Hey, if they didn't want to get felt up, they shouldn't be wearing such cute little costumes.

(sdimmick) I am so depressed about the current state of halloween. Where the hell are all the kiddies?? We bought 5 bags of candy thinking we live in a safe neighbourhood full of kids and we have a walk-up. But the only groms out there are asshole teenagers blowing up illegal firecrckers and themselves.

Where are the kids?? - back in the good old days we could trick or treat for hours and CHING$ CHING$ go home with pillow cases full of candy and a tonne of cash - (sorry unicef)

I have looked out my front window in anticipation of dressed up ghouls a hundred times - but no-one.

Ernie I absolutely blame this downfall of carefree children trick or treating on YOU!!!

Orange Julius just might have the best hot dogs in vancouver. They steam their buns to make them all soft and beautiful, and the hot dogs themselves are plump, salty, and so bad yet so good for you.

And while having the best mashed potatos in vancouver with Ryan at the templeton (with a cherry coke of course), we watched an old elvis movie with kevin bacon in it. I don't know where they got the time machine, but that was totally kevin bacon.

KISS was only a scary rock band until I heard them sing. Then they were just funny.

Sometimes late at night, before my crew in amsterdam wakes up, I sit here trying to piece together a witty piece of prose to delight my readers and show off how smart I am. Hiding my ego behind self-deprecation, I try to come up with comedic gems to endear a generation of blog readers to me and to addict them to a unique brand of retardedness.

Nights like this though, it's like sitting on the toilet while endlessly constipated and I squeeze until it feels like a vein at the front of my head will rupture ending this horrific sociology experiment. This post here is a fart.

since I don't have a webcam for me to tilt my head and look off into the distance for and no wishlist either, I'll start a weekly 5 list (until I get bored or run out of shitty ideas) to help maintain the illusion that this is your typical blog.

5 things about me:

was once on a shitty community access tv show.

I like matinee movies and empty theatres.

I seem to unintentionally gravitate towards taken women <cough>

was once punched in the mouth for something my friend did

I enjoy staying home.

can't count to five properly.

Somehow conversation last night turned to the holodecks from star trek, which I commented would become most successful as legalized brothels since you could in essence have sex with whomever you wanted to.

So sara posed the inevitable question of "who?".

me.

In yet another attempt to prove that I am smarter than the system, I'm going to try and become a block parent.

The kiddie pool in the front yard full of candy seems to have attracted some unwanted attention.

I'm really aching to find out what games these guys (he's not the first) are playing.

I can usually only play up to an hour or so of anything before I get too bored to continue. Even porn gets boring (german fisting and/or japanese bukkake) long before I hit the 32 hour mark. Sounds like attention deficit disorder could save lives, so you should start drinking if you're pregnant.

I've been thinking about getting a professional massage lately; just rub, no tug. There's something weird about having a stranger touching you in the familiar way that I usually reserve for the boys choir down at the church though.

But two years at a desk job staring at a monitor has started to take it's toll and even rolling into or out of bed causes my back to creak like a rotted wood door on rusted hinges. I've always felt mentally old (not mature), but physically feeling it at 23 sounds bizarre. I can only imagine how my friends with their fucked up backs feel after their various snowboarding or car accidents.

The image of a petite woman walking on my back and massaging pesto (hey, it's oil based) all over me is becoming awfully appealing (to me at least, your results may vary).

Thoughts running through my head currently consist of my love of pesto, good gravy-thick coffee w/ coffeemate instead of cream, how bedsheets are most best fresh out of the laundry and not out of the closet, what kind of movie chuck norris is going to make next, who's girlfriend would I steal given the opportunity, how to milk a cow properly, and why german porn has so much fisting (or so ren says).

It feels like the insides of my head could make for a good tv show at times, not like 'Emergency Room Trauma' on TLC or a sitcom like Herman's head. I'm thinking it'd be one of those horribly stupid reality caught on a shitty camcorder type programs. It'd have to be hosted by ex-fullhouse star John Stamos though, since Dave Coulier and Bob Saget already got to host their own versions of 'America's Stupidest Shitheads'.

On a totally unrelated note, if I were bulimic, rather than stick my fingers down my throat to induce vomitting, I would just finish each meal with a glass of Sunny Delight.

addendum: For fans of indie short films, hotdogboy has some beautifully crafted work. Slack off for 2 minutes and watch jam. Simply brilliant.

fran has new nets.

While I was born right here in vancouver, all good chinkies need to learn the mother tongue and thus I was taught to speak cantonese by my parents and assorted relatives. My cantonese vocabulary isn't great, but I'm relatively free of an non-native accent which has helped me form those meaningful and very important 30 minute relationships with various waiters and waitresses serving me in cash-only chinese restaurants.

My multilingualism seems to amuse the hell out of my white friends when I order my meals entirely in cantonese, but my favourite chinese speaking experience was at my very own doorstep years ago.

I answered the door to find two young white gentlemen in short sleeve shirts and ties with black slacks wearing nametags that identified them as elders, which from what I understand are mormon missionaries. They immediately introduced themselves and began to ask me a few questions about myself which is not weird in the way that peddlers of religion do things, but they were doing this all in cantonese. I struggled at a few points to understand what they were saying and replied in cantonese, as I was a little too stunned to flip the language switch back to english on them. It wasn't until maybe 4 questions and 3 minutes into this that they asked where I was born, at which point I then was able to finally reply in english. "Here in vancouver".

My memory begins to fail me at this point, but I'm pretty sure their reply was "Oh! you speak english" astounded by the man with squinty eyes that spoke the white words effortlessly. Missionaries of any type coming to my door have never moved me an inch closer to god. For the most part, it brings thoughts to my mind that I should test their devotion to god by torturing them until they denounce him entirely. If only I could draw the words "Father! why have you forsaken me?" out of one in a little dungeon underneath my house, I could die a happy man.

edit: It didn't help the shock factor that these two were speaking pretty good cantonese from what I recall. I was used to white police inspectors speaking cantonese with bad pronunciation and broken tempo in old jackie chan movies.

I seem to be in the minority when it comes to favouring remington steele star Pierce Brosnan as my favourite bond. My second fav was roger moore much to the dismay of connery fans, but I generally don't like the pre-brosnan bond flicks all that much anyhow.

I'm looking forward to watching delicious new Bond girl Rosamund Pike as much as I'm looking forward to the standard bond shop wrecking next month. smoo.

Previous favourite bond moments include shooting people in the ass in Goldeneye for N64, as they'd leap up and grab their bleeding cheeks. That's quality game design.

Is it me, or is that stupid jackass in the subway commercials (not jared, but we could include him as well) begging for a cockpunch?

I've got this strange idea that eating nothing but corn dogs for a month would be an interesting if not deadly experiment.

I've just realized that jehovah's witnesses have destroyed my ability to answer my door without peering around the corner of the stairs to see who it is.

If my doorbell rings during the day when I'm not expecting somebody, I dread answering it in case old religious people start handing me watchtower magazines and asking me stupid questions about my opinion on state of the world.

I'm always either too polite or too much of a pussy just to tell them to eat a dick and screw off, so I just try to avoid them now.

I haven't been able to put together a cohesive post in 3 days so you're going to get a breakfast scramble of all the news.

I've just started a one month leave of absence from work (and am the envy of all my coworkers) since they broke my will, so I've got some time to enjoy all the things I miss about high school summers such as hanging out in front of a 7-11 with an 8 litre ultra mega gulp and sleeping in late.

The new banner up there comes to us courtesy of svea at suburbanconsortium whose often smiling baby seems completely unaffected by the bitterness of mommy and daddy's coworkers.

I'll leave you with one last thought:

Because that slutty bitch martha stewart got me all horny for a pie (pecan specifically), I picked up a fresh baked (fresh can be up to a week old I'm told) pumpkin filled critter at urban fare to share with the guys.

Immediately afterward, sang crafted this little man out of some tootsie roll chunks and a lock of ryan's hair, cut with the pie knife still encrusted with pumpkin custard. In all seriousness, looking at it brings me as close to throwing up as I can remember.

The return to work was harder than I expected. Fifteen minutes in, it felt like someone had put a pickaxe through my chest leaving a hideous wound oozing any will or motivation I had in me out onto my keyboard.

The honeymoon with my job seems well over, and it won't even put on some slutty clothes and role play with me anymore. It seems like I just sit at my desk and jerk off while it pretends to be asleep.

The end to this week long vacation was spent wiping the sleep out of my eyes at 4:30am, desperately trying to squeeze in a few more pages of Tony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential. Even more than A Cook's Tour, this book left me spellbound, wrapped up in this ex-junkie chef's lurid kitchen tales of ball fondling, rectal molestation, bride fucking, drug abuse and disfigured hands.

Quite worth the read even if you're not into those particular topics.

In an ongoing effort to improve this site and let you get to know me better, I've now added the official inanimate.ca faq. I don't doubt for a second that this will have all the answers you've been seeking.

I've been resisting attempts by others to hook me up with single girls they know. For some inexplicable reason, I've got this haunting feeling that they must be single for a good reason.

Why would these supposedly good looking ladies be resorting to match making with complete strangers? Could they be stupid? boring? hideously shallow? still in posession of a penis? Probably none of these. I think I'm just being excessively paranoid.

If there must be a good reason for all those girls being single, the 9 posts below this one are probably mine.

Over that veggie dinner with ryan and his wife, the story of ryan's sleepy balls (last heard loudly not many weeks ago late at night in a burger king restaurant with a group of four girls sitting nearby) was revisited.

It seems his 100% cotton briefs had shrunk enough in the wash that they had begun constricting ryan's scrote, causing his balls to fall asleep while he rode the bus (at least, as I understood it from his drunken tale). Despite us all hoping that ryan would never produce offspring (lest it be half as loud or crazy as he while drunk), we can definitely sympathize with the man's plight.

Since the last telling of the sleepy balls tale (at said BK) he has now switched to boxers and his balls are now wide awake, much to our horror.

Just came back from dinner with Ryan and his wife at the Buddhist vegetarian restaurant in chinatown.

It's a bit odd why I go because unlike Ryan and his wife, I eat meat. I love meat. I love meat more than my own kids (well I don't have kids, but if I did I still wouldn't love them as much as I love meat).

Most of the better dishes were deep fried (probably in real lard if irony serves us correctly), so on the scale of healthy meals this was ranking pretty low. The fried mushrooms left their paper doily soaking in grease as if the fonz had just run it through his hair, but they tasted fantastic as did the taro rolls served with them.

The sweet and sour chicken balls (the menu resembles that of a mall food fair manchu wok more than a traditional chinese restaurant) had suprisingly realistic chicken ball texture that would be closer to a Fabio 'I can't believe it's not' commercial than any other dish. It was a chicken ball though, so real chicken texture wasn't really the goal from the get go I don't think.

I have a penchant for tech toys and what I'm really excited about are wearable computers.

I've been looking for a new way to announce to the world that I'm a complete fucking knob.

Turn on your speakers or put your headphones on kids, it's time to visit the best websites with voice greetings evar!

Canadians will likely be more familiar with the suckage known as B4-4. Their greeting sucks only slightly less than their music or hair. Chuck Norris would like to personally welcome you to his official website. Melanie Griffith not only greets you, but guides you around her site. She wouldn't have time to do this if someone would give her a paying gig again.

Last but not least, German singing sensation David Hasselhoff will not only greet you, but assault you with an animated gif of the the Knight Industries Two Thousand (K.I.T.T.) lightbar.

Times are changing, and theres never been a better time to own a bulletproof vest.

For our american visitors from the eastern seaboard, I'd recommend going with at least a level 3 vest due to the ammunition the mystery sniper is currently using. For an evening out on the town, a Level 3a undergarment vest will offer you security without constricting you out on the dance floor.

While trying to relate to someone where I live, the alpen club or even the cross section of 33rd and victoria doesn't always help, but when I mention I'm up the street from the Pho Bich Nga, everyone seems to know where that is.

Some people have asked how I keep up this constant stream on insanity, averaging at least one post a day. Well, usually just after midnight a small gnome wearing brown corduroy pants and a tweed jacket will come out of this odd little hole in my closet, smoke copius amounts of opium, and tell me tales until I fall asleep. In the morning, I find his naked inebriated form at the end of my bed and chain him to my desk and demand that he write a few notes so that I have fresh content for this blog. If other bloggers tell you that nothing like this happens to them, they're lying.

In another step in trying to make people feel uncomfortable, I'm going to get a pair of these and stare at strangers on the bus.

An afternoon of wine bottling, wine drinking, pho, and asian dvd shopping left me walking home behind a young woman obviously having difficulties with her bags of groceries as she had to put them down repeatedly.

As I passed I asked simply and plainly "Would you like a hand with those?". The quick and nervous answer of "no thanks" was accompanied by a look that was two steps away from accusing me of planning to find out where she lived, tie her up and molest her.

Chivalry is dead due largely in part to paranoia. I'll keep my hands planted deep in my pockets from now on and keep my yap shut.

I made the rookie mistake of touching my eyelid after chopping chillis while preparing lunch and now my eye feels like the crotch of a careless american on a southeast asian sex tour.

Made a night of the film fest once again and saw a Chinese Odyssey 2002 and despite it being nothing like I anticipated, I loved it. A very chinese romantic comedy with a charismatic, charming cast and a great sense of humor.

Knowing the film fest, I've seen my allotment of good movies now (2) and the next one I choose, no matter how carefully will likely suck. Miyazaki's Spirited Away is playing at Tinseltown as well as 8 Women with g-milf catherine deneuve and milf-2x emmanuelle beart (most of the cast are beautiful french women) which should help make for a nice week off.

I'm thinking I should volunteer with an organization like Big Brothers to help teach kids some of the grim realities of life.

Like how some screening processes just can't catch every crazy bastard that volunteers.

I had crab for dinner tonight; the chinese affair cooked with onions, garlic, leeks, shallots, ginger and every other odd looking item you'd expect to find in a chinese kitchen. The result? A mindblowing feast of flavors that puts to shame the boiled dungeness you'd find at Red Lobster or similar north american seafood shacks.

The downside of this particular dining experience (aside from ari's points) is the stench left on your hands afterwards. A haunting reminder of your culinary sins that repeated washings with raspberry handsoap will only mask for short periods of time. My fingers smell as if I had just rammed them up the ass of a giant crab not unlike the large metal one outside the local planetarium.

Despite previous planning that had called for the exclusion of vegetarians and picky eaters from our next visit to raku, ryan was among our little dinner party of four inside the loud, dark but thorougly fun restaurant.

The meal kicked off with tuna sashimi shavings peppered with green onions and strips of nori; amazingly fresh, sweet and delicate like how you had imagined the lips of the girl who got away. The grilled bacon wrapped asparagus met as if the asparagus were harry and the bacon sally. Accordingly, I mentally re-enacted meg ryan's restaurant orgasm scene as this perfect pairing rolled around in my entranced mouth.

We ended up sitting outside of mondo gelato on robson afterwards, where I was demonstrating to sang and sara my ability to deep throat a rounded vanilla-flecked tower of creamy goodness (yes, gelato) when my eyes rose to witness a mixed look of horror and disgust on a girl's face as if she had just seen me devour the head of a cute little kitten. I don't think she cared that my teeth barely scraped the gelato dome.

Maybe I'm a morbid bastard, but my parents buying burial plots had me thinking of my own demise (likely to be at the hands of an angry mob of village people carrying torches) and how I wanna be dead (not die, but be dead).

While I find burial to be a disturbing waste of real estate, the idea of being buried in a suit bothers me even more. Who wants to spend eternity in the afterlife reliving those hours after your high school grad when you forgot to bring a change of clothes to the party? I want to be dead wearing my simples, a pair of gap pants (fuck off, they're comfy and I'm too vain to wear sweatpants in hell), and a t-shirt sporting an inappropriate for the afterlife screen print.

Alongside my dead ass in the big easy-bake, I want a package of gourmet bacon tucked under one arm and one of my domos under the other. The remaining domo should be given to a small child, as I plan for my spirit to return to it so I can terrorize the new owner as an angry looking lump of shit.

Viral marketing works, even when completely unintentional.

Our bellies are now full and our hands stink of onions, flamebroiled meat and mayo. Of course, we had a knuckle pie with that.

It's a quarter past midnight on the number 20 home, a bus I tend to avoid for the fact that it currently smells of BO and the runny burrito some poor bastard just spilled all over himself. The pigeons are lined up on powerlines and the corner where not more than a week ago I called out my dan chisholm inspired "whussup ladies" to two stumbling and inebriated whores sits empty.

Old friends catch up as the driver calls out the stops like a tour guide unaware of the less than picturesque scenery. The shakes and rattles of the moving bus highlight the rustiness of my writing hand and thoughts slip through my fingers and sleep deprived brain. The orientation of my new black notebook doesn't help and I hope that I'll be able to decipher my chicken scratch when I get home (it seems I can).

The Supper Club on commercial drive seems oddly out of place; tuxedo black and white defying history and its surroundings. The urban hippies and squeegee kids are poor substitutes for the pearls and tailed black coats that belong with it, swaying with the scratchy brass band playing from old vinyl.

Back home in my ikea chair I'm left wondering what metaphor of life my attraction to the tough feminine kendo girls in Volcano High represents. Maybe no metaphor at all, just a telltale sign of my appreciation for strong feminine creatures who could pummel me senseless with a shinai. Interpret that how you will.

Since this site design has been stagnant (but brilliantly usable at the same time) for a while, I'm taking submissions for new images to replace the humping AT-ATs done by the brilliant surrealist, famewhore.

Guidelines:

• High quality images are good, as I'm a 'save for web' master.
• Feel free to put your name in it (don't be a whore about it though), your banner will link to your site for the time it's up.
• Don't make it shitty. I don't like shitty. I'll probably still put it up and invite people to laugh at your shittiness because I am mean.
• It needs to be 770 pixels wide, 130 pixels tall.
• Make it funny. Funny stuff makes tracy shoot coffee out of her nose.
• Stupid is funny.

email your submissions to sodomy@inanimate.ca.