And When I Say "I help", I Mean "I Run the Slave Trade" Kind of Help

Sweet mother, it's been a while since I've posted. I'll try to work on that. Anywho, this is the thing that just recently came up. I've been receiving responses from people who saw Mr. Chapel this past summer. It's been an uplifting experience. So far, every single one has been negative and in fact one takes it a step further and implies that I am actually trying to tear the church apart.

Well, I guess it finally came out. I'm just a jerk that wants nothing more than to destroy the very thing that I'm trying to help. That way I can help more and stay in business. And when I say "I help", I mean "I run the slave trade" kind of help.

But seriously, I think all these kind responses have been like that hand that reaches down to help you out of the muck and mire and brings you out in your time of need and gently cradles you. It is also assuming that the same hand then turns around and punches you in the kidney once you're asleep. Nothing beats that feeling of thinking you're helping and then finding out that you're "not".

So now I might as well go the rest of the way and finish the DVD's, sell them, and give all the money to crime rings and the Hitler cloning project like I was originally thinking. You know, "helping" mankind. Then I can start up a trendy heroin habit like I always dreamed of.

Succulent Brain Juice Transformed into a Blog

I've got nothing tonight. What do you people expect from me? I'm tired. I've been working like those monkeys that wrote the "Grapes of Wrath" when the publisher was breathing down their necks to finish it. But why are you people so demanding? Am I an object for you own amusement? Do I not matter? I know I matter to one person. To me! So I'm sorry if I have nothing to say to all you slave drivers. You non-existant people that I imagine actually reading this thing and for some reason are angry at the lack of me volunteering my time to write this free blog. You are all jerktards! I mean I looked at the thing and there not one comment. Not one. C'mon! This is brilliance, people. This is like succulent brain juice transformed into a blog! That's it! I'm going to watch "Lost"!

Of Course, There Would be a Penalty if the Cat Turned Out to Have Rabies

I wish I knew more about the science behind intelligent design. Some people probably laugh at that opening statement. But I'm serious. Christians look like total morons out there. I mean I know that there is a great way to describe and explain why intelligent design can make sense. And I think that there is the problem with Christians looking like idiots. Christians know that there is a rational explanation out there, but so few of them know it or strive to find out. And when they get confronted with it, they look like tools. And because Christianity is a minority in the culture, we're on the defense, but we don't even try to defend it for whatever reason. Then when people ask and we don't know, they just blow us off because it seems like we're flakey (maybe we are). Ironically, a lot of evolutionists are the same way in that they don't know what they're talking about (I'm not talking about the scientists, but the "everybody knows that evolution is right" half-wits that don't even know what evolution all means. Sort of like the Christian half-wits but with a better dental plan).

The thing is that it's hard to turn it around and try to confront evolutionists, because evolution is so much more present and accepted. And if you don't have anything substantial to say on the creation side of things, it doesn't help to discuss it.

"Hey, you don't know anything about evolution, you should become a creationist."

"And you don't know anything about creationism."

"Yeah, but I asked you first."

Perhaps we could design some sort of points based system where when an evolutionist burns some creationist, they earn points for their side and vice versa. Whoever has the most points wins and whatever. Perhaps, there can be some bonus thing where if you find a stray cat a home, you get bonus points. Of course there would be a penalty is the cat turned out to have rabies. Anyway, that would help both causes. Getting stray cats off the street and also determine who's right and there would never be this silly need to "think" again about all this evolution-creation stuff.

That'd be great. If we switched over to this system, we'd be set. But then I guess you'd have to do stuff like draft picks and what about all the contract disputes and the lockouts on the teams? Man, that's complicated. What was I talking about?.....Creation and evolution? What the crap? Why am I talking about draft picks? I mean if the evolutionists saw this, they'd think I'm just another crack pot creationist. Well, fortunately I have more points.

Hey, Chotchmo. Want to be a Vampire?

I have finally adjusted my sleeping habits to the midnight shift warrior who bravely faces the cold, dark night with a boldness that mortal men tremble before. I go to sleep at the crack of dawn. I guess that's more of a vampire than a warrior. I mean warriors go to bed at night generally. If you're going to be pillaging other civilizations with a bloodthirsty rage, you're going to need the sleep.

Anyway, back to the point that I'm a vampire. It has required me to change my other habits. Like keeping vampire hunters at bay. And ordering that "Vampires Quarterly" magazine. The pictures are ok, but the articles are a little bland.

Oh, and all that stuff that they say about how vampires are kept at bay with garlic is a total lie. I still eat garlic. A lot. Perhaps too much. The guy at the pizza place asks if I want garlic on it, and I'm like, "Pile it on there. Put as much as what is legally allowed. Maybe a little more," and the guy would look at me. It's probably because he thinks he might get in trouble for putting that much garlic on.

Anywho, I really like the midnight shift (there's a pizza place next door with a sweet supply of garlic), but the tragic thing is that they just gave me two morning shifts. C'mon, what are you doing to me? Everybody knows that the morning shift is the new midnight shift.

I'm afraid of what all of this will do to me with all this sleep schedule changes. Especially now that I'm a vampire. From what I remember of vampires, they don't like mornings. I assume it's because the traffic is bad in the mornings and all that pent up anger kind of ruins their day.

I should really learn more about this whole vampire thing. I don't really know anything about them. It was kind of silly. I was just sitting there and the vampires came around and they said, "Hey, chotchmo. Want to be a vampire?" and I'm like, "Why not? I got nothings goings on. Sign me up for all that."

I suppose I could just back out, but that's a lot of red tape, so I think I'll just hang in there. Besides, the magazine subscription is free as long as I'm a member.

All the Hillbillyness of it All

I went to my first shift at the other Domo. At first, I thought I was working at a typical self-service gas station that has an unspeakable name (see previous post). I was shocked to find out that it was a rip in the space/time continuum that links back to Minnedosa. It was either that or someone took all the drunkenness, all the dust, all the hillbillyness of it all and put it into a place of business. It was disturbing for me. Who would've thought that I would find such a place in the middle of a city?

It makes me wonder if there are more Minnedosas out there. More drunkenness. More racial intolerance. More spewed beef jerky all over my store. More dumbass comments. More inane chatter. More vests over the bare chest.

That would mean that there would be no place to hide. Idiots could envelope you at any moment. Truly this discovery of the Minnedosaliana or Brain colerah is something bigger than some fake epidemic. It could infect at any place at any time.

Symptoms of the pitiable disease is the strong urge to shout out "Yoooooouuuuuu!" at the most inappropriate times, to listen to Pablo Cruz at all, buying a big, dumb truck (and especially if you figure that you should have a Calvin peeing on the symbol of the opposing truck manufacturer on the back window), or if you have the sudden urge to throw objects off of lookout towers, own "Fox" clothing, attend truck smash'em ups, or you are more drunk than sober in your waking hours.

If you're ever at home and feel any of the symptoms of the Brain colerah setting in, please report to a local library and read a book or watch a documentary. Avoid country music and flannel shirts. And whatever you don't rev your engines when you pass people on the street.

At this time, I have a confession to make. I suffer from brain colerah everyday. I actively kill brain cells and watch wrestling...and enjoy it. Please keep me in your prayers. After all, brain colerah makes a victim of us all.

Midnight Shifts are Like the New Pink

Just yesterday, I was switched from the Domo in the inner sanctums of Winnipeg to a more reasonable place that's only a forty minute walk from my house. That's still a lot of walking, but it's better. Maybe I should invest in a palomino. The horse, not the vehicle. It may cost more a month, but I could get a ride places at least. And then I could share the last part of my sandwich or something like that and have a friend take a picture of it. That photo would sell. I mean a guy sharing a sandwich with a horse. That's the kind of stuff that like Michelangelo would paint.

Anyway, back to the point. The Domo I will be working at will be a self-serve, which means I can freely throw away all my training that I received. I can read, and learn about astronomy and paint that sweet horse picture I was talking about. Especially, if I get more of the midnight shifts. It would be gold. Midnight shifts would be awesome. Midnight shifts are like the new pink.

This sounds like this would somehow be an improvement, but the joke is clearly on me because the Domo is called a "Roo-side Cafe". "Roo-side"! I have to walk into my place of employment that flaunts it's pornography of the English language. I will be reminded everytime the things in this world that I despise.

It's like going to paradise where enjoy the sun of the midnight, but learn that the whole island is radioactive and has the worst bugs ever. And the drinks are only ok, but cost double!

Sure, I will have my midnight shifts, but do I want them at the cost of my soul?

The Delicacy of Skunk Intestinal Tract

I was recently told by Michelle to "broaden my horizons" and "try new foods". I was taken aback. Trying new foods? How could you say that to me? I've invented foods! Let's remember "chocolate beer". The brilliant concoction of root beer and chocolate milk. That was me!

However, I'm not as self-righteous as others, so I decided that I would try something different. Stef and I headed to Boston Pizza and I went with some foreign chicken pasta dish of sorts. I figured, "it's chicken, it can't suck." Turns out, I was wrong. The stuff was like noodles with grilled beaver hide and a weird spice to "zest things up".

Apparently "zesting things up" is just a fancy phrase for pouring dirty mop water all over something else.

However as bad as it was, I was taken aback when all of a sudden I was taken to a new level of disgust after a particular bite. I assume it was the delicacy of skunk intestinal tract that found it's way onto my fork, into my mouth and into the bottom of the toilet of my stomach. The thing is that I have this thing where if I pay for food, I will eat as much as I can handle.

The other bazaar thing about the meal was the fact it came in this odd bowl that seems to be designed so that noone else at the table can see it's contents. Clearly, the restaurant knows that the things is wretched and thus must take steps to hide it from others.

On top of all this, I had to pay something like $14 for it! C'mon! You've got to be joking. I mean something is seriously wrong with this.

Then I looked up what "broadening your horizons" means and it turns out means wasting time, money and dignity for your digestive system.

Michelle, I personally hold you responsible for this.

"Toptard" is not even a Spanish word

Yeah, I know. I missed a day. My sense of responsibility is a jerktard. I haven't been able to find some time to do this due to the fact that Domo now has domination over my life and grips my soul in it's icy clutch.

The job has been going fine for the most part. I haven't been told to kill anybody yet, so I'm pretty sure they're not some sort of cover for a corporation trying to take over the world yet. However, they may be lulling me into a false sense of security. I'll be on the look out.

I will say this about my new job. I really did think that I had worked myself beyond getting a pump jockey job. I have a drama degree. Doesn't that mean anything to anybody anymore? I went to Bible college. That's gotta at least hook me up into a sweet manager's position. But it doesn't! I mean, shouldn't I be president of another country by now? I am David El Toptard Rae! People tremble at my name! I command respect! My middle name's 'El Toptard' for goodness' sake! I don't know why my mom gave me that name. I mean "Toptard" is not even a Spanish word. Or any word for that matter. But c'mon, you people. Respect me! Give me a job. No, in fact give me your job. Just quit and I'll take over. Why? I have a drama degree from a non-credited school from Backwater, Manitoba with little to no experience! Who else better to run your company? I submit to you noone! How can you argue with that logic? You can't, because it blows your mind! Now, who's with me?!

The Next Time I Play Pool and I Win, I Take This All Back

Last night I went to play pool with my friends Bryan, Nadine and Chris. It was alright but there is an innate flaw to the game of pool. There is no way that you can have a tie game. Impossible. I mean what kind of oppressive hierarchial game is this that must crown a winner and a loser?

Haven't we learned anything from children in that no matter how crappy you play or how much you profusely cheat, everybody wins? Equally. That way we encourage kids. We encourage them by saying that it's ok if you suck, and in fact, don't bother trying because we can glide through life without effort. There was a nice, safe mediocrity in playing games when we were young.

Now all I hear now is that you need to "wake up" and face "reality". That life is tough. That pool is tough. What the crap?! Are you going to tell me that this "reality" involves wins and losses? And that when I put a bet on something and I "lose", that means I have to pay up? Shouldn't I get my money back because I was there at least to put the bet down.

I'm telling you, that we should rise up and bring back childhood rules, where adults will throw games so that the ones that suck at stuff will not feel bad. Where if you play against another person and you lose, you get rewarded with candy just for showing up and if you win, you get rewarded with the SAME CANDY! And then we would all be called "winners" all the time so that we will never have to endure the sour, bitter taste of defeat and we would continue in a one-dimensional life where nothing goes wrong ever. It'll be great! That way there will never be losers again. Except for one. The word "loser" would be the loser, because no one would be called that again. And maybe the guy that invented the word would be one, too.

Just so you know the next time I play pool and I win, I take this all back and you will be the loser and I will be the winner.

It's Medical Science, People

I'm here to address the issue of swearing. Apparently there are a bunch of people out there that are up in arms about the fact how people who are opposed to swearing are using fake Christianese swears.

I here to defend fake Christian swearing. I'm apart of the "Christians who stand up for the right to fake swear". You see, we here at the "CWSUFRFS" wish that we could swear. We wish we could swear like frickin' sailors. But we don't. Because swearing is wrong. That's because certain words have evil injected right into it. You see, when someone hears and sees a real swear, their ears and eyes will catch gangrene and will one day fall off and actually kill the host. It was dubbed "Wanker's Discomfort". But the simple measures of changing syllables (like "frickin'" and "dang" and putting stars (or other popular alternatives like "#" and "@") over key letters was discovered to prevent and circumvent the negative effects of the disease of swearing. It was a medical breakthrough in the early 20's and that's why those stars are on all standard keyboards today.

People say that you're not hiding the swear by using all these fake swears or the use of the stars. They say that we are hypocritical especially when we think we are more pure than the real swearers. But that's because we are. Specific words are actually impure, not the meaning. The meaning's fine. It's the word that's the problem. It's medical science, people.

So in closing, I have a message to all you idiots out there that say that "fake swears are real swears": Shut up b#%@, and get off my mother f&%#ing lawn, d$#*it!

David Grohl Doesn't Appreciate Indoor Goblin Football

Now that I'm back in the city of Winnipeg, I apparently have to get a "job" otherwise I will not receive sufficient "funds" to supply "sustenance" for any appreciable time. I thought that I was a respectable person who had kind of earned the ability to get a job that I liked has somehow wound up with a job at a gas station. Like seriously. And it's not even the gas station right outside my apartment. Instead it's A TWO HOUR WALK from where I live. Now I have to buy a bus pass to go to a crappy job.

You may be asking how could I go from the classy Electronics Boutique to Stanky's Spleen Transplants and Gas Outlet (my new name for Domo)? The answer is simple. Because goblins have entered and taken over the place where the Three Fates work and have decided to have a kegger and play a version of "indoor football" but they use what they call a "scratch ball" which in reality is a small cat. Then some orange soda or possibly Mountain Dew was spilled all over my life string and because the Fates are blind, they didn't notice.

Now I'm not saying that goblins should not be allowed football. Perhaps even indoor football would be ok. In fact I've even taken in a couple of goblin indoor football games and they were quite good. It was either a goblin indoor football or some generic punk show.

Anyways, goblins should be taught when and where to play football. So I think what needs to happen is that we need to learn how to communicate with them and tell them that this indoor football is not ok, and perhaps we can also get them to agree to not mess up my room before people show up to my room.

So what I'm asking is for a midget or little person or whatever the term is now and then go learn their language and them one day when their standing around beside their goblin watercooler and after some conversation that the goblins have about how they like Foo Fighters, the little midget in disguise could casually drop in a line like: "Did you know that David Grohl doesn't appreciate indoor football."

It would cause a ruckus and probably shake their economy for a while but I think that they could adjust and then maybe they apologize and give my ancestor's reparations for what they've done. (I'm assuming it will take a few generations to do all this)

I suppose the other thing that made me lose prestige is that this other guy I used to work for stole for the company and now there is a shadow over my record with the company.

So either way, the goblin football incident or the idiot put me here. So I just have to remind myself of a quote that my high school consular always told me, "if you imagineer it, you can do anything...probably..."

A Mystical Journey of Wonder and Imagineering

A lot of people who may stumble across this page might look at this site and wonder who is this illustrious individual who seems to have his life put together. For the last time get off my property and peeking in through my window! Anyways, for many people who know me, "Mr. Chapel" has been a significant part of my life for the past year. Man, that sounds like I'm having an affair or something. Anyway, Mr. Chapel is the name of the sketch comedy show that I wrote and performed all over western Canada and some of the States. It was a show that grabbed people by the wrist and led them through a mystical journey of wonder and imagineering without the aid of hallucinigenic substances, and said to them, "Hey, come with me and I'll show you what flying over the rainbow of hope really means."

More accurately it was out to wreck havoc in the complacent and challenge people to think instead of resting on their intellectual laurels and eat the fattening ice cream of mindless faith and then they get the perverbial spare tire of passionless ritualism or the flabby arms of staunch ignorance and then it gets to the point that they are trapped inside their house of a mundane life. Mr. Chapel is like the life-saving liposuction for these people and I am like the doctor who does the liposuction and gets paid millions of dollars. Except I have jack squat, so I'm like the guy that does it free out of his basement using a spoon and a vaccuum cleaner and three feet of fishing line. Wait, somewhere along the line I lost my analogy.

Point is that Mr. Chapel was a great time and you can see in this picture my Mr. Chapel crew.

In the days to come I'll probably post more stuff about my adventurous summer.

That's enough blogging for today. Sweet merciful sanitation officer, there's got to be a better word for blogging than blogging. It seems like I have the stomach flu and the partially moldy tuna sandwich I had at lunch is coming back to haunt me.