Tag Archives: people being dicks

Bonnabyeeeee!

Goodbye, goodbye, I’m sailing away to Tennessee to see some bands, knock off a few brain cells, and commune with my furry brethren. See?

It was at Bonnaroo last year that Sylvia and I first fell in love. The drive down was a daisy chain of laughter and fun, and our whole experience at the Farm was vibrantly coloured by our newfound infatuation: each other. Thus it is with greatest sadness that I part from my beloved Syl for a whole week; she simply shan’t be coming to Roo this year! After all, someone has to earn some money around here!

So in honour of my friendiversary with Syl, I thought I’d share some honeymoon pics. These are all from Roo 2011. More to follow upon my return. For now my darlings, feast your eyes on these beauts …..

 

Syl messing around with Gary. I’m not sure it’s water in that Camelbak.

 

Sometimes what you need to stumble upon at seven am is an impromptu dubstep party!

 

Now that I think of it, this was the first time I’d ever encountered a Spirit Hood. Funny how much things change in a year, non? PS: I still love you Tim. You, and your moustache.

 

Gary about to go shank a bitch.

 

Some Roo freaks and geeks.

Love you all and promise to keep you at least sporadically informed of my … activities …
xoxo,
Sar
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Trio of Videos

I couldn’t pick one (the proverbial ice cream shop dilemma), so all three made the cut. Have you wasted any time today? If not, it’s time to get on the bandwagon! If so, stay on there! You are doing a great job of lowering the bar of achievement!

Sylvia “Is-on-Her-Third-Coffee-with-Full-Intentions-of-Brewing-a-Fourth” Stout

Funny:

Satisfying:

Delicious:

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Speaking of Long Weekends…

My mother and her significant other have a property north of the city just outside of Elmvale. Collingwood is close by, Thornbury is just on the other side of Collingwood, Stayner isn’t too far, Creemore is a bit of a distance, but you could take a day jaunt over that way. The one town that is by far the closest (yet still far enough away, thank fuck) to my mothers six bedroom property is the one that I almost never mention: Wasaga Beach.

The following is going to be a shamelessly judgemental rant about the trashy underbelly of civilization that haunts the arguably dilapitated shores of the the main beach, and the absolute gobsmacking horror I experienced while driving through town this long weekend. I just read this line aloud to my mother with a snicker, and she poo-pooed my opinion and launched into her own defensive rant about her home away from home:

“Sylvia! My God! How did you ever become so judgemental?! You certainly didn’t learn it from me!”

“I’ll have you know that Wasaga Beach is the fastest growing community in Ontario, and it is within the top ten fastest growing communities in Canada. Although it is traditionally known as a resort town, young families and retired folks alike are moving in and changing the face of the community. Certainly the beach on long weekends is crowded with young partiers, (think Jersey Shore), and I do my best the avoid it at these peak times… But during the week and in the off season, Wasaga and the surrounding areas offer picturesque scenery with a plethora of things to do.”

… “So there!” (sticks tongue out)…

Following this, mother stated that the total facade of WB is about to change, and for the better. Apparently the main strip and some of the surrounding waterfront property acreages have been purchased for roughly 11.7 million by some big wig developer, who plans to advertise and thus capitalize on the fact that WB is the longest fresh water beach in Canada: “Miami North”. Apparently, this plan includes some form of gentrification, because big developer man and his company want to market this niche to the rich.

I could be completely off base, but I am fairly certain that people with lot$ of money prefer for the most part to surround themselves with other individuals with lots of money. Or at least they prefer to keep company with people who either look like they have lots of money, or can pretend and pretend well that they make up a part of the upper crust. Those belonging to the lower socioeconomic strata will no longer be welcome, me thinks. They won’t be able to afford the new rental rates, and no amount of dollas can buy class, so the rejection will be double edged.

Frankly, the locals really can’t be blamed for wanting some change around these parts. The current state of Wast-aga Beach is laughable. I have never in my life seen so many shirtless, swearing, spitting, belching, tan-oil greasy, crude, obnoxious, scantilly-clad, sideways hat and pawn shop bling wearing, black and green Honda Civic driving, Wonderland season’s pass holding, DTF/GTL beef artist, 905’er scags in one place, in my entire life… Not even at the Sound Academy.

I must have held a snear of disgust upon my face for the entirety of the drive through this unfortunate hole of a vacation getaway destination. I had to roll up my windows and suffer through the sweltering heat of the un-airconditioned car, just to avoid the embarrassment of being cat-called and whistled at in front of my parents… Muthafuckas please.

The decorum has seemingly degraded over the years. I know my close girlfriends and I used to come up here during our summer break from high school, and pretend to be scaggy-trash for the weekend so we could get our underage selves into ‘clubs’ like the Dard (now The Dardanella), and Bananas beach Club. But these people are the real deal now; ambling through the sandy streets with shameless and trashy abandon. Yuck.

I hope the local sundries shoppe stocks shelves worth of condoms because the last thing we need is for these people to get too drunk on Budweiser and procreate.

Sylvia “Snooki-and-Pauly D-belong-trapped-in-the-boob-toob” Stout.

… And this just cause it is summer served fresh…

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#howmayiserviceyou

Anyone who is anyone/everyone who works in the service industry should know about this hilarious spin off of #whatshouldwecallme

It’s all true!

Here’s one of our faves:

WAITING FOR THE COMPUTER DURING A RUSH.

Check out the rest here.

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Shirtcocking

Over brunch this morning at the Drake, while sipping our much needed Caesars and mowing our Benedicts, we discussed with great hilarity the phenomenon known as shirtcocking. I have actually experienced a shirtcocker in the flesh, unfortunately for me, many years ago while riding the very busy 501 across town. Quel sue-prise.

The streetcar was stalled at Leslie, and from my seat in the back I could hear a commotion taking place at the ‘cockpit’. (Pun most definitely intended.) A man — I want to recall him as being homeless although it is entirely possible he was just your run of the mill weirdo — was trying to pay his fare to the driver who was demanding the man exit the car immediately. “You can’t ride the streetcar like that, sir, please step off.” At first I didn’t even bother investigating; as not much is worthy of such an effort on the wretched albeit at times entertaining 501.

My attention only piqued when the man refused the driver’s demands for immediate departure, and began vehemently defending his right to ride the streetcar as he was. I could only see part of him from where I was seated so I leaned sideways in my seat and had a gander. My first thought was, “What the fuck is the hold up here, he seems fine to me.” However,  as my eyes scanned the vagrant from head to toe, I realized abruptly what the issue was. He was wearing a collared shirt, perhaps even a jacket, but that was all. No pants, no underwear, and apparently little regard for the societal requirement that at all times when in public, we wear at least one of these things, if not both. This man was getting his shirtcock on.

The thing about shirtcocking, is that is catches you off guard; startles you abruptly into looking directly at a man’s bits with little to no prior warning. Blatant public nudity would be more forgiving because at least your brain can immediately register the offense, but with shirtcocking you almost feel like the asshole with your pants caught around your ankles. I am interested to know who else would agree with this, but a penis and balls out and about without context is a bizarre and oftentimes unsettling sight.

Of course at the time I had no such name for this shirtcockery. It was Sarah who brought to our attention that the term had some early linkage to the Burning Man festival. Burning Man welcomes individuals from all walks of life, and freedom through self expression is encouraged in every form. Except one. While at Burning Man, thou shalt not shirtcock.

Seth Stevenson wrote an article about Burning Man for slate.com that you should read here. The following excerpt highlights the ardently frowned upon act of shirtcocking at the festival:

“There was, however, one form of nudity that everyone seemed to agree had no place within the Burning Man community. This is the type of nudity known as “shirtcocking.” Shirtcocking is when a man wears a top but is naked from the waist down. I have also heard this look referred to as “the toddler,” or “Porky Pigging.”

For reasons that are hard to fully explain—if you’ve witnessed the phenomenon you know this is true—shirtcocking is disquieting to the observer’s soul. Visually disturbing to an extreme degree. People at Burning Man are so averse to shirtcocking that I saw several posted signs vehemently denouncing the practice. And yet there were shirtcockers.”

So maybe the man trying to board the TTC that fateful day was neither a homeless man, nor a garden variety weirdo, but a harmless shirtcocking exile from Black Rock City.  In any case, this observer’s soul was disquieted.

Rock out with your cock… in,

Syl.

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