Wednesday 5 March 2014


After five years of tension-filled marriage, Kevin and Gail had reached an impasse.

"You don't help enough around the house," she said.

"I do the laundry."

"You start the goddamned laundry. Then you don't move it to the dryer and all the clothes end up smelling musty."

"Well you never shovel the driveway."

She laughed. "We pay a service to shovel the driveway."

"Because you never shoveled."

"Neither did you."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "So, what, we're going to get a divorce over the fucking driveway?"

"Over a hell of a lot more than the driveway."

"You want the lawyers to write 'shoveling' as the grounds for divorce?"

"No, I was thinking adultery."

"I've told you a million times, I didn't sleep with Kate."

"Right. You both had to work late all those times until two in the morning."

"Yeah. We did."

"You're a plumber. Why would your secretary have to work late?"

"Do you expect my clients to float up to their eyeballs in their own shit for hours, because you don't trust me?"

"Oh, please. Give it a fucking rest. I caught you. End of story."

"So that's it?"

"That's it."

"We're done?"

She nodded. "Done like dinner."

He pointed at the front door. "Well, sweetheart, don't let the door hit your ass on the way out."

"Ha!" She spit-laughed in his face. "You think I'm going to leave?"


"Over my dead body."

"Well, I know a guy..."

Wednesday 16 January 2013


For the fourth consecutive evening, Bess tried to explain the difference between Dub-step and EM to her moron-boyfriend during another get-to-the-club-on-the-subway ride.

"It's all about the wub," she said.


"Yes. Listen to this track."

She put one of her earbuds in his ear, one in her own, and played the Skrillex track Bangarang again. "Now wait for the drop and...wub! Get it?"

He scratched his head. "Sorta. But the Deadmau5 song had a drop too, so I don't get how it's different."

She sighed so loudly that her glasses fogged up. The chubby dude standing nearby, his belly jiggling as they rounded a corner in the tunnel stared at the two of them.

"Fine," said Bess. "We'll listen to Some Chords. Again

"There!" He pointed at the earbud as though Deadmou5 himself might materialize in their subway car. "There's a total wub-wub-wub right...there!" He pointed again.

"True," she said. "But the wubs are few and far between. Most of the build is synths. Get it?"

"But they both have wubs, for crying out loud. Your argument is ridiculous."

"Skrillex has more!

Now everyone on the subway car was staring at them.

"Let's just get to the club," he said, handing her back her earbud, and putting his own into his ears.

"Fine," said Bess.



Thursday 20 December 2012


When Cornell started using Hola as his greeting, the blame landed on the shoulders of his attention-grabbing hottie girlfriend.

She was Spanish, probably Mexican, although none of us really gave a crap. All we wanted was for the old Cornell to resurface.

Hola? Seriously?

Dude, we know you love her, and she's probably awesome in bed (what with those enormous jugs and all), but come on man.

First of all, we live in Canada, for crying out loud. This isn't Mexico or the US of freaking A. We don't like tacos and we don't drive cars that bounce and we sure as shooting don't say Hola! when we say hello.

We say hello, or hi, or hey, or 'sup, or dude, or even bro (although I personally think that one's a little over the top).

Not Hola!

Never freaking Hola!


And another thing.

The next time you decide to bring your hottie to poker night, there's going to be some serious push-back. I don't care if she makes the best guacamole on the planet, or if she can crap diamonds. The chicks are not welcome at poker.

No exceptions.

Saturday 3 November 2012


Thanks for the word, Sheri Lane.

The bastard put the sour drops in my coffee again. Four, from the horrific taste, but there was no way I was giving him the satisfaction to vomit.

I swallowed that whole fucking coffee, one disgusting gulp at a time, and slammed the empty mug down on the counter.

"Have a nice day," said Bob.

"Fuck you," I said.

That got his attention, and I knew he'd won this round. Not much I could do about it now, but it was my turn to cook dinner.

I would definitely pick up some manure on the way home from the mill. Charlie's was best. Goat shit beats cow or pig or sheep shit any day.

As I threw on my jacket and scarf, I caught Bob picking his nose. There was no wipe--not on the table or the chair, or even his pants.

Yep, he was saving it.

Tomorrow's coffee was really going to suck balls.

Wednesday 29 August 2012


The fluffy garubas hated the wizard that lived at the top of the hill. He would pick all of the mushrooms right before they were ripe, he would steal the occasional spig from the enclosure, and he would never, ever invite a single garuba into his home on feasting day.

Such rudeness.

One not-so-fluffy garuba by the name of Zoink decided that he would approach the wizard on a particularly gloomy Wugday. What else was a garuba to do when the rain was falling, the spigs were hibernating, and the flazors roamed the skies in search of fluffy snacks?

Zoink stepped carefully along the muddy trail, always keeping his brown hood up to conceal his blue hair from watching flazor eyes. Having recently endured an unfortunate case of hoy-lice, his fur had been shaven so close to the roots that he now itched from three-day stubble.

Doing his best to keep his mind off the scratching, Zoink weaved his way past an over-ripened prick-flig bush and found himself smack dab in front of the wizard's home.

The cave had been hollowed into soft sandstone and above the entrance the wizard (or one of his ancestors) and scribbled the phrase, "Tiko Be'Hain" which loosely translated into garuba meant "Buzz off you hoy-lice infested asses."

"Great," said Zoink aloud, "Maybe I should just go straight home."

"You most certainly should," came a voice from the dark confines of the cave.

But being the impudent garuba that he was, Zoink ran his paw through his stubble-length chest fur, huffed a few times in the manner that would send spigs scattering in fear, and entered the cave.

Tuesday 22 May 2012


In honour of my contest on my LJ blog, I give you my use of "habit" in a word-a-day entry.


Jarina had the habit of biting her lip whenever Cole stood in her line of sight. He was so dreamily-awesome, with his strong features, clear skin, and that kind-of-but-not-quite beard. The boy was the prime example of swoonerific-yummy-goodness.

On this particular Tuesday, Jarina had spotted Cole walking outside after lunch. With twenty minutes left before the bell, she hurried to the nearest girls' washroom and checked out her hot-factor.

Hair- she quickly re-braided the long plait down her back, to kill the dishevelled look of post-boring-history-class frazzle.

Makeup - a quick re-application of lipstick and an extra plump to her mascara for that luscious-lashes-look.

Clothes - no stains, no wrinkles, but she couldn't do much more than that considering her single-mother's current state of I'm-so-broke-it-makes-me-cry-at-night.

Smile - a couple of practices (with teeth showing and without), finally settling on I'm-the-girl-next-door-plus-a-little-something-extra grin.

Good to go, she slung her book bag over her shoulder and headed outside to the field.

To her right, the smoke hole. Luckily Cole wasn't hanging there, because the last thing Jarina wanted to explain to her mother at dinner was why her clothes smelled like smoke. To her left, the grass-covered hill where a flock of students were lying on their backs, trying to rid themselves of the winter-pasties. And there, dead centre in the sun-bathing group, was Cole. He had taken his shirt off, and Jarina nearly yelped with delight.

Taking a deep breath, she strutted towards the strip of gravel at the bottom of the grass-covered hill, hoping to catch the eye of one stud-muffin.

Tuesday 10 January 2012


When I walked through the door, I could smell roast. Dave, carnivore extraordinaire, had once again decided that beef belonged on tonight's menu.

My fault, I admit, because I decided to drop by Starbucks on my way home from work and grind a few words into my netbook. He understood that I needed to write. He sympathised and agreed to make dinner. But the roast was his way of emphasizing that consequences floated around every choice like scum on the surface of a stagnant pond.

I could always take the stairs at work tomorrow. And log thirty minutes on the bike while Dave and I caught the last half of the movie we started watching last Sunday.

Was it that long ago?

Now that we had begun trying I was acutely aware of nutrition. Of the cholesterol in red meat, and the triglycerides in pasta, and of course, the amount of caffeine in a venti cup of coffee at my beloved cafe. All of these choices weren't the best for the baby. Every morsel of food that entered my mouth would become part of the equation of life. Dave would smile and act supportive, but ultimately, his gut made more decisions at the grocery store than the baby books could ever influence.

Definitely thirty minutes on the recumbent bike.

"Smells great," I shouted from the front hall, while I hung my coat in the closet.

"I roasted potatoes, too. I know how much you luuuve them."

"Great." Those ought to go straight to my thighs.