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.


I Have A Secret Admirer…Kind of.


I was done with psychic game. I have been out for a while now, living a respectable, legitimate life. The allure of giving strangers readings over the phone impersonating “Farah the psychic” had worn off. But that has not stopped the people from calling. Even though I have been turning down readings telling callers that this was indeed the wrong number, the real Farah seems to still be taking in clients…and winning over their hearts.

It was a regular Friday night when I received a text from an unknown number asking how I was.  I responded that I was well, but had to regretfully inform the texter I didn’t know who they were. Things escalated quickly when I was told it was a secret admirer.


At this point I was unaware that the texter was not seeking me, but Farah. I played along unsure if this was a prank or real,  so I gave snarky responses.


The texter was keen on a date. Asking me questions about my ideal date.


Screenshot_2013-11-25-15-32-21Then the gender was revealed when HE asked me what kind of guy I am usually into. The fun began.


He was pushing for dinner with me the following evening. I asked if he lived in a house. He said yes. I informed him I do not go to stranger’s houses. This is when he informed me that we had met previously. I had given him a reading. Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in. I had again assumed the identity of Farah, Psychic and Spiritual healer.


We flirted, playing the name game.


Things escalated when I asked for pics.


He has a kind eye


I asked if he was an innie or outie.


Definitely an innie.

He quickly caught onto my game though.


I can relate.

 He was blunt with me. I liked that. Had I been Farah I may have actually give him a chance, had he not sent me a picture of his belly button of course.

I agreed to a date for Sunday. He wanted to take me to a Scandinave Spa.


He knew a lot about spas.

We learned a little bit more about each other, before I bid him goodnight.


It was nice to feel wanted, even if it wasn’t really me Curious George desired.

Read about my last encounters as Farah.


Whats Your Thing?


I do not have many childhood memories. For some reason I just can’t remember much- unless it happened this morning. My theories on this are that:

  1. I had a terrible childhood
  2.  I’ve been in a roofie circle my whole life
  3.  I am dumb.

I don’t have any evidence of any of the three, but my detective skills are more comparable to a salami sandwich than Sherlock Holmes. BUT! One thing from my childhood that stands out today is that 90’s commercial where the kid makes T-Rex noises and the girl yells “MOM! AIDEN CUT ME IN HALF AGAIN!” the commercial fortifies the message of “Everybody’s got to have a thing? What’s your thing?”

This commercial came to mind because of a conversation I had with two friends last night. We were sitting around, and it came to me that both were pursuing a future that related to the things they were passionate about. One friend has extensive film and cinematography knowledge; spewing off facts about different types of cameras and effects. He’s in film school and the guy genuinely just loves movies more than anything. The other sat playing guitar singing. Playing his music and of the bands he loves. When you go to his room it’s covered in posters of his favorite artists. Basically what I’m saying is that when you think of these two guys you think of their respective passions instantly.

I decided to ask them, what they thought of when they thought of me. If they thought one thing about me and what I would be in the future, what would it relate to? The answer: Coke. I am a beverage.

If Duff Man can do it, so can I?

If Duff Man can do it, so can I?

How the hell did I become synonymous with a drink? My passion is a carbonated liquid!? What the hell am I going to do with that? Can I make money by just drinking coke? Is that a future? Is that even really a passion? Yeah I love Coca-Cola and have many collectibles and such of the product, but that isn’t a skill or something someone does. If someone asks me what I enjoy doing, what I am passionate about, I’m supposed to answer: “I like to drink coke?”

This commercial has really got me going. Everyone is passionate about something. But are they? I don’t know if I’m truly passionate about anything. I’m not an expert on any subject. I watch a lot of movies and TV shows, but I can’t spew off plot points and quotes about the series and movies I love. I listen to a lot of music, but I don’t know every album or the names of all the band members. I made this thought aware to my friends and they said “well you also like social media!” You know what’s worse than being passionate about a 350ml can of sugary heaven? Being passionate about something that is just a means of self-promotion. They basically said I am passionate about myself. Oh the narcissism.

This post doesn’t really have a point. While I go out to discover my passion, I ask you the questions: Do you have a passion? Is there something you as a person are associated with?

Read my last blog about onesies.


Onesies: The Garment Of Kings


I was blind but now I see. If you had spoken to me a while ago about clothing, I would tell you that you must dress to impress at all times. People are always saying “if you look good, you feel good.” I don’t know who they are, but I have been living by their motto for a while. I’ll never leave the house in sweatpants. To me putting on sweatpants and entering the world is saying “Well Sam, you have given up on today.”Some people aren’t ready to sacrifice comfort for a nicer outfit. I don’t blame them. But I believe I have discovered the ultimate solution to the age old paradox of style and comfort.

Four months ago I made a decision that would change my life forever. Like Gandhi, I have had an epiphany about existence. This seemingly trivial action I made has opened my eyes to a world of bliss. I am not here to preach upon you and tell you how you should live your life. I am here merely to share the wisdom I have gained, and hope to spread my state of euphoria with you. Four months ago I purchased a onesie, and it has changed my life forever.


A man is but the product of his clothes. What he wears, he becomes.

At birth, when exiting the womb, newly born children are placed in a full body pyjama. This jumpsuit offers the warmth and care an infant desires. One piece of clothing that encapsulates the whole body, like the embrace of a hug. But, as we grow, we progress from one piece of clothing, to two. We are told we must wear outfits that are separated. One article for your legs, one for your torso. I am here to tell you those days are behind us. Why should infants be the only ones who get to feel the eternal cuddle of life? They can’t even talk, move, or contribute anything but bodily fluids. We as fully grown beings need the onesie-heck, we deserve it.

It started  off just around the house. Once I was done work for the day I would pull off my business casual outfit and crawl into my fully body suit of affection and lounge out. Days turned to weeks and soon, I was no longer wearing pyjamas. The habit quickly spread. If I needed to hop in the car briefly, I would go in the onesie. It was just in the car after all.

One evening I was entertaining a female guest. I had been in my onesie and thought it would be best if I changed into something more “acceptable” before she arrived. I had informed her of my wardrobe change and to my surprise she replied saying had she known, she would have worn hers. What could have ensued was a onesie date; the date of dates. But because of my naive thought that my one piece pyjama would not be acceptable for her, I missed out on one the greatest events a human can experience. From that moment on, I have not changed out of my onesie for any occasion. I have gone to friends houses, restaurants, even movies- all in my onesie.

One day Sam, One day.

Onesie Date. One day Sam, one day.

Sweatpants and a sweatshirt say “Yo, I’m lazy, and don’t give a fuck about anything.” Onesies on the other hand say “Hey, I’m comfortable and fun, embrace me.” Onesies are customizable and come in many different styles and designs that are not only fashion forward, but are a great way to express yourself. Whether you like pop culture, casual style, or unicorns, there is a onesie that is right for you. I promise.

Four months since my original purchase, I have expanded my onesie collection. I wear them from 6:00 PM onwards every day, and almost all day on weekends if I can. Many people think I am crazy. They think onesies are dumb, useless, childish. But they just have not entered the higher state of being that I am in. Everybody said “boy don’t go any higher.” To them I say “uh uh, Fuck that, I can do anything.”

My imaginary friends.

My imaginary friends.

Read my last blog about how working out is for suckers.


Working Out Is For Suckers


To all the ladies who were thinking to themselves “if Sam were just a little more muscular, I would totally be down” I have a few things to say: I am giving up on getting muscular and fuck you. For two years I have had an on again off again, will they won’t they relationship with working out. I was going to work out not to be healthy, but to be hunky. I had a mentality that if I didn’t get my movie star body, I would not be able to get the girl of my dreams(who changes daily and can range from fictional movie character such as Norah form Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist to the blow up doll from Lars and the Real Girl).


Maybe a fleshlight is more practical.

My attempted transformation from lanky and underweight to muscular and photoshopped has been labeled Operation Taylor Lautner, and like the namesake actors career- today, the operation is over. My days of GTL, Gym Tan Laundry, minus tan and laundry, are no more.

It all started two years ago after a gut-wrenching rejection by a female. I said to myself “if only I was muscular, if only my tits exploded from my 3 sizes too small shirt, if only I was big like Tom Hanks- that girl would have been all over me.” So with my defeated state of mind, I began working out. Without any real routine I lifted weights in my dorm room daily. The results didn’t come quick enough, which is unusual for me, so I gave up.

Last year round two began as I thought to myself “girls don’t care about arms they care about toned, rock hard abs.” A friend told me my anorexic frame was perfect to get abs easily and if I did Ab Ripper P90x, I would see results in no time. I began doing the program four times a week for eight months. But again the results I wanted did not come, like all my female partners.

At the end of this past summer I decided this was it. Round three, it was time to join the gym and get on a routine. I committed myself to going 2-3 days a week. For 2 months I kept up this regimen. I would lift weights, drink 3 protein shakes a day, and I even ate egg whites. But again, no one was coming, and I have finally decide I am ok with it. Working out sucks anyways.

Some people get that workout high, they exclaim there is no better feeling than the one you get after a workout.  Well all I felt after working out was nauseous. I am nauseous enough in my life as it is. Unless you are a devoted bulimic, nausea is not euphoric.

Also, food is too good. They say you need to eat right and eat well to get a hot bod. I definitely eat well- but not in a healthy sense. I love eating out! I like to make my way down to a restaurant or fast food joint every day if I can. I just can’t give up the gluten, calories, and my taste buds, to eat Kale and  assorted legumes- all for the sake of massive arms.

At this point, if you are still reading, you are probably thinking “all this sounds great! You were eating better, getting regular exercise, if you keep it up, the results will come and you will be muscular and healthy!” The issue is, I do not care to be healthy. I really enjoy being lazy. I am 5’10, 130 pounds, and 20 years old. I can worry about my health when I’m dead. I was only doing it to get girls and I have decided that I am happy to play the part of the quirky lanky awkward guy. If my belief in “life is a movie” is correct, which my imaginary friend Theodore T. McGuffin assures me it is, according to the classic Hollywood trope  I should get a quirky girl whose out of my league very soon.

Awkward = Lanky = Hot Girls

Awkward + Lanky = Hot Girls. #Math

Read My last blog: The Etiquette of A Drunken Stupor


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.

Read my last blog here


The Etiquette Of A Drunken Stupor


I know what you are thinking, “Oh Sam, how creative, a blog post about Rob Ford smoking crack. Aren’t you original?” I understand your dry sarcastic tone, and I don’t like it, so cut it out. I am going to write this blog, and you are going to freaking like it.

Let’s begin! For those who have a social life and don’t have time to check their Twits, Foosebooks, Instahollers, SnoopyDoop Chats, and other Medias, I will break some news to you here, right now. The mayor of Toronto, Rob Ford, smoked crack-cocaine*.

*Does no one else find it absolutely hilarious the way the media says “crack-cocaine?” Just say it out loud in a formal tone. Imagine your not so with-it dad saying “crack-cocaine”. Why don’t they just say crack or cocaine? Why is it hyphenated like the last name of a child with divorced parents? I digress.

After many a months of denial the mayor admitted to smoking “crack-cocaine”. He attributed the use of that frosty coco snow to a drunken stupor. The mayor was so inebriated that he was in a state of unconsciousness, or as we kids like to say; he was white girl wasted. In this condition, he somehow managed to stumble into a bad neighborhood, meet up with some thugs, enter their den of fun, and was offered “crack-cocaine.” He responded, by of course, smoking that sweet dome of the rock.



As a young adult, I must say when I speak as the voice of my generation, that I’m a professional at drunken stupors. I have filled 2-3 days a week for the last 2 years of my life with them. But, I have yet to stumble my way into smoking “crack-cocaine.” My problem with the mayor of Toronto smoking “crack-cocaine” isn’t that of politics. It is that he has single-handedly ruined the ability for us funyons (fun young people) to continue to use the excuse of being in a drunken stupor. He has completely discredited the trump card we use to rationalize our behavior.

We should not be able to just write anything off as a drunken stupor. We have to be accountable at some point, and that point probably starts around doing “crack-cocaine.” Mayor Ford, I do not accept your excuse, you went over the line, and your actions have hurt my ability to get drunk and make poor decisions.

Stuporing about as a Youth.

Stuporing about as a Youth.

I have forged a list of activities that are acceptable to be written off as amicable while in a drunken stupor that may or may not resemble my Saturday night.

1. Urinate in Public. When you’ve got to tinkle, let it sprinkle. We all know the doomed breaking of the seal, the stream never ends! When you are drunk, it is perfectly fine to urinate wherever you want. According to Freud, your Id needs to be satisfied, and it wants you to pee, so pee.

2. Text girls. There is nothing wrong with texting a girl sentences that seem coherent at the time. They don’t call alcohol liquid confidence for nothing. Everything you do when drunk seems like the right thing to do, and it probably is. Get the 3 D’s across while dickered. Be sure to slur your desires, dreams, and devotions over a text to any girl. You won’t regret it.

3. Vomit nonchalantly. Vomiting is a spiritual act. It literally cleanses your body of bad omens. I recommend vomiting often for health and religious purposes. But, we can’t always be fortunate enough to have the flu! Vomiting is tough to initiate, which is why drunken stupors are the perfect time to throw up. Go for it! Binge and purge wherever and whenever you want! On a sidewalk, your friends sink, David Memling’s snack bowl. Heave your night away!

4. Eat cheap Chinese Food. Never in your sober life should you say “this $3 Chinese food seems like the best idea!” But you are in a drunken stupor, that swine-infected chow mein is just what the doctor ordered! Fill your face with hot and spicy soup that has the consistency of freshly donated semen, you deserve it!

5. Throw Knives. You love ninjas! This is the perfect time to begin your training. Grab any household knife: bread knife, carving knife, kitchen knife- whatever your heart desires. Take said knife and throw it anywhere! Aim for your parents’ vase that dates back to Paris, 1867 or the assorted fruit above your friends head. You are in a drunken stupor, and you are a ninja, IT’S FINE!



Alcohol unlocks the door to weird. It takes us on journeys we wish we could remember. As fun as alcohol can be, we must be sure that when participating in a drunken stupor we limit our extremes to menial things like a break dance fight, taking shirtless photos with your bros, and casual discussions about Ryan Gosling. We can’t push the limits of what is acceptable while stuporing around, or else we will lose the ability to use it as a legitimate excuse. Getting off on that “crack-cocaine” is beyond the boundaries. This is why I call upon all young-adults who are part of the intoxication-nation to demand an apology from Mayor Rob Ford, for wasting OUR legitimate excuse on something so absurd. He has tarnished our excuse, and who knows if it will ever be acceptable again.

The next time you show up at work hung-over, and your work suffers, prompting your boss to ask for an explanation, and she no longer accepts “I was in a drunken stupor last night” as a valid response- you know there is only one person to blame for your misfortune: Rob Ford.

Read my last blog on Movember!


Mo Moustache Mo Celibacy


Since the dawn of time, man has yearned to embellish his face with a stylized patch of hair. That growth of hair upon a man’s upper lip has become legend in the mythos of Manhood. Yet due to fear of female disapproval, today only the bold, brave and hipster adorn these whiskers year-round. But once a year, men are encouraged to step out from the 5 o’clock shadow and embrace their ancestors.

No Lay November, or Movember as it is officially called in the calendar is the one month a year where I am useful to society. If you have kept up with the Kardashians (the blog) you surely know that I am Sasquatch reincarnate. For the next few weeks my abundance of hair comes in handy, as I am able to grow a moustache to raise funds for prostate cancer awareness and to keep girls away from my face.

For 30 days I have pledged my face to charity and myself to an unwanted celibacy. Although my social life seemed grim anyways, I am going to blame my misfortune for the course of the month on my puke-inducing “moustache.”

You Would Not Kiss me With This Facial hair...Would You?

Day 4: You Would Not Kiss me With This Facial hair…Would You?

You say, Sam, that’s nice of you, but what do you care about prostate Cancer and why should I? The answer is simple, I may be young…but one day in my future I will have a lubricated finger shoved up my rectum, and I assure you, it will not be for my personal pleasure. Some symptoms of prostate cancer include:  pain, difficulty in urinating, problems during sexual intercourse, or erectile dysfunction. None of these are something I or anyone else should desire to be ailed by in their lifetime.

So donate to my campaign, so we can help find a cure for prostate cancer, before I ever have to deal with it.

Donate to my campaign: https://www.movember.com/ca/donate/payment/member_id/1609052/

My Mo Space for updates on my growth:  http://MoBro.co/samberns


Me in 20 Years


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


Say Hello To My Little Scarf


Tomorrow is the scariest day of the year- Halloween. Like New years, I think Halloween is a time for us to sit back, reflect, and look forward. On New Year’s we contemplate our year past and set goals for the new one. On Halloween we think of our deepest fears, the old and new ones that will creep up on us between now and a year’s time.

Many people fear death, spiders, clowns- to name a few. I, like everyone, have fears that are akin to the masses. But for the last few weeks I have had a larger, warmer, fashionable fear: scarves.

Scary Scarf

I don’t know if it is the scarf itself, or the idea of becoming a guy that wears a scarf that scares me. Possibly both. But the fear is becoming more prevalent in my mind, and I may be going down a path there is no returning from.

Whether we like it or not, the cold weather is upon us. I know this not because I am a meteorologist, but because I can feel it in my bones. As I walk down the street every morning the coldness seeps into my nipples, tickles my neck, and intrudes my nostrils. An idea has been rolling around in my head for a while. The idea that I could…maybe should…even need to get a scarf.
I’m not speaking one of those flimsy scarves you wear indoors. I can’t cross that line. Although I have begun to embrace some hipster tendencies, I need to stop at a certain point, and I think an indoor scarf is pushing boundaries I am not prepared to go beyond…yet. I am speaking of a purely outdoor, heat inducing scarf.

This seems useful

The issue is scarves are also for style and speak a lot to the wearer. In my eyes it takes confidence to pull off a scarf. Confidence I am afraid I may not possess. Yesterday I went to H&M and attempted to put on some scarves. My scarf shopping companions picked some out for me, even wrapped them around my neck in different shapes and knots. Despite being told it looked good, which I obviously knew it did, it didn’t feel good. So many thoughts entered my head. Besides the style factor, there are many other issues. How many would I need? Do all scarves go with all outfits? What do I do with it once I am inside?

Gosling in a Scarf

As I looked in the mirror I saw a version of myself I was scared to embrace. Scarf Sam. Who is this Scarf Sam? What does he enjoy? What does he stand for? I don’t know. All I knew was that Scarf Sam scared me. I decided to hold off on the purchase of a scarf…for now.

As Halloween dawns on us, I reflect back on my shop scarfing experience. Fear surges down my spine at the thought of my neck wrapped with a fashionable winter accessory. I was told “once scarf is worn, prepare for the scorn.” These words haunt my every thought. The weather grows cold, my neck yearns for warmth. Yet, I am unable to take the leap from regular Sam to scarf Sam. Outdoor scarves are the gateway scarf to indoor scarves. People always say a scarf is not addictive or habit-forming, but that’s what they always say about apparel.

Similar to Al Pacino in the movie SCARFACE I seem to be quickly changing from an everyman to a monster. Guided by my rise to power and fame, my style and character have been quickly changing. I am close to becoming the unimaginable- a man in a scarf. I see my future now. I am in my hipster paradise playing an indie-rock bands Vinyl on my record player as I eat prosciutto and thickly sliced cheese. I sit there in my indoor scarf. Soon I am surrounded by intruders, looking to take me down for my elegant scarf wearing ways. I prepare for the attack. I run to my scarf closet and once my enemies enter the small metro area apartment I yell “say hello to my little scarf!” As SCARFFACE I shower them with scarves of all sizes and colours, strangling them until their necks are warm with silk, wool, and cotton.

Once you wear a scarf, you always wear a scarf, even when you’re not wearing a scarf.


Read my last blog Ping Me Baby One More Time