It seems I've got a hot date this weekend with a chicken stuffed in a duck stuffed in a turkey stuffed in an emu.

If I'm not being bullshitted, you better believe I'm going to have pics.

Puyallup, here I come.

It being christina's birthday and julie's return to vancouver, friday became a drunken blur but included highlights such as:

• telling the cabbie his hybrid car was from the future
• teaching the cabbie how to swear in cantonese and even getting him to swear at me as I got out of the cab
• getting pwn3d at drinking by a slight korean girl who I must outweigh by at least 40lbs
• telling anne I was going to teach her brother everything I knew about being awesome and hearing the reply of "nooooooo!!!!!! don't!!!"
• replying to a txt msg with "G:-;o super drunk" which wasn't even close to saying anything useful
• forgetting how to speak a known language while on the phone
• puking in an alley
• puking while talking on the phone
• puking sideways repeatedly on the street while moving at a full drunken stumble
• puking in the trash can of a skytrain station two stops before my own
• puking in my mouth on the stairs of a skytrain station and holding it there til I hit the street

It seems the state of my intoxication was so evident over the phone that I was excused for not meeting up with some friends after dinner. Saturday morning though, I woke up in my own bed and all was well again with the world.

to do list:

While Hitler's Cross seems like a fresh idea, 10 years ago I had already envisioned a modern chinese restaurant called "Mao Say Dine" that would be the catalyst for a culinary revolution.

Little red menus, iron rice bowls and a dinner combo called The Gang of Four surely would offset the lack of art and music featured in the restaurant.

random

him: oh shit! that's john candy.
me: ok, 1. john candy is dead. 2. that's a woman. When I'm old and grey, looking back over my life with the love of my life sitting next to me, I hope she'll be able to say something to me like "remember the time you shat yourself on tv while trying to hook up with flava flav?"

For a better part of the almost 6 years that I've worked at my current location, I've ordered food from the chinese take-away down the street (ok, i said take-away only because it's cute in a british way. It's also kinda gay sounding but I'm totally cool with that) and every time I do, I've been asked to spell my name for the woman on the other end of the phone without exception. I can be calling for the fourth time in a week (holy shit is that ever a gross thought) and she'll still ask me to spell my name for her.

While my name isn't ultra common, it's also not particularly difficult to spell but perhaps that's only for north american audiences familiar with sesame street. Today when calling to order a lunch I could eat at my desk, I was surprised to hear an unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line. This was no middle aged chinese lady unacquainted with Aloysius Snuffleupagus and the yoda impressionist known as grover, but a younger guy. A faint glimpse of hope existed for a moment until he too asked me to spell my name.

10 minutes later as I picked up my styrofoam box of rice, I looked on the receipt and to my wonderment saw my name spelt out as "Urnie". I'm thinking now I need an easier to spell name. Bismarkee is in the lead.

Put to the challenge by some new friends, I bought a taquito from 7-11 asking specifically for the least gross flavored one and also asked the employee behind the counter "You ever seen someone put chilli and cheese on one of these?". His answer of "no sir" only egged me on and I pumped that nasty shit all over my fake terrible mexican food and proceeded to eat that disgusting roll of pseudo mexican shit.

I urged my companions to "dip it in my chilli" (which they did) and managed to finish said taquito without vomitting.

I'm really quite proud of myself.

Things are a bit dry on this end of things but I did write a review of toilet paper for sutori.com. Not because I really care about the toilet paper, but because I got to use the terms "poo-wipes", "butt cleaning magic" and "ass-debris" for an unsuspecting audience.

With the assembly of my new weber Q, I have finally left the realm of boyhood and become a man.

*this grill was brought to you by the letters ryan and shannon who are awesome.

Despite readily admitting to all whom I had invited that the richmond night market consisted primarily of chinese merchants peddling useless crap, I picked rodrigo up and we made our way down to the night market grounds where we proceeded to eat for two hours before finally exploring the many rows of cheap shit made in china.

Though I had already eaten dinner beforehand, the lure of fair food was hard to resist so the two of us started dropping coin on sugar cane, coconut, and fruit juices, dumplings, noodles, various meat sticks, fried whole fish, spring rolls, calamari, korean sushi, mini donuts, and takoyaki which lead to 8 minutes of trying to politely decline giving my phone number to the girl behind the stand while waiting for my food.

Only minutes after escaping with our octopus balls in hand, two girls rushed up asking to have their picture taken with me while eating said balls. While I was confused as to why complete strangers might find this amusing, I rolled with it and even gave them a second photo op by shoving one of the octopus balls into one of their mouths. That she ate it without even knowing what it or who I was showed great (and misplaced) faith in humanity.

After eating a sickening amount of food and managing to wash my hands with actual running water (2006 is a good year for this fair), we inspected all the cheap crap up for sale. I failed in my mission to find a $5 tshirt worth wearing to work on tuesday, but I did find a laser pointer to drive my cat crazy with and we both got a turn sitting on the hula chair which was just about as dumb an item as I've seen for sale.

While the night market is full of junky crap, it's still a good time for those willing to laugh at junky crap rather than being disappointed by it. Besides, just the fresh mini donuts are already worth the trip.

Despite considering myself a very open minded person, it was with some surprise when I realized what prejudices still lay within me while at the css/diplo show on friday.

I didn't realize until faced with them that ingrained within me were still double standards that even with rational thought, I still believed in. Only an arms length away from me at this gay night club were two guys dancing on top of large boxes, shirtless and sweaty.

Now this is when intolerance reared its head and said to me in no uncertain terms "If these guys are gay, then this is fabulous and awesome, but if these two are hetero, this is completely unacceptable behavior and they need to put their shirts back on".

Heading into the CSS/Diplo show at celebrities last night, I mentioned to the fine group of ladies that I was accompanied by that I expected to get shitfaced because my ability to dance is completely fueled by alcohol.

I asked that they try to make sure I didn't go home with a dude, since I hadn't given up on women just yet but if I seemed really insistent, to at least make sure that dude was really fucking hot.

Seeing as I woke up alone, I'd call it a draw.

Due to recent interest from a new audience, a classic now goes web 2.0.

It has been suggested to me on occasion that I should write a book or at the very least compile my years of blogging into a paperback that can be held together with a red rubberband as it travels around the world stuffed into the corners of a backpack to remind its owner how stupid the internet really is.

The problem it seems is that I don't consider myself a writer. I am at best, a humorist like dave barry but more accessible for this MTV generation raised on rapid film edits and ytmnd.com. I am also paid much less for my efforts and people who enjoy my work are unlikely to admit it publicly as if admitting to being amused by such a juvenile jackass was any worse than being seen buying a Black Eyed Peas or Maroon5 album.

I write it seems, because the ego needs feeding. I write because laughing to myself isn't nearly enough. I write because it's better than crying while wearing clown makeup. Now that's just a scary thought.