Oh man, I was so wasted.

With particular reference to the prose and speech style of old-time wrestlers such as George Hackenschmidt and the aforementioned George Dinnie, Mike and I have recently been discussing how people in the olden days seem to have been better spoken and more flowery in their speech.

With that in mind, I just ran across a little something in the same spirit, something written in the eighth century by a very apologetic Chinese fellow who'd recently had a bit too much to drink:

'Yesterday, having drunk too much, I was so intoxicated as to pass all bounds; but none of the rude and coarse language I used was uttered in a conscious state. The next morning, after hearing others speak on the subject, I realised what had happened, whereupon I was overwhelmed with confusion and ready to sink into the earth with shame.'

Gay Town!

Today, I was telling my coworker Gaétan about how I saw an ad that he posed for in GQ magazine. It went like this:

Me: Hey, Gaétan, I was flipping through GQ, and then I was all like, "Hey, something seems familiar ... oh, hello, Gaétan."

Gaétan: If you flip the page, I'm like right next to Jamie Foxx. Not bad, eh?

Me: Yeah, I was showing the ad to everyone!

Gaétan: Yeah? What'd they say?

Me: My friend Mike said, "What's his name? 'Gay Town'?"

Gaétan: [scowling] I hope you said I'd kick his ass if I heard that.

Me: Yeah, I told him, "You better not let Gay Town hear you say that!"

Gaétan: [gives stink-eye, walks away]

Chris Rock on steroids (not literally)

I just hear Chris Rock say this on Late Night with Conan O'Brien:

"What's wrong with steroids? Everybody in this room, if you could take a pill to be better at your job, would you take 'em? Sure. If I could take pills to be as funny as Richard Pryor, I'd do it. Richard took 'em."

Fuck everybody else!

Last Friday, our summer hours started at work, so a lot of people were off by lunchtime. Unfortunately, no one told our cafeteria staff, and they planned a special barbecue special. So, around 1:00, our facilities manager told them to put the brakes on making any more food.

Around this time, I came for lunch. "I'd like a burger," said the woman in front of me.

"I'd like one too," I said.

But what the guy behind the counter must have heard was, "I'd like ... two." So he gave me two burgers, and I took them, and I ate them. And right after that, the cafeteria ran out of burgers completely and anybody else who wanted one couldn't have one, but they could watch me eat two.

Ha! Ha! Ha!

Mike gets scolded

Mike, it's time to start committing some of your stories to print. I've been waiting for you to write down the one about the first McDonalds home delivery ever. If you don't start spinning some of your best yarns in printed form, I'm going to have to start quietly placing a dictaphone on the table when we go out for drinks and typing up the transcriptions when I get home. And I don't want to do that. Transcription is long, boring work, even when it's brilliant material. So get writing.

A close shave

So, I found out on Monday that Mike and I narrowly missed death by exactly one week. At 1:00 a.m. Sunday morning, a guy got gunned down while leaving the same Pizza Pizza franchise that Mike and I were at exactly at that time a week before. So, assuming that the schedule of events had remained exactly the same, if Mike had come a week later, we would have been there in time to catch some stray bullets.

To top it off, the pizza isn't even that good. That Pizza Pizza franchise and I are so done.