Shut your face - Justin Trudeau is ridiculously good looking and I'll let him have a box-social with me any day.
Big S
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
The good, the bad and the ugly...of peanuts.
Peanuts have their ups and downs. On the one hand, they're tasty, travel-sized and hit people just hard enough to hurt. On the other hand, they are nothing without the words "-butter and jelly" after them, they make for the most annoying packing material in the world and they refer, in the right context, to a distinct lack of something. I'm annoyed at that last one right now.
So, anywho, I should probably explain my annoyance. I, being awesome and bearded, decided that if I had to move back to Alberta for the summer, I better make a good show of it and try to be productive and have a good time. So far, epic fail on both fronts. Two days back, and I was miserable. But, in keeping with the aforementioned mantra, I ran across something mildly interesting/informative: the visit of a high-profile-yet-largely-useless Liberal MP, a Mr. Justin Trudeau.
Now, I think we all know Justin as the son of the late Pierre Elliot Trudeau, head honcho of our frozen wasteland circa before I was born. That's about it. He's a pretty face with a fine pedigree who's being groomed for the leadership of the liberal party, circa after I'm dead. He has done just about nothing of note beyond that. And he's in Alberta. Blue, blue Alberta.
So, I go to this box-social, organized by one of my favorite teachers from high school, without any kind of agenda beyond watching and listening. And apparently having old women mistake me for the aforementioned-19-years-older-than-I-am-Trudeau. But, given my journalismness, I bring my notebook, camera and tape recorder, and proceed to nail down about 20 minutes of tape, some fun quotes and some decent pictures just for shits and giggles. To the point that, as the guy in the room with the scruffy beard, messy hair, big camera and lack of any discernable fashion sense, I was asked by Trudeau's PR guy to fire him some pictures of the event and a link to the story I was writing for my publication (which he evidently didn't know wasn't real). Cool.
So I go into the Advocate to talk internship that same day, all gung-ho to try to snag a paid position, and they tell me that I might not even have an unpaid internship. Shit. So that's up in the air, but here's the part that you read the last bagillion paragraphs for: the Advocate, the big Central Alberta newspaper, didn't have anyone at that event. My crappy hometown newspaper, the Lacombe Globe, was going to scoop them. So I pitched my story to them, was given 400 words to work with, and hammered out a pretty solid story. (http://www.albertalocalnews.com/reddeeradvocate/news/local/Justin_Trudeau_comes_to_visit_43791677.html)
(Just cause I know you're curious)
For which they paid me peanuts.
WARNING: THE FORTHCOMING PARAGRAPHS WILL CONTAIN PROFANE LANGUAGE, ADULT THEMES AND NUDITY. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
7.5 cents per word. OH YES, 7.5. I feel impressed. Not like I saved them from being scooped in a highly embarrassing manner. Not like they had just told me that the one bright spot of my summer may go and disappear. NOT LIKE THEY PAID ME LESS THAN A QUARTER OF WHAT A STAFF WRITER WOULD HAVE GOTTEN FOR THE SAME STORY AND PICTURE! FuckShitDamnCuntMotherFuckerCockSuckerAssWhoreSlutBitch. Those assholes paid me fuck all for this shit, and hit me in the one place that actually hurts; my professionalism. I'm damn good at what I do, and I begrudgingly came home for them to apparently step all over me. Ass-clowns.
So, I officially hate peanuts. Until further notice, I will be eating J sandwiches, no PB involved. I will throw popcorn at people during sporting events. And I will probably continue to work for very little in order to scrape together enough bylines that I never have to come back to this shithole again. God I love summertime.
So, anywho, I should probably explain my annoyance. I, being awesome and bearded, decided that if I had to move back to Alberta for the summer, I better make a good show of it and try to be productive and have a good time. So far, epic fail on both fronts. Two days back, and I was miserable. But, in keeping with the aforementioned mantra, I ran across something mildly interesting/informative: the visit of a high-profile-yet-largely-useless Liberal MP, a Mr. Justin Trudeau.
Now, I think we all know Justin as the son of the late Pierre Elliot Trudeau, head honcho of our frozen wasteland circa before I was born. That's about it. He's a pretty face with a fine pedigree who's being groomed for the leadership of the liberal party, circa after I'm dead. He has done just about nothing of note beyond that. And he's in Alberta. Blue, blue Alberta.
So, I go to this box-social, organized by one of my favorite teachers from high school, without any kind of agenda beyond watching and listening. And apparently having old women mistake me for the aforementioned-19-years-older-than-I-am-Trudeau. But, given my journalismness, I bring my notebook, camera and tape recorder, and proceed to nail down about 20 minutes of tape, some fun quotes and some decent pictures just for shits and giggles. To the point that, as the guy in the room with the scruffy beard, messy hair, big camera and lack of any discernable fashion sense, I was asked by Trudeau's PR guy to fire him some pictures of the event and a link to the story I was writing for my publication (which he evidently didn't know wasn't real). Cool.
So I go into the Advocate to talk internship that same day, all gung-ho to try to snag a paid position, and they tell me that I might not even have an unpaid internship. Shit. So that's up in the air, but here's the part that you read the last bagillion paragraphs for: the Advocate, the big Central Alberta newspaper, didn't have anyone at that event. My crappy hometown newspaper, the Lacombe Globe, was going to scoop them. So I pitched my story to them, was given 400 words to work with, and hammered out a pretty solid story. (http://www.albertalocalnews.com/reddeeradvocate/news/local/Justin_Trudeau_comes_to_visit_43791677.html)
(Just cause I know you're curious)
For which they paid me peanuts.
WARNING: THE FORTHCOMING PARAGRAPHS WILL CONTAIN PROFANE LANGUAGE, ADULT THEMES AND NUDITY. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
7.5 cents per word. OH YES, 7.5. I feel impressed. Not like I saved them from being scooped in a highly embarrassing manner. Not like they had just told me that the one bright spot of my summer may go and disappear. NOT LIKE THEY PAID ME LESS THAN A QUARTER OF WHAT A STAFF WRITER WOULD HAVE GOTTEN FOR THE SAME STORY AND PICTURE! FuckShitDamnCuntMotherFuckerCockSuckerAssWhoreSlutBitch. Those assholes paid me fuck all for this shit, and hit me in the one place that actually hurts; my professionalism. I'm damn good at what I do, and I begrudgingly came home for them to apparently step all over me. Ass-clowns.
So, I officially hate peanuts. Until further notice, I will be eating J sandwiches, no PB involved. I will throw popcorn at people during sporting events. And I will probably continue to work for very little in order to scrape together enough bylines that I never have to come back to this shithole again. God I love summertime.
Van
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Was it the chipotle? Oh Christ, it was the chipotle.
I need to see a doctor.
Lately, I've been feeling really sick. I've noticed a trend that when I watch a television special about a certain illness, I immediately realize I'm suffering from it and then can no longer function, but I'm sure that can be a coincidence. Obviously there's something wrong with me. I've got everything. I've got absolutely everything.
I've got high blood pressure, low blood sugar and average intelligence. I'm diabetic, hypoglycemic, neurotic with morning sickness. I have an enlarged heart, a swelling brain, tapeworms, I may be having conjoined twins and I think a tick has laid eggs in my lady parts. I have acid reflux causing me to eat to push the acid down so now I'm overweight and suffering from back pain and arthritis because of it. And I have cancer. Everywhere. Every single part of my body has cancer. Skin, liver, brain, bone, breast, leg, thigh, elbow, prostate.
The other night, I watched a special on the Discovery Channel (which should frankly be renamed "I Hope You're Not Eating Right Now") about polio.
And after the half-hour when I turned the television off and put the remote down, I could not walk.
So now there's a new flu coming out, similarly to the way a new High School Musical comes out every time you think it's safe to leave the house, and panic arises. Confirmed cases have popped up in Canada, and reports are coming out that we should be bracing ourselves from more severe, perhaps fatal cases of the new flu strain. Naturally, it comes from Mexico, because what else do the Mexicans do than steal our jobs, refuse to shower and make delicious, delicious salsas?!?!?!?!?!
Well, they kill us, apparently.
The symptoms are somewhat clear: chills, fever, exhaustion. It treats you like any other flu would.
Okay, so I for sure have this Mexican-Jerk flu.
I was walking outside today in the rain and I was freezing. I was shivering and sweating and it was completely contradictory, the way I'm sure a Mexican gypsy would have it. But how does the flu usually transfer? Touching? Touching something that the other person has touched before? This is like being in elementary school and not being allowed to eat peanut butter at all because some other kid would die if you touched them after eating it in the prior 24 hours. Honestly, if your child can't touch someone that has touched peanuts, your kid does not deserve to make it.
I digress: lets focus on my impending doom.
I bet this is going to turn in all the other epidemics that broke in the last 10 years in North America like SARS and Bird Flu and oh, uh, I guess that's the big two and how they were totally legitimate fears that the media didn't play up at all for the sake of fear mongering and that millions upon millions of people did in fact die and we all needed to be quarantined and it was exactly like 28 Days Later or maybe I'm taking about the sequel but ultimately the panic and precautions or lack thereof taken because it actually was nothing weren't at all gratuitous and profoundly dumb.
Yeah, this is going to be exactly like that.
I'm FUCKED.
Lately, I've been feeling really sick. I've noticed a trend that when I watch a television special about a certain illness, I immediately realize I'm suffering from it and then can no longer function, but I'm sure that can be a coincidence. Obviously there's something wrong with me. I've got everything. I've got absolutely everything.
I've got high blood pressure, low blood sugar and average intelligence. I'm diabetic, hypoglycemic, neurotic with morning sickness. I have an enlarged heart, a swelling brain, tapeworms, I may be having conjoined twins and I think a tick has laid eggs in my lady parts. I have acid reflux causing me to eat to push the acid down so now I'm overweight and suffering from back pain and arthritis because of it. And I have cancer. Everywhere. Every single part of my body has cancer. Skin, liver, brain, bone, breast, leg, thigh, elbow, prostate.
The other night, I watched a special on the Discovery Channel (which should frankly be renamed "I Hope You're Not Eating Right Now") about polio.
And after the half-hour when I turned the television off and put the remote down, I could not walk.
So now there's a new flu coming out, similarly to the way a new High School Musical comes out every time you think it's safe to leave the house, and panic arises. Confirmed cases have popped up in Canada, and reports are coming out that we should be bracing ourselves from more severe, perhaps fatal cases of the new flu strain. Naturally, it comes from Mexico, because what else do the Mexicans do than steal our jobs, refuse to shower and make delicious, delicious salsas?!?!?!?!?!
Well, they kill us, apparently.
The symptoms are somewhat clear: chills, fever, exhaustion. It treats you like any other flu would.
Okay, so I for sure have this Mexican-Jerk flu.
I was walking outside today in the rain and I was freezing. I was shivering and sweating and it was completely contradictory, the way I'm sure a Mexican gypsy would have it. But how does the flu usually transfer? Touching? Touching something that the other person has touched before? This is like being in elementary school and not being allowed to eat peanut butter at all because some other kid would die if you touched them after eating it in the prior 24 hours. Honestly, if your child can't touch someone that has touched peanuts, your kid does not deserve to make it.
I digress: lets focus on my impending doom.
I bet this is going to turn in all the other epidemics that broke in the last 10 years in North America like SARS and Bird Flu and oh, uh, I guess that's the big two and how they were totally legitimate fears that the media didn't play up at all for the sake of fear mongering and that millions upon millions of people did in fact die and we all needed to be quarantined and it was exactly like 28 Days Later or maybe I'm taking about the sequel but ultimately the panic and precautions or lack thereof taken because it actually was nothing weren't at all gratuitous and profoundly dumb.
Yeah, this is going to be exactly like that.
I'm FUCKED.
Big S
Monday, April 20, 2009
Let me tell you about how profoundly miserable I am as a person.
It's a somewhat frequent sight in particular Journalism classes at Toronto's Ryerson University. Two surly individuals are sitting in the back row, passing notes or whispering to each other. What kind of information are they trading? Are they quiet contemplations between close friends? Are they private secrets that are divulged only to each other? Are they romantic thoughts, perhaps the hushed nothings between delicate lovers?
Oh, god no.
Rather, they are the harsh, jagged, and cruel judgments on others in the classroom, the terrible things that happen to terrible people like them, and everything we think is wrong in the world, in spite of the fact that we probably deserve it, both collectively and respectively.
So what better than taking these childish and unkind acts of self-deprecation and outward loathing to a global stage?
Probably a lot of things, but I think we're missing the point here.
To repeat ourselves: greetings. I am Scaachi "Big S" Koul and my counterpart on this blog is Ian "Van Metro" Vandaelle, and we're doing our best to embrace pessimism through this new-fangled internets. We are currently first-year journalism students that have somehow maintained a kind of jaded nature reserved for war criminals and the repetatively jilted.
Our blog isn't much. Effectively it's the rantings of two people that hate everything. Literally. Name it and at least one of us hates it.
Birds.
They terrify me.
Shemales.
Well, Van tolerates them, but I don't thnk they're his favorite.
So come on in, take off your coat, have a cup of coffee, stay awhile. We guarantee that we'll make your life just a little bit worse with each post. It's what we do.
Kindest regards,
Big S and Little Van.
Oh, god no.
Rather, they are the harsh, jagged, and cruel judgments on others in the classroom, the terrible things that happen to terrible people like them, and everything we think is wrong in the world, in spite of the fact that we probably deserve it, both collectively and respectively.
So what better than taking these childish and unkind acts of self-deprecation and outward loathing to a global stage?
Probably a lot of things, but I think we're missing the point here.
To repeat ourselves: greetings. I am Scaachi "Big S" Koul and my counterpart on this blog is Ian "Van Metro" Vandaelle, and we're doing our best to embrace pessimism through this new-fangled internets. We are currently first-year journalism students that have somehow maintained a kind of jaded nature reserved for war criminals and the repetatively jilted.
Our blog isn't much. Effectively it's the rantings of two people that hate everything. Literally. Name it and at least one of us hates it.
Birds.
They terrify me.
Shemales.
Well, Van tolerates them, but I don't thnk they're his favorite.
So come on in, take off your coat, have a cup of coffee, stay awhile. We guarantee that we'll make your life just a little bit worse with each post. It's what we do.
Kindest regards,
Big S and Little Van.
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