Summer Breeze Don’t Make Me Feel Fine


Five minutes ago my summer began, and a sense of unfulfillment manifested within me, so the following blog is brought to you by failure. To celebrate I am getting intimate with a Jos Louis, before it can be fully ingested into my stomach, where it can then get intimate with the stomach ache inducing Redbull, which currently seems to be simultaneously killing me and keeping me conscious. Thirty-something hours before my feast commenced, I awoke in my basement in Thornhill, so that I could begin studying for the final exam of my third year of University. That can also mean thirty-something hours ago I finally accepted my fate that either I begin learning the material for a course that I know absolutely nothing about, or I fail as horrifically as a Redbull and Jos Louis fueled heart. Now after thirty-six sleepless hours of attempting to fill my mind with meaningless course material, that would absolve from my memory faster than I could skim through the textbooks to even learn it, everything has subsided other than feelings that another year has passed, and still I do not take my life seriously.

Tomorrow, after this crazy one-man Vachon orientated party subsides, I will find myself back where I woke up one and a half days ago. Upon arrival my parents will congratulate me on another year of lazily dragging myself through university, by inevitably nagging me to go out and get a summer job. A job, the very thing that this entire University experience has been preparing me for, this should be easy, right? Wrong! As it turns out businesses are not looking to train University students to perform at a job for a span of five months, only so that they can quit, and go back to school where they can resume jerking-off to Game of Thrones with their fraternity brothers. Warning: do not join Cream Epsilon Pi. Although in retrospect the Cream-E-Pi shirts that were handed out on orientation day should have been a tell-tale sign of what was to come. Regardless, it is now time for myself to half-heartedly search for the position which is bound keep me in this constant loop of working mind-numbing jobs, the type of positions that make you feel like “if this I my life then I am probably just better off just eating Jos Louis and drinking red bull until I die.”

Sorry to disappoint, yet I am still here. It seems all that has really changed at the moment is the palpability of my life’s mediocrity, the apparency of which is now revealing itself to me through the Vachon wrappers spread out across my lap, leftover from whichever sugar filled substance my body is urgently fighting to ingest, and as my stomach ache fills my conscious, my subconscious has entered a continuous battle against a feeling of unfulfillment which my mind is immersed within. Obviously the person that I was three years ago when I graduated from high school is not identical to the one currently typing, but resumes do not measure your growth in maturity, or your ability to get intimate with a whole entire women, what they measure is academic achievements. So whenever I search for employment it becomes apparent that only a limited number of jobs are going to be handed out to 130 pound Philosophy students, who over their three years in University have only truly developed skills at watching Netflix, a deep appreciation for frozen meals, and an urge to write publicly about the average adolescent life that has entrapped them. Where did it all go so wrong? I mean I expected Nextflix to provide more content.


Whenever I look back at the high school I once attended in Thornhill, Ontario, before I left for University, the only real struggle for any of the students that had become apparent in each of our lives was the struggle not to fit in. We were literally all the same, while some of us appeared to be trying quite hard to fit in, the majority just could not help it, in comparison to one another we were all just painfully average. As a result a portion of those around me begun to cling to the minor dissimilarities that had begun to fill in their own spare time away from school, while in school, the majority began to find separation through their own academic achievements. All day growing up, surrounding me were other kids who may have looked different, or had different names, but unless one grasped onto some sort of unique hobby, like loving OneDirection, making YouTube videos, or thinking Nutella is gods poop, there was truly no way of telling anyone apart other than by those achievements that were made while we were altogether in school. The majority of my classmates came from the exact same circumstances as me; the Jewish parents who aspired to have them turn out more successful than their peers, just so that they can show them off to the other Jewish parents, an upper-middle class ‘keep up with the joneses’ lifestyle that the neighbourhood breeds, and the expectation that once they graduate at the top of their class from high school each one of them will attend the University of Western Ontario, where they will join a frat, likely not Cream-E-Pi, before either crushing or fulfilling those dreams of success laid out before them by their overbearing parents. As we grew up together, so did the habits that individuals clung to, and those habits suddenly began to transform into yet another similarity that drove the majority even closer together. Obviously this did not mean my entire high school was listening to OneDirection, yet now everyone was on Facebook, or Twitter, or was suddenly using their cellphone applications to recognize who farted, while they sat with their friends eating overpriced sushi, drinking Starbucks, and talking about Skrillex. Once again we were inseparable, it was like a game of “Where’s Waldo?” where everyone was Waldo. The only real way to distinguish Waldo’s as we continued to grow older suddenly seemed to become our own individual successes, mainly our academic ones.

In an environment that unavoidably conditions you to have expectations of financial success, it is needless to say that if I got a position at McDonalds this summer, one of those positions that far exceeds my own set of qualifications, then holding such a position would be viewed as some sort of shame, or disappointment. It would stand out as something to be looked down upon by those who I grew up with. Each day the accomplishments posted onto various social media websites by old schoolmates, allow me to share in their own successes, as I use their fledgling lives to fill the void in my own, in what could only be defined as a never ending social-media high school reunion. It is as if I am currently watching everyone that has ever entered into my life surpass me in real-time, as the pressure to begin talking my own life seriously, and avoid being left behind, is mounting itself through constant updates on my Facebook newsfeed. While a large amount of my peers find themselves one step closer to med-school, or higher up in their families company at the end of this school year, I have stuck myself with reflections that are defined by repeated mistakes, disappointment, impaired by a continuous struggle to progress past a box of Jos Louis, and the children’s book series “Where’s Waldo?”.

But what if this is all just instilled in me as a result of the environment that I find myself a product of? What if being lost and jobless after another year away at University, or working at McDonalds for a summer, is nothing to be looked down upon, and the real problem is this attitude that we have gained wherein the entirety of our lives, mainly our happiness, depends solely on these personal successes. It is hard not fall into this feeling that my life is set to revolve around financial or personal accomplishments that I never intended to achieve. While my own aspirations do not match those which have become the norm, they are often clouded by this feeling that somehow I must work keep up with all of my former and current classmates. As if now, three years into University, is the time to start taking my mediocre accomplishments seriously. At this point my depressing one-man celebration must come to an end. If anything comes from this post I hope it is that those who feel as though they are drowning in these pressures for success can realize that they are not alone; we are all just Waldo’s.

Gilt City Los Angeles Event for Jaguar F-Type


Tinder Poetry


Sam told me that I could Tinder on his phone. Never had I used tinder before so needless to say I was a bit excited to message random women as Sam. I began writing a poem to a match of his named Jessica, whom Sam was deeply in love with. No longer would he allow me to send it though because I had spent what he deemed to be too much time on the poem. I did not want that time to go to waste so I thought I would just post it on here. Although this was entirely written by me, I ask that for the purpose of the poem you imagine as though Sam is saying this to his match, Jessica:

Hey Jessica, my tinder match
I am looking for a back to scratch
A back to scratch you may now ask?
Yes, a back to scratch!
For from our match may now have hatched
A mutual matching of hatching back scratching
Without any strings attached!

So swipe right, yes swipe me right
Let Photoshop destroy your night
I’ll be charming, I’ll be polite
But it won’t really matter what I write
For all the signs are in black and white
If you only rely on your thumb, and on your sight
An emotionless one night stand will be at their might

You see when you cut people off just based on their look
You may stop at the cover of what is life’s greatest book
And instead you’ll be left with twilight, or some crap
The boring type of book that will cause you to nap
With nothing but physical beauty filling that gap
Eventually ended by the reality slap
That this relationship was spawned by a demeaning app

So Jessica, still wanna scratch my back?
We can start up this mutual back scratching pact?
Celebrating all the common virtues we lack
For me its looks come first, and then next your rack
But enough about me let’s hear about you?
Why are you so lonely? And when can we screw?
Here’s some stuff about me that is not at all true…
And if I havn’t asked already, when can we screw?


lost mittens.


I am always losing things, because I am what you call a fuck-up. I seemingly could lose anything with ease that is not my virginity. And with all of the spare time available to me due to my lack of sex life, I am afforded the opportunity to plan ahead for my future, like for when I have kids for instance. How do you have kid without having sex you may ask? My plans are not to impregnate a girl through the powers of the Holy Spirit, I am not fathering Jesus in this scenario, and so I actually foresee myself having some sad, short-lived sex in order to produce these hypothetical children. As a fuck-up, I am enticed to conclude that any sex in which I partake in as a member will lead to tears, and will ultimately culminate in fatherhood, and even more tears. But rest assured this just the thing that I have spent my undervalued time preparing for.

Not all of us are going to be good parents when we are older. And that is why I do not plan on being a good parent. If I am going to handle imaginary children, I am going to be realistic about the entire hypothetical situation. As an aspiring unfit parent it is my responsibility to imagine that I will lose a child every so often, and so I have taken it upon myself to plan ahead, in order to guide myself through such desperate times. Here is a scenario for instance wherein I feel my planning will surely prove effective, so take note.

I am in a Walmart with my child. While walking through the store we happen upon a value bin filled with blu-rays. As I amerce myself into a world of mediocre movies, I happen upon what is quite possibly the greatest deal ever comprised by man, or mart; a Blu-ray box set of Zoey 101 for the price of just sixteen dollars and ninety-nine cents. Like any good bargain hunter I reach for it without hesitance, but when I proceed to look back up, my child has vanished. It is just me, Zoey, and the rest of the 101.

There is probably a lot of speculation surrounding this predicament so let me make one thing clear, and then recede back into the tale. This is all taking place in the future, and if there is anything my time spent preparing for the future has taught me, it is that it will not be an easy task to find something as sought after as Zoey 101 on Blu-ray at such an affordable price. The market is going to skyrocket, mark my words. Zoey 101 blue-rays are the bitcoins of the future.

Now back to the story; where I have now acquired a timeless classic on Blu-ray, but yet have managed to lose my child. What I am stuck in can be a very scary situation for a parent. You can go to jail for losing your child. And it can be even more terrifying to lose a child in a massive store like Walmart, where you are surrounded by tons of weird strangers, and masses of candy. It is now pretty much your obligation as a parent to start warning everyone that your child has gone missing. It is now your turn to become that idiot in a Walmart publically outing themselves as a negligent parent who lost their child so that they could get that Zoey 101 Blu-ray. But not to fear, for this is the very moment of parenthood, which my lack of sex life has prepared me for.

It is my plan that I will name my first born, Mittens. And so when I lose my child in Walmart instead of outing myself by screaming “I lost my child!” I can remain an inconspicuously horrible parent amongst my Walmart peers, and yell out “I lost my Mitten’s!” This can have its downfalls obviously. For one people may be shocked by your devotion to what they may just assume is just a pair of mittens. And secondly the Walmart employees are likely going to react by asking if you checked the lost and found? But rest assured I have prepared for this. My child Mittens will have been instructed that in the likely event that I lose it, that it should find me at the lost and found. Which is not the name of my other child, it just an actual lost and found.

And that is how I am prepared to be a terrible parent. You should all prepare too, after all it is in the best interest of your future children.


Tweets from Dad: The Story of One Father and His Struggle in Modern Society


Does anyone else have a problem with their parents being on social media? I never really did. That was I never really did, until I discovered that my dad had twitter. You see my father as I have come to have found, is somewhat of a Twitter sensation back where I come from, and his legend has amassed a cult following consisting of a legion of fans that spreads approximately thirteen people wide. And though I wish that I was making this all up, you too can follow him @richybally. Ever since my discovery of my father’s twitter account last night, a mixture of embarrassment and pride has filled me to an extent to which I will only be able to fully convey using a few of my own words, as well as the incredible material that his Twitter account brings to my disposal. For one, I am proud because I know my father as a 50 something year old man who is so far removed from understanding how the internet works, that he seemingly goes out his way to press on shady pop-ups; he does not care if it is to meet single women locally, or to receive tickets that he has won to a fictitious Seals and Crofts concert, because my dad will press on anything which flashes before him on a computer screen. And this is why I became so proud of him when I found out about his Twitter account. Obviously, this all subsided once I actually looked at his twitter, and that is when that sense of embarrassment sunk in.

At the time of this tweet of my father was still going through his Drake phase, yet another fact that I wish was made up. During his Drake phase, my father; a 50 year old married man who attended Hebrew day school his entire life, felt obliged to go to HMV and purchase a Drake CD, so that he could roll down his windows and blast it when he was driving through tougher neighbourhoods. Okay that is not the reason he enjoys it, he actually highly relates to Drake, as both grew up over privileged Jewish kids in Forest Hill, and both of them pose as rappers in their spare time. My dad was not on Degrassi like Drake was, but at least he seems like the kind of guy who watched it. Looking closely at this previous tweet I can assume that my dad’s Drake phase hit its peak at this very moment of unfortunate times. As within the tweet you can truly get the sense that my father has lost his own sense of reality, and that he is also a horrible song writer. His rhyme does not even make sense when you look into it. For one, why would there ever be a man named Rock? Its seems so misguided. For instance he easily could have made this characters name Brock, which is an actual human name that a man would have, but instead went with Rock as the name; a name given to a pet that is a literal rock, or a wrestler who questions if you can smell his cooking.

Let me take you through the day in the life of a boy named Rock, in case you were going to name your next child Rock:

Rock is young and vulnerable, he hears two kids outside playing on the school yard close to him. One kid says to the other “wanna go play by the Rock?” The other kid says something mean like “I hate the Rock, the Rock’s the worst”. A kid named Rock in this situation is likely going to confront the other kids over this. And the likely response from those kids back to Rock will be something like: “shut-up Rock, and go play alone with your freakishly large penis.” Now some people would dispute that Rock already has a 9 inch whatever my father was not allowed to tweet, but still implied, while the Rock was still just a child, but what cannot be disputed is that a kid named Rock is going to have shitty childhood. And that geology will be a very confusing class.

Recently my dad’s tweets have come in the form of keeks. My dad has introduced me to the website Keek through his twitter account, and no one I have talked to since the discovery has heard of the website. Keek appears to be some sort of social media website where on people post poorly shot videos of themselves that they have not previously been thought out. If you feel my description did not do Keek justice, below is my father’s first ever Keek, and his Keeks are all I have based my prior description off of. If there was ever a reason my father should be disbarred from all forms of social media, it should be this video of a conversation between him, and my dog which he felt obliged to post onto the internet. If parents should be able to use parental block on the television in order to disallow their children from watching harmful shows, than once those kids grow up they deserve the ability to block their parents from using social media in this same manner. This will save kids everywhere from that awkward moment when they decline their parents Facebook request, or see a video such as the following one of my dad:

Jun 23, 2013 | by richybally on Keek.com

That folks is actually my dad talking, a man with two legs, and according to himself “really hairy balls”. I felt comfortable going through life without this knowledge, as did those reading this most likely, but if I had to find out, this Keek scenario would have been one of my top choices. Either that video would suffice, or one of those messages on a sign hanging from the back of an airplane, which read “Jacob, daddy has a hairy sack.” But the levels of hair on my father’s scrotum are not all that can be taken away from his twitter activity, and what I discovered searching through my fathers twitter last night is that my father has twitter beef. Okay it is not real beef. If anything it is like a beef substitute that you would get from your local Taco Bell. My dad’s beef was with the Toronto Sun, and through his twitter my dad decided to express his support of his dear mayor Rob Ford, against allegations that he smoked crack. It seemed like a lofty choice for his first twitter beef, but my dad fears nothing, not even publicly supporting a man who actually committed the act in the matter he is defending his innocence in on a recorded video. And even when that act is smoking crack-cocaine my dad remains loyal and defendant.

Like Rob Ford my father makes mistakes, they are not composited through a drunken stupor, and they have never involved the ingestion of crack-cocaine, instead they seem to actually be innocent everyday mistakes that come naturally to most parents as they get older. For instance the other day my dad texted my older brother the following: “Matthew, I am in Quiznoes. What do you want?” Excited, my brother responded “a Black Angus sub”.  After ten minutes goes by my brother receives another text message from my father, that text reads: “I ordered a Black Angus, and the guy working there said ‘sorry sir, this is a Subway’. Now for those of you unfamiliar with the lineup of subs at Quiznoes, the Black Angus is something that is specific to Quiznoes, in the same way that homophobia is specific to Chick Filet, or a Big Mac is specific to McDonalds.

Upon hearing this story I did not even question how my father managed to mess up on such a thing, I have known the man long enough, and have read enough of his tweets in defense of Toronto mayor Rob Ford, to be able understand his capability of making such misplaced judgement’s. But what I actually immediately wanted to know was what took place during those ten minutes in between texts. Did he stand in line at Subway for ten whole minutes, staring at signs and billboards that read Subway, still only to order a Quiznoes sub? Or was it the case that he ordered the sub right away, realized “Oh shit, I am in a Subway, and subsequently I am being stupid”, and then for the next ten minutes he just sat in the parking lot in his car debating whether or not to reveal how dumb a mistake he had just made to his own child, with the other option of just driving down the block to Quiznoes, then eventually he just said “screw it”, and chose to text back my brother? Either way the only thing my dad brought home with him that night for dinner was some shame, his Drake CD, and his legion of 13 twitter followers.

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Castaway – Spooky Tales From Halloween

castaway wilson volleyball

The following is a formal complaint to Trappers/Palace a seedy set of nightclubs attached to one another in the small town of Guelph, Ontario, at which I spent my Halloween this year.

Dear Trappers and, or Palace,

Last night as you may have come to realize was Halloween; a beloved pastime for kids, parents, and intoxicated University students everywhere. It is a time where we can all come together dressed up, or down in a creative manner that would not be publicly acceptable on any other night of the year. And this year like many of the students in the small town of Guelph, I chose to dress up, and attend your festivities over the beloved tradition.

I was going to dress up as Tom Hanks from the movie Castaway, and it was going to be glorious. I had bought a costume, and a thirty-three dollar Wilson volleyball, which had been hand painted with my very own blood. Okay maybe it was not blood, but needless to say my costume was very realistic, and I spared no expense on my companion, Wilson. Now normally I do not venture inside of you Trappers/Palace, because let us face it you are an unsanitary sweat pool that is over occupied with any drunk person that will pay your set cover cost. And thus coming into the night I assumed that your standard on letting those who dressed up like Tom Hanks, from the movie Castaway into your disgusting night club would be rather lenient. And I had actually begun looking forward to losing my self-respect in the terrible music, lighting, and body odor that would surely surround me as I danced my night away with my compadre, Wilson.

The night started as expected, and my friend Wilson, and I arrived with my real human friends, as we all piled into the line to attend your festivities. Clearly not a lot of intoxicated students in downtown Guelph are well versed in Tom Hanks movies, but those that were showed a full appreciation for my costume. But not only that they shared in a general love for Wilson, my 33 dollar volleyball that was set to replicate the one Tom Hanks befriends in the movie, and which I lied about painting with my own blood.

Trappers/Palace you may, or may not be familiar with Tom Hanks academy award nominated performance in the movie Castaway, so let me fill you in. Tom Hanks, or Chuck Nolan as he is named in the movie, is a Fed-Ex employee who finds himself the lone survivor in a plane crash, which strands him alone on an island in the South Pacific. The story is both heart-wrenching, and harrowing, as we slowly watch his character sight of reality deteriorate. This culminates when Chuck finds a package among the scattered cargo from his plane; a Wilson volleyball, which he had been on route to deliver. But that is not all he finds in the volleyball; for in it that Wilson volleyball Chuck finds a companion, someone with whom he can talk in his isolation, and someone who is brought to life for him by a face he paints on its surface with in his own blood. They live, they laugh, and they love together, while they go through the trials and tribulations of a loving friendship. But in one iconic scene that will forever go down as the saddest on screen moment between man and volleyball, Chuck loses his dear volleyball friend, as it drifts away in the oceans current. Torn by the loss Chuck screams out to his friend several times, crying the name Wilson aloud like an insane man trapped alone on an isolated island, until he finally realizes that his lost companion is merely a volleyball.

It was this man, and this movie which I chose to replicate this year for Halloween, but little did I know Trappers/Palace how closely you would actually bring me to being this castaway. You see, once I got to the front of your line it was expressed to me by your bouncers that I could not bring in a prop, distinctly referring to Wilson. And then just like an oceans current you took my dear Wilson from me, and placed him within a cardboard box, informing me that I would get him back at the end of the night: that was the last time I ever saw my dear Wilson. But you see Trappers/Palace in that moment when you had Wilson taken from my grasp I felt every bit of pain that a lonely, stranded, Tom Hanks felt when he lost his own dear friend. And as I stood there screaming Wilson hysterically at the top of my lungs, in front of the bouncer that ultimately would determine if I would get into you, I found that I truly had become my costume.

Granted my situation was somewhat different, my predicament may seem a bit worse under the consideration that on a student budget I paid 33 dollars for that volleyball, well Tom Hanks just naturally found his just floating around in the ocean. And sure I still had my real friends, but they are not volleyballs, and they never will be. Trappers/Palace you could be nice enough to replace the volleyball you took from me, but Wilson means so much more to me than just the object in a sport for really tall people on the beach, he was my dear friend. He kept me from the isolation that entering your island makes me feel. Together me and Wilson acted like lost misfits, as we claimed the land around us as our own, while doing anything it took together to survive in it. We were Castaways, and you took him from me.

Lastly to Palace, who on earth named you? Have they ever seen a palace? I am quite certain that it looks absolutely nothing like the inside of you. There really is nothing luxurious about a bunch of drunken students grinding on a dance floor to crappy music, as random people shed their self-respect onto the stripper poles laid before a pathetic crowd. It just does not scream royalty.

Also, to the club Taboo, truly you stole my volleyball, but I have taken my frustrations out on Palace/Trappers because writing this much about your piece of crap nightclub would have been demeaning.

–              Chuck Nolan Impersonator, Jacob Balshin



I made you a camera phone

I come from a generation that grew up alongside cellphones, and we can all remember back to the day when we had Motorola RAZR’s capable of doing no more than bluetoothing 30 second clips of Chamillionaire songs onto our phones. Obviously side by side we have done a lot growing up together, as we have both grown smarter, sleeker and more sophisticateder. It even seems as though it was just yesterday that me and the iPhone went through puberty together. For me it was the experience of changing from a boy into a man, while at the same time the smartphone was changing from the iPhone 4 to the newer iPhone 5. Yea I guess the iPhone 5 is a bit of a late bloomer, but it is not so different then the iPhone 4 in my eyes. Yet it seems as though people get new iPhones just to keep up with the Benjamin’s, or their spoiled friends in the case of an adolescent from an over privileged background. And a stigma exists around cellphones, that you must own the best available, or what everyone else has. It is a stigma that I like to call allowing your personality to be replaced be a phone. If you want to personally access yourself of symptoms of losing your personality to a phone, they are as follows. The first is that you probably want the next iPhone coming out. The second is that someone could hand you the same phone you currently own, and tell you it is the iPhone 6, and you would go on like asshole showing it off as if it was the new iPhone. The third is that a common topic of conversation for you is your smartphone, and god forbid you spend the entirety of an in person conversation with someone without checking the thing.

I made you a camera phone
People are always telling me why they love their iPhone. Crap like “I just love how it looks.” Or “You can download so many apps.” And I do not own an iPhone, but if I did I think my favorite part would be that it calls people. It seems I have loved all my previous cellphones for the same reason: they called people. That is because it is what cellphones were intended for, yet clearly they have changed. We do not even call them cellphones any more, instead we call them smartphones. Yea those sons of bitches got so arrogant that we now have to refer to them as smart. And the smartphones are taking over for idiotpeoples. The phones have advanced to the point where they are already way smarter than we are. Just the other day I ordered a pizza on my cellphone. Now to some that may not sound alarming, but hold the phone, because I did not call anyone to order that pizza. Instead I went on a Pizza Hut ordering application and had my phone order it for me. It felt so wrong at the time: if we are no longer using the phone portion of our smartphones to call for pizza than what is it even good for? If you have ever walked through a McDonalds drive thru at 2 in the afternoon to place your order, it feels the same as how I felt ordering my pizza. But let’s be honest if you are walking through McDonalds drive thru at 2pm and ordering Hotdog Stuffed Crust Pizza online from Pizza Hut at night, than having a smartphone take over your life for a while is probably for the best.

My favorite thing about smartphones, is that a lot of them now a days come with a program known as Instagram. Now to me Instragram is an amazing concept, and that is because when twitter came out it seemed to far exceed the youtube comment section in the category of places where the least important, or cared about things that could possibly exist would be posted online exist, but yet Instagram has brought this sensation of posting mundane everyday happenings to an entirely different level. Now I do not have Instagram and would attribute that to both the facts that I enjoy eating my food rather than taking photos of it, and also just the fact that no one cares about gross crap I shove into my disgusting body on a daily basis. I do not have Instagram, but I would like to tell you of an Instagram picture which I had the pleasure of finding on my Facebook wall one day. It was of an ego waffle, a top it was ice-cream, and syrup. It was an inspiration. Obviously I messaged the person instantly for the recipe. And I was blown away to find out that the meal was consistent of one ego waffle, one scoop of ice cream, and maple syrup. Now I am no chef, but it seems that if I was posting a picture of food I made, it would not be the food I make by simply putting it in the toaster, or microwaving it. Just because you put some stupid filter over a picture of a microwavable waffle does not make it art. You are to art, what a video of Rex Ryan getting off to his wife’s feet is to pornography.

Rex's Wife

Today I own a blackberry. It is a constant source of disappointment. Not because it weeds out those prejudicial people like myself who judge people based on as something as minuscule as the cellphone they own. But because my cellphone receives more spam mail each day, than it ever will texts in a lifetime. But it is not always depressing, iTunes is always checking up to make sure that I know about the latest KatyPerry album, and amazon sends me over personal emails at 3 am warning me of sales on giant lots of wholesale Golden Grahams.



The Worlds Proudest Failure


This has been my first year of truly attempting to keep up in school since I was in grade 2, and without a doubt I can say my time has never been worse spent. Never have I thought highly of school, it always just seemed as though the further we progressed into it, the less time it advocated for us to enjoy the passing of our youth. This blog will give much insight into the mind of what many of you would consider a modern day fuck-up; an idiot in no rush to grow up. Just one of the countless over-educated young minds assured to end up with a dead end job in the future, but to me that is the dream-life. It is not just that I devalue my schooling, or the need to have a job for money to live, it is that my goal in life is to spend the smallest amount of time possible doing non-stimulating work for the benefit of no one.

School was not always something I held disdain towards, you see my disdain for school all started when I was in grade 2. My teacher at the time, who was a sixty-something year old women that drove around in a motorcycle, and weighed in at approximately ninety pounds, occasionally would pick my desk up in front of the class, raise it above her tiny, shriveling body, and throw it across the room. Ultimately her goal was to clear out the contents within my desk, and she was inspired to call this form of child abuse the DTD (dump the desk). What I left out of my earlier description of this teacher was that she was very fond of professional wrestling; in fact she was such a fan of professional wrestling that she had now begun fully integrating its content into her grade 2 classroom. As it turned out the DTD (dump the desk) was inspired by the DDT, a common wrestling move that involves the application of a headlock to an opponent, as their face is violently smashed into the ground. For an 8 year old it is very discouraging aspect of your schooling when the bully in your class is the teacher, and it can be even more discouraging to your manhood if the teacher is a woman in her late sixties.


Overtime a distrust of teachers developed in my life, which in turn allowed me to run astray from the rest of the kids in my grade. And though it sounds awesome to do your own thing when it comes to school, it is not a great long term strategy. Today, I am a third year university student with the inability to take seriously the pointless, overpriced education which I am currently receiving in the subject of Philosophy. The first two years seemed like an escape from home, rather than a worthwhile learning experience. In two years I hardly bought one textbook, and in two years my average remained just that: average. It seemed as though I had found my perfect match as far as my major. There was never any need to attend class, but yet I still seemed to keep up, as long as this trend continued surely a degree in Philosophy would be easy to obtain.

No one warned me, but in the third year of Philosophy there are uncanny amounts of readings assigned. Sure, this is a common practice around Universities; to overwhelm students with reading materials that they quickly forget right after they spend of all their time reading it. When these readings combine with the hours of class, and countless hours spent studying for essays, midterms, or exams, eventually you find yourself fully submerged within University. It becomes every part of your life, other than the Friday and Saturday nights you devote to habitual drinking and going clubbing. Never have I been interested in keeping up with the Kardashian’s, but even that seems like a more attractive option than devoting my life to keeping up with third year Philosophy courses.

This year so far has been nothing but valued time spent on material that I do not have any interest in learning. And all of this work seems for not if it all leads to just another shitty dead end job, which I am working just to pay off the debts of my time in school. And while to many to people that would be considered failing in life, it is just hard for me to get caught up in the notion that I must be working all the time in order to have a good life. Instead it just appears to me the opposite. Lastly, if in ten years you happen upon a homeless man touching himself to the sight of pedestrians whilst he sings Jim Croce – that is me: a man who finds ways to correlate his second grade teacher’s abuse towards him, with his impending failing out of University – please spare your change graciously.




Welcome All Gryphons!


Frank Zappa once said, “If you want to get laid, go to college. If you want an education, go to the library.” I must be some sort of exception to the rule, because I have been at the University of Guelph for a few years now, and all I have to show for it is the results of the latter. I mean if people are truly paying over ten thousand dollars each year to be schooled somewhere like Guelph, does that implicate University as the most expensive form of prostitution available? And if this were at all true would it make OSAP Canada’s most lucrative P.I.M.P’s?

The weirdest part of my inability to get girls at the University I attend is that there is said to be a four girl to one guy ratio, or in small town terms the ratio is said to be at four girls to every Bass Pro Shop hat, yet I have never personally experienced this, it is what people tell me about Guelph. If it is true though there is some dude out there who owes me big time, because I am not anywhere near four women in my time at school. Maybe it is time I stop using Frank Zappa quotes every time I talk to girls, and to get myself a new hat!


Tinder’s Finest

The Jewish Skinny Pete

The Jewish Skinny Pete


Ever since my recent change in profile picture on Facebook my luck at finding matches on tinder has entered into an entirely different stratosphere altogether. It seems as though girls everywhere are jumping at the opportunity to get to meet the real man in the photo posted above, just so that they can rule out any possibilities that he is a mere myth. It is hard to determine whether girls like me for my lank or because I most resemble skinny Pete from Breaking Bad, but the fact of the matter is I do not get a lot of girls, nor does my aforementioned non-existent Tinder account.

From my understanding Tinder is everything wrong with how we come to meet the people we end up sleeping with. It is basically like the weed of online dating sites, which gateways you into a world of deaf dating. Boys and girls alike are provided with the opportunity to get in contact with each other, solely based on whether or not each person is attracted to the others profile picture on Facebook. Basically, if you want to meet someone shallow then get the fuck on Tinder, and make good use of Photoshop. Once you find your creepy match and they find you, the two of you are free to text each other about all of your common interests, which likely include but are not limited to: judging people you do not know based on their looks, the amount of time each of you spends staring into a mirror daily, or how the two of you both became so lonely and horny that you were willing to get in contact with any decent looking thing you could find within Tinder distance. Tinder is the gateway into a Lavalife that teenagers and pedophiles everywhere have turned to for easy online dating, and desperate hookup attempts.

My hope for Tinder is that it begins to play advertisements on TV like those eHarmony ones you always see running. You all know those eHarmony advertisements; the ones with the couples talking about how eHarmony saved their love life, with This Will Be playing in the background. The couples always look like they are sponsored by old navy, and they all make mention of how they met, or some bullshit. And as that is being said captions appear under the couples that read things like “Todd and Brenda – happily married 3 years”. You would think that these advertisements could not possibly become more pathetic, but then we got Tinder, and suddenly hope has been restored. I can picture it now: couple after couple talking about how they met through Tinder, This Will Be playing in the background, as captions like “Michael and Eleanor – had sex 3 times, don’t know each other’s name” appears bellow old navy catalogue couples talking about their Tinder experience.

Welcome to the world of online dating for those who have only given up a majority of their hope, or as it’s known to its users, welcome to Tinder.



Confidence is for pussies.

Is there any moral component of confidence left in the guys at clubs, or is confidence only exclusive to those who will harass basically anything? I only ask this because often in attempts to cheer me up whenever I feel down, my friends let me know that I don’t get any women ever when we go out clubbing because I am not confident enough. And that is such a relief to hear, because I always think the reason I don’t score is because I am too ugly. I love learning new things! It makes me more confident in myself.

A lot of people will change their habits once a personal flaw becomes clear to them, but I am not a lot of people, I am but one person. And so what I like to do is embrace my flaws. And I embrace none quite like my lack of confidence. When Jacob Balshin sees a really attractive girl at a club shoot him a look, he typically runs the other fucking way. Because that’s just how I roll. Hell, if there was a naked supermodel stranded on the side of the road that happened to be holding a sign that read “help me for sex, and tons of candy”, I would drive by, and avoid staring. And that is hard because I am a struggling candy addict. It has gotten weird though because on the odd occasion I go to the club, and all I do is stare. But I guess just being at a nightclub involves such low level of respect for oneself that you can get away with something like staring.

My lack of confidence at nightclubs allows me to look on and gain the valuable perspectives on our generation needed never to act like a part of it. It unfolds before me like a special on BBC, that happens to be centered on how shitty couples first come to meet. As it turns out the hottest dance craze which has swept through seedy nightclubs everywhere is that of grinding. And this is how these confident guys tend to meet girls in such a setting. The dictionary I found online applied the following definition to grinding – “to rotate the pelvis erotically, as in the manner of a striptease.” And who is performing this beautiful display of rhythmic art? Well it is none other than whatever guy is confident enough on any given night to grab a girl from behind and begin gyrating his ball sack on her arse. Yes it takes a man with an extremely low amount of self-respect to grind a girl, and it is what makes confidence amongst men in clubs entirely paradoxical.

It is always either the drunkest guy who you see at a club grinding on a girl, or it is that guy who really wants publicly to display his levels of hornyness, but has never gotten the memo on chat roulette. As I watch this I can’t help but want to know more about these people who spend their weekends thrusting the nights away. For example, you have always heard sappy love stories on TV like “How I met Your Mother”. I cannot wait until that show applies to our generation. Truly I long for the day when two fuckups have to explain how they first met at a nightclub to their kids. Literally, some mom is going to be obliged to look her tiny innocent children dead in their little faces and tell them: “well kids it is hard to pinpoint the moment I knew your dad would be the man I would marry. He appeared as everything I had ever imagined my future husband would be at first; he looked like he had never left the gym, picked up a book, or spent a weekend sober. And I will never forget how he walked over to me, looked me dead in the back of my head, and began to rub his gentiles right on my ass, because I think it was at that moment I realized that he was the man that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.” Truly I hope that I build the confidence to make these my kids. But every time I try I get intimidated.

One time I heard a girl complain to her friend that the guy she was grinding with had gotten a hard-on. It was a weird complaint at the time because she was saying it about me, to someone else, and her words had rattled me to my very core. I could not understand what the girl was expecting when she began to grind her ass against my junk. The very idea of an erection is that they are often caused by the asses of girls, and that we have barely any control over them. But in my time alone at the club, I eventually came to my senses on this one, and realized that every guy at a bar is expected by girls like this to be so drunk that they have limp dick, and therefore could not possibly get hard from grinding. Since this incident I have retired from the grinding game, and hung up my boots. It is not that I do not love the game, because truly I love the grind, it is just that I never intended on hurting anyone when it all started. Grinding has changed – it is not what it used to be when we were innocent kids, and we grinded the night away to soulja boi inside some sketchy all ages club. Maybe what I am trying to say is that I wish we could go back to a time where we all lacked confidence, our mouths were filled with braces, and acne spread rampantly.