Songs

A poet. A dreamer. A visionary. A saint and a sinner. Eddie Vedder has been the voice of a disgruntled generation for the past two decades. Taking the stage with his baritone voice since the late 80’s as the lead singer of San Diego based punk rock band ‘Bad Radio’, Eddie Vedder has continued to inspire, educate and help relieve the pain and struggles of everyday life through his unique and yet powerful view of the world.

I had to start this blog with the lyrics from ‘Once in a While’, partly because the words are very poignant but more so because I think anyone who has ever lost love will appreciate the solemn words of Mr Vedder.

Not that I want to start the weekend off with a sad song or anything, not at all. I wanted to give people hope, hope that love does exist. It is out there and you will find it. We have all felt that spark, the spark that turned into a flame. Then, that single flame turned into a wildfire, sweeping through your heart and mind like a firestorm. Every part of you is now like wispy bits of cotton, catching alight and succumbing to the blaze. That’s how the love has spread, that’s how it has coursed its way around your body and soul. Ignited by a spark and fuelled by passion.

Like Eddie says ‘In loves smouldering embers, one spark may remain’ and that’s all you need. Never give up.

Love means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. The love a mother feels for her unborn child is immeasurable but so is the love a man feels for his best friend. I’m talking from experience; I have an ex partner who is now my best friend. Do I love her any differently? No, of course not. Can anyone question the love I have for my best friend? No. We spent a third of our lives together, I have to keep her nearby and close to my heart...after all, she knows all my inner most secrets.

Yes my friends, like a wise man once said...sex is easy, love is hard.

But is it...?

I used to quote that saying for years and years, I loved it. I used it to help friends through times of trouble or when someone needed advice about their relationship. It always seemed to make people nod their heads and go ‘Yeah, yeah you’re right...sex is easy, this love stuff is kinda hard’ and it would make me feel all prophetic, like a master visionary of love and the Karma Sutra. In my mind I would picture people walking away from the conversation thinking ‘Jesus, Chris has it all worked out...he knows how to fuck and how to love!’

I’ve been regurgitating the same advice for years. Never changing it up or keeping people on their toes. I guess this is why I started to feel like a hack.

Truth is, that advice is wrong; it’s eight and half sushi rolls of wrong. Love isn’t hard. Love isn’t a chore. It doesn’t take a genius or a poet to care for someone. It doesn’t require strength, will power or dedication to give yourself to someone and love them unconditionally. It’s taken all thirty of my years on this great planet of ours to work that out, and, if I’m going to be completely honest and upfront, I only had the epiphany last night. It came to me when I was talking with my ex/best friend...I love her. I have seen her grow and I have seen her change. I’ve watched her experience joy and have seen into her eyes when she has been torn apart with sorrow. I’ve cried with her, laughed with her and I’ve let her into parts of my world that no one else is allowed into. Of course I love my best friend. I love her advice, I love her company and I love her mannerisms. As a ‘couple’ it was hard to love her, we struggled for ten years to make ‘it’ work. It only occurred to me last night, as we were talking, that I wasn’t struggling to love her as a ‘friend’.

That’s when I knew the advice I’d been giving out all these years was wrong. Love isn’t hard at all. You just need to find which type of love you’re giving out. Because when you find the right love for the right person, it’s not hard at all.

Until next time,

-Chris

Oliver says 'ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE'

Ghosts of Chris’ Past (Geddit?)

I was talking with a dear friend of mine the other day and the topic of ghosts and the supernatural came up. Now, I do love talking about that stuff and one of my favourite shows is ‘Supernatural’, however, I do feel that I need to point out before I continue that I am completely, 100% and positively certain that ghosts and the like are just figments of an over active imagination brought on by our friends in Hollywood (Well, Japan actually, seeing as they make the best horror films). I’m not trying to rain on anyone’s parade, I’m not trying to upset anyone who might want to make contact with the other side in order to speak with a dead relative and I’m definitely not trying to piss off God or any other fictional character. I’m simply stating my proclivity for reality.

I’ve had believers come up to me and try to win me over with their arguments…coming to me with unintelligent remarks like ‘But, have you ever seen a ghost Chris?’ for the record people, this is the worst fucking argument you can make when trying to convince a realists that ghosts exist. Clearly my answer is going to be ‘No’. When posed with this question, I always give the rudimentary and polite retort back ‘Well, have YOU seen a ghost?’ to which one of the most common responses is ‘I’ve felt the presence of one’. Okay, so you haven’t actually seen one either, is that what you’re saying? I felt the presence of a shit once, went to the toilet…nothing.

The for and against argument could go on for days and days with no resolution. I’ll never be able to convince a true believer that when you’re dead you’re dead and a true believer will never be able to convince me that Elvis still walks the grounds of Graceland. It’s a stalemate I'm happy to live with.

However, back to the original conversation I was having with my friend. We were on the topic of ghosts, spirits, entities and the like when I asked her about dead animals. Do dead animals come back and haunt the place they died? Akin to the way believers say a ghost will haunt their place of death and the spirit may be even more malevolent if the death was rather nasty or brutal, say murder or graphic suicide. Would a dead animal come back to haunt the same spot where they passed? If so, I can only imagine the number of haunted toilet bowls around the world, swarming with the ectoplasms of pissed off goldfish. I can honestly say, I have never heard of someone going to the toilet and seeing an apparition of Nemo swimming in the bowl! What about my backyard? I had a pet bunny rabbit about 2 years ago, Cinnamon, poor poor Cinnamon. Cinnamon was a gorgeous little bunny, cute, funny and full of character. Chew every fucking cord he could get his little buck teeth into though, a little bastard to be honest. He was a twenty dollar impulse buy by my girlfriend of the time. We only had him for about six months before he decided to up and die! Promptly after his death we had a private ceremony, just the two of us, few words were spoken. I lowered his little carcass into a nice plot we found in the backyard, wrapped with love in a Woolworth’s plastic shopping bag and covered him with earth. Goodbye Cinnamon, you were a pest but we loved you, deeply. Now, Cinnamons death was what I would call, horrific. He died from a single bite wound from a spider. Would his death be classed as shocking, shocking enough to maybe cast his little spirit out of his body to forever haunt my backyard from beyond the grave? Have I ever seen or felt his little furry presence while mowing the lawn?

Fuck no.

The only contribution Cinnamon gives to my backyard from beyond the grave is fertilizing the weeds that grow in and around his now unkempt gravesite.

Why stop at common household pets? What about the less insignificant creatures? How many locusts and other flying bugs took their own lives on your windshield or grill? Are we all driving around with the disgruntled spirits of gnats in our car? Hardly.

Why do we reserve the right to only be haunted by our human counterparts? Does no other creature in our great, vast animal kingdom get the honor of spooking us as well? Seems kind of unfair if you ask me. To be completely honest with you all, I think I would prefer to be haunted by my pets rather than my kin. Sure Cinnamon was a pain in the ass and the countless fish that I’ve flushed didn’t really offer any great love and support, I still think I’d rather see them hovering above my bed at night than my dear dead Grandfather. Sorry Grandpa, no hard feelings, right?

~INTERMISSION~

Since we are kind of on the topic, I had another conversation with the same friend (You must think this friend of mine and I only talk about morbid topics…well, we do). We were discussing the possible options after death. I came to the conclusion that for the past, say 2000 years, our options pretty much haven’t changed in terms of preparing our body for the eternal sleep. Sure we can be buried six feet under like most people or we can be cremated and have our ashes sitting in a tacky vase (yes, I’m aware it’s called an urn) above the fireplace (which by the way is a horrible place to keep ashes, if I’ve been burned to ashes, I don’t think I want to be kept anywhere near fire!).

I just think that we need more options when it comes to the final goodbye. When I asked my friend about what she would like done with her body (mind out of the gutter people) she had an odd request, but one I could probably necessitate if I really had to. She doesn’t like the idea of being buried and eaten by worms, bugs and other creepy crawlies; however, she isn’t fussed about being in the ground as bones only…how does one get to be bones only and then buried? Quite easy actually, you dip her body in hydrochloric acid and sizzle away her flesh and organs to leave only her bones, which can now be neatly tucked away into a casket and buried without the fear of being eaten by night crawlers. Kind of a nifty way to end your time here on this Earth I thought.

What would I do? Good question. There are so many options…Cryogenically frozen for one! Alas, I don’t like the cold. Taxidermy? Maybe, depends if I could have moveable joints inserted in my limbs so I could be placed in different positions depending on the situation. Donating my body to science? Pros and cons with this one. Pro, I’m helping out mankind with vital research that could maybe one day solve the mysteries of the universe (hardly, not with my body anyway) con, I’m being poked and prodded by strangers who are no doubt laughing at my limp dead penis!

Yes, there are options out there; we just need to get more creative with the disposal of our bodies. So, which option am I leaning towards? Well, here’s the thing, I’m the eternal optimist…I really don’t plan on dying!

Until next time,

-Chris

Oliver says 'YOU BETTER NOT PUT ME IN THE BACKYARD PAL!'

“...the sea's only gifts are harsh blows and, occasionally, the chance to feel strong. Now, I don't know much about the sea, but I do know that that's the way it is here. And I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong, to measure yourself at least once, to find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions…”

                                                                                -Primo Levi, Author of ‘Survival in Auschwitz’ (1919-1987)

I like that quote, it’s one of my all time favorites. You might actually recognize it from the 2007 film ‘Into The Wild’. A great little flick if you ever get the chance to see it. The film is an adaption of the 1996 novel of the same name written by Jon Krakauer and is based on the travels of Christopher McCandless.

I’m a 30 year old man and the one part of that quote that resonates with me is the line about how important it is to measure yourself, at least once, to find yourself at least once, in the most ancient of human conditions. A lot of people will understand that, a few will think about it and move on and the rest simply won’t get it.

For many years I believed it meant a physical state, almost like an episode of Bear Grylls’ Man Vs Wild. That at some point we all need to find ourselves, in the wild, discovering who we are. I still do believe that, but I think it also means something deeper, something more ethereal, more like a state of mind or an emotional feeling, that we need to be challenged and measured by a human condition mankind has faced since we evolved to have conscious thought and began to cognize our own mortality. 

When you are faced with this emotion, this state of mind or conscious thought, this is the challenge. This is where you discover who you are. We are all defined by the choices and decisions we make. We are all defined by the way we handle ourselves in times of trouble, in times of doubt. Some of us fail, some of us rise above. Some of us choose to ignore this emotion, to hide, to hope it goes away and resolves itself. Some of us, the few and far between, don’t even see it. It clouds them, hovering over their heads like a storm on the horizon, never subsiding. They perpetually feel lost, like nothing ever goes their way. They blame others or a bad set of circumstances for the state of their affairs. These are the ones who are just at the beginning of their challenge.

I know this because I have been challenged. I have been measured, and in all honesty, I believe I still am. I am not out of the woods yet myself. I still have choices and decisions to make that will define me, which will display my true self. That will show the courage and strength of my own inner light. I am choosing to face this head on, to step up to the plate and discover who I am. For too long I hid behind a mask. I ran from problems, feelings and emotions. It’s only the past two years that I have begun to discover the real me and it’s because of the challenges I have faced and demons I have conquered that have made me who I am today.

I’m not out of the woods yet, but I can certainly start to see the blue skies through the trees that hang over this wayward path I’m walking along. Just a few more steps and the cobblestones will start to be more stable under my feet. My path of overgrown vines and creeping moss will become a straight and narrow path of trimmed and proper edging. Soon enough I will be able to look back a see a dark forest that once engulfed me, that hid the world from me. It will look dark and cold, it will look lonely, but that’s okay, because in front of me is a path that is bright, warm and inviting. What’s most pleasant about this path I’m looking out upon is that it connects with others people’s paths…and that’s what I like most about it. That’s where all the fun is.

Until next time,

-Chris

Oliver says 'I'M WITH YOU EVERY STEP OF THE WAY DAD'

The Truth Is The Truth Hurts, Don’t You Agree?

                -‘Sorry’ Guns’N’Roses

It’s always difficult to tell people the truth, more so, when the truth is going to hurt. Not just hurt, but possibly destroy them. I suppose what it comes down to is people don’t like being made to look fallible. Truth is, nobody is perfect, and we all make mistakes. What would life be like if we all made no mistakes? Where would we be and how would we learn? The fact of the matter is, we need to make these mistakes (By the way, when I say mistake, I don’t mean killing innocent people and then telling the judge ‘Sorry, it was a mistake’....those are the kind of mistakes we should never make)

I can tell you with all honesty, I have made some fucking awful mistakes in my life. Downright horrible ones. I have made decisions and choices that affected others and, in my honest opinion, destroyed lives. It’s hard for me to admit that, it really is. Not a day goes by I’m not filled with regret and remorse for some of the actions I’ve made. One thing is certain though, if I hadn’t made those mistakes, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I would still be that lost child, meandering his way through life, continually making bad choices.

Still, this man today has to live with the choices that child made. He has to take them with him to the grave. That small child doesn’t, he’s gone.

Why am I telling you all this? Why aren’t I ranting on about some asinine and trivial topic like I usually do? Well, I need to tell someone the truth, but not here, not like this. I’ll do it face to face. I know it’s going to hurt and I know it’s going to change their life. I will be called names and I will be branded a liar and an asshole. I guess I am telling you this because I can’t think of anything else right now, except the truth I’m about to lay down on someone.

So many times I’ve used the term ‘Don’t shoot the messenger’... but it’s hard not to. Nobody likes to be told bad news, even if it is told to them with love and compassion, with care and support. I suppose I can understand now why some families opt for the intervention method. It’s harder to aim the cross hairs of anger and discontent in a crowded room. Unfortunately, I don’t have this option; I will be alone with the rage and resentment having nowhere else to go except in my general direction.

I’m leaving this blog short today. I need time to think and sort some stuff out. No funny or quirky end lines, no Oliver comment and no bullshit.

Until next time,

-Chris

Fuck It, Literally...The Celibacy Issue Is Over.

A few blogs back, maybe three or so weeks ago, I proclaimed to the world that I was going to remain celibate for the foreseeable future. I would like to take to the podium and declare it right here and now…I wish to recant that statement.

Already, I can hear the questions burning in your heads ‘Is he recanting now because he wants sex or is he recanting because he already has?’ Well, truth is…I’m not telling. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.

However, all jokes aside, the celibacy stance is over. Back to performing what Shakespeare so eloquently calls it ‘The beast with two backs’ and trust me, that’s exactly what it looks like when I make love. Getting too personal again? Maybe, but you’ll live.

‘But why the sudden change in beliefs, why now?’ Well, to be honest, I’m a virile 30 year old guy, why shouldn’t I be out there getting ‘some’? It seems everyone else is. Everywhere I look people are getting sex, everyone but me. Did I put a wall up that told women not to approach me? Did I ooze monk like abstinence? I think I must have, so it’s time to strip down, wash off this crazy idea of being celibate and start making notches. I figure now is the best time to be doing this, seeing as every woman out there is reading ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ and maybe, just maybe, I’m someone’s Christian Grey!

I will tell you a story about what happened on Friday night however. It’s a story about how NOT to flirt with women. In my defense, I was drunk, I was in a new surrounding and I was being served drinks by a friend behind the bar, whom I felt was watching my every move whilst I was talking to these women (She knows who she is, and she will have to come clean and tell me if she was listening in or not).

You’ll have to excuse the vagueness or the possible inaccuracies of the story, like I said; I believe I was a little inebriated…So, from my best recollections, three women approached the bar. From the conversations they were having it would have appeared they were attending a possible farewell. I’m not too sure, it may have been a hens night or simply just after work drinks, it really serves no purpose in the story as to why they were at this particular bar (which shall remain nameless in the likelihood I choose to return to the quaint little place). Let’s continue…so, for whatever reason, they were there, they ordered five drinks and asked for one to be non-alcoholic. This is what sparked my attention in the women. They wanted the drinks to all look the same but one to be alcohol free, an odd request I thought. Turns out one of their friends outside was slightly drunk and they wanted her to sober up a little, but not offend her (women are much more morally responsible when they drink in groups, the complete opposite to men, if I ask my friend to go to the bar and get me a water, guaranteed he will come back with a double shot vodka sunrise…and he will still call me a pussy for drinking a girly drink). The drinks are being poured, and to be completely honest, I have no idea who started talking to who first (this is where I hope my friend can come in and help). What I do remember next though is asking this girl a really stupid question, a question that at the time, I thought was a kind of pimp and a player question to ask…turns out, it wasn’t. By this point the other two girls have left and the one remaining girl is talking to me at the bar (I can only assume at this very moment, my friend is hiding behind the bar somewhere being all ears). So, in my complete drunken, yet I believe coherent state…I asked her this, and please, do not try this under any circumstances ‘So, you girls have been out for a few hours now, tell me, what has been the funniest or craziest moment of the evening’

Now, in my head, I thought this question would open up a barrage of conversational topics. Turns out, it doesn’t, that question is too hard to ask of an intoxicated twenty something year old young woman. Instead, she fires back without hesitation ‘Nope nothing funny, you tell me something funny’. A question I don’t generally like. Asking for a joke on demand is akin to asking a porn star to cum on request, he probably can do it, but there will need to be some work involved. What did I do? Instead of just telling a funny story about me not liking to pay for things with change (I'll blog about that later), I did the most self absorbed,  pretentious and downright lame act I have done in my thirty years dwelling on this Earth. Listen up, I’ll only say it once, I leaned over and asked her ‘Do you have a smart phone?’ (Some of you know where this is going), she replies ‘Yes’

‘May I have it please?’

This is the part where she probably thought I was going to put my number in her phone, which in hindsight probably would have been the right move, but being typically me, I didn’t. Instead, I opened up her Google browser and Googled the following… wait for it! Just wait for it.

I Googled: blogginwithchris penis

I can hear the ‘Tsk Tsk Tsk’ noises you’re all making right now. Look, truth is, I know that was a rookie mistake, one big, bad mistake. One I will not be making ever again.

I suppose you want to know what her reaction was. Well, if you do happen to Google those fateful words and click on the first result. The blog that actually comes up is the one I discuss losing my virginity. Not quite the conversation starter when meeting a nice young lady, she promptly read the first few paragraphs and very politely excused herself.

Anyway, live and learn as they say. If the young lady in question did happen to save the Google search and is reading right now, please drop me a line, I would be more than willing to hear your side of the inebriated story? Tweet me @thatchrismorris or leave a message on this blog. You can remain anonymous or not, totally up to you. To my friend behind the bar…did you listen in? Was my retelling of the story accurate? Or was it skewed in some way?

Until next time,

-Chris

Oliver says 'SOMEONE TEACH MY DAD HOW TO FLIRT!'