Category Archives: You Stupid Dick

Dear Bell Canada…

You Stupid Dick

Dear Bell Canada,

Thank you for your invoice for $4.22 on the final payment on my late father’s telephone bill.

I do apologize for missing your bill due date, automatically generated by your crack billing department, by 72 hours. I guess my only excuse is that I was busy cleaning out my father’s effects to be on top of your deadline. While I did manage to close out his account over the phone (and thank you for trying to keep his account open while I was talking to your rep) and I did pay the outstanding balance in full, albeit a couple days late, I hope that you can forgive me for not promptly paying this huge bill of $4.22. I just figured your 84% profit increase (somewhere over a billion dollars! Bravo!) for 2009 would distract you from this $4.22 I owed you, but apparently you need it much more than I thought.

I do hope you can put the $4.22 to good use. I hope that my contribution to your corporation, in my late father’s name, can enrich your company to new levels of customer service. With this money, may I suggest you hire someone to actually monitor what your utterly heartless billing department computers are doing when faced with estate handling? I’m assuming it was an utterly heartless computer since no human would actually ask for $4.22 from a dead man. Oh sure, I’d understand $50 or something higher, but for a billion dollar company to ask for $4.22 because a bill was 3 days late seems to me like no human with any kind of soul attached to it, would let this be sent out by mail. Twice. If I’m wrong, then I bet if Bell Canada was an actual physical human body, they’d be the guy in the back of the hall, eating from the buffet, muttering how cheap the tuna fish finger sandwiches, crusts removed, are.

With all this being said and speculated on, I will state here, that if an electromagnetic pulse were to go off over all the other Communications companies here in Canada, effectively wiping them off the business map, and for some miracle, yours was the only infrastructure left for internet/telecommunications/cable provisions, I would rather cut my own liver out with the paper edge of your god damned $4.22 bill, and serve it to a room full of starving cats than give you one more dime.

With warmest fuck yous.

Dead Robot

Update: a mystery cheque has arrived!

Its In The Fog!

Toronto, Travel, You Magnificent Bastard, You Stupid Dick

I’m standing outside SharkBoy’s office, looking at the CN Tower through the skyscrapers thinking how hazy the day is, despite the sun being out in full force. The tower looked like it was an overexposed photo. I shake my head and think I’ve been reading too many How To Photography books.

SharkBoy exits his office and his smiling face lights up my heart. Long weekend! New York Here We Come!

Later, we’re settled in our seats on Flight 113 to Newark. The props haven’t started up despite the plane being 15 minutes late. SharkBoy mentions that fog is rolling in. We wait.

An announcement comes over the PA. Since the plane will be flying in fog, they need to lighten the aircraft by 6 passengers. Those who leave the plane will get the next available flight and a $100 credit. No one leaves and everyone starts to look at each other to see who will blink. Someone yells out “Only $100?!”. After a time the shift supervisor boards the plane with the manifest. She’s… headed straight for us!!

Since we paid the cheapest fare, we’re first off the plane. How this is fair, I have no clue – we’re penalized because we purchased early? And wanted to save some bucks? But I bite my tongue. The aircraft itself is no place to start into something like this, even though SharkBoy tosses out a few cautionary comments about how is this unacceptable. We debark the plane. I’m angry but more embarrassed to be the first people walked off. The hot stares that laser the words “You poor suckers”, burnt into the back of my head as I curtly brush past the apologetic flight attendant.

I’m still not clear why a plane has to lighten it’s load in heavy fog. I may never know. I don’t care right about now.

Since we were first off that meant we were first to see the supervisor who had no clue we were coming back from the plane. No one informed the clerical staff that the ground crew were booting people off the plane and we were met with confusion. SharkBoy is ready to pop. I take a less combative stance and try to figure out what to do next with the shift supervisor. She’s not frazzled but at the same time, she’s got a lot on her plate as more people come off our plane and others are being delayed and eventually cancelled. I have to say while I’m mad (at the weather – how useless is that?) I did have a nice bonding moment with Allison (Ashtor?). We confessed to each other that we hated flying but loved travel.

In the course of the next couple hours I went back to her to stay informed as to out status. Allison (Ashley?) was dealing with one woman who demanded, quite literally, that Porter change the weather. Seriously, she was complaining that Porter had no back up plan for bad weather. Uh… Wot? She was the kind of woman who would jump the queue “just to ask one question” that turned into 5 and ended with her rolling her eyes and not listening to what the staff were telling her (Which she did repeatedly, cell phone hanging off her Holt Renfrew spa toned face). The kind of person you wanted to accidentally walk into a turbo prop engine, Holt Refrew spa toned face first.

At about 7pm they shut down the airport completely due to the fog. We made arrangements for tomorrow morning. My last contact with Asllsionshey I started our conversation by telling her that she was doing an amazing job. And she was. I made mention that working at an airport on an island in a large lake must be frustrating more so than a land locked one. She confessed that if she drove into work and couldn’t see the CN Tower, she knew her day would be trouble.

I’ll take that to heart.

Wait Until The New Cars Come!

Overheard, You Stupid Dick

Subway, 4:15pm. Two girls and a guy enter at Rosedale station. They’re dressed like they’ve come right off the pages of a ZARA catalogue. They plant themselves in the doorway of the car.

Guy fusses with his vague military-esque like jacket thing as they speak in vocal sliding tones that resemble The Hills. Or they’re vocally texting each other. Either way, my ears start to puss up.

Girl #1: I hope your shirt comes off tonight. (ahhup yr shirt coms aff tunit).
Guy: This shirt is sooo hard to get off!
Girl #1: I hope your shirt comes off tonight! (said faster)

They laugh. But like a tired, bored laugh. Limp. Like you just told a fart joke to an English Lord. They pause.

Guy: (Looking at his reflection in the window) I wish they had Sophora lighting in here.

The Numbers Game

Amy, political, Toronto, You Stupid Dick

This just in! Breaking news from the city of Toronto. We now go to Amy, an ASL talking, Dead Robot Heavy Industries Political Correspondent. Amy?

Amy! Good Gorilla!
New big gorilla! Promise to stop eating Amy’s banana! Make banana go to smaller gorillas outside gorilla nest. Make choo choo train go through ground with no banana! But why Amy not get own banana? No worry, Amy! New deal! Get rid of most big gorillas and we only love new big Gorilla. But big gorilla break law. Big gorilla could murder someone on the steps of city hall and small outside gorillas still love. Amy think small outside gorillas are dumb.

Thank you Amy.

Couple points about last night’s vote:

While the numbers weren’t really that surprising, the speed at which they did come in, was. Thank god for algorithms that can calculate averages of political wins within 8 minutes of the polls shutting.

Twitter users are 90% liberal.

What was up with Hazel’s throat-dusty rant about “the media” when asked by CP24 if she was surprised she won again? Holy back off, grandma!

While commenting on Rob Ford’s weight is as equally unfair as commenting on Smitherman’s sexual preference, one is much funner to do than the other.

Smitherman’s speech was classy, yes. But that child needs some PR training. When Daddy says “Wave”, you better fucking wave, kid.

If you want a vision of Toronto for the next four years, see the fat fuck that cameras loved last night when Flounder won: air pumping to U2’s “Its a Beautiful Day”.

I said last night in my tweets that stand up comedians and political cartoonists will be rolling in the dough for the next while.

These certainly are interesting times.

Bumpy Ride

Toronto, You Stupid Dick

Subway, 8:04am. Front car. Somewhat crowded, not shoulder to shoulder, but getting there and I have my back against the driver’s cab wall when a man holding a coffee gets on and stands directly in front of me. He’s decided to keep an overstuffed knapsack well in place on his back in this crowded car – whatever. People should take them off in busy trains but I’ve given up riling against that stupid wall of stupidity long ago. His pack brushes against my iPhone a couple times so I hike it above the top of his bag and continue playing.

With every stop his knapsack bumps into my chest/stomach. Ugh. I have nowhere to go, either side of me has people. After the 5th bump I give the bag a gentle nudge forward. Enough to let him know it’s hitting me, not enough to be rude. He is holding coffee over the sitting people in front of him.

It continues for two more stations.

Without stopping my game or looking up from my screen, I push his bag hard to the right. No question as to why the sudden jolt. He whips around. I finally see that Mr Knapsack an adult (I was expecting a high school kid) and his eyes are angry.

“Your bag kept hitting me,” I say. My eyes focus and get decidedly more angrier than his. I’m in no mood for this shit.

“Sorry.”

He then stands perpendicular to me, sipping his coffee. His eyes light on my screen as I continue to play LUXOR on my iPhone.

I look up and lock eyes. He turns.

Yeah, that’s right, bitch.

Smrt Sixteen

You Stupid Dick

SharkBoy spies the truck from across the street.

“Smart Sixteen!” he shouts and goes into a spasmodic dance that is suppose to resemble some hip hop move.

If you’ve seen the bread commercial for Dempster’s Smart 16 bread (a healthy grain bread hidden in ultra bleached slabs of carbs) then you know that it has a permanent place in the city of Lame. In what looks like a Thorn Hill basement wreck room, filled with rosey cheeked kids doing…nothing… flies a loaf of bread. Shitty music starts up, like someone mashed their face against a keyboard with GarageBand open – and the kids start to shuffle around like while kid zombies trying to be urban kid zombies. The loaf of bread dances in the middle of the kids. Look mom, they’re eating it up!

If you know your cartoons, you’ll know that the original Smartman mascot for Dempsters was designed by John Kricfalusi. Look familiar? He created Powdered Toast Man from the Ren and Stimpy Show.

The original cartoon had Smartman, the superhuman loaf of bread coming to the rescue of Mom who didn’t know how to balance her spoiled kid’s diets. The commercial was somewhat ironic and with the same 50s ad flair as the PTM segments. I suspect when it came to a new ’round of commercials, Dempsters didn’t re-hire John K and went with someone who (unsuccessfully) copied the style but left out the cool irony.

My point? Oh right. SharkBoy dancing in the street…

So the truck has Smartman on the side but the picture of the kid, slightly out of focus, holding up a sandwich, in sharp focus, catches SharkBoy’s eye.

See the girl?

Yes... Her.

Her teeth. Are perfect...


How is it the bite out of the bread is so …uniform?

Does she have a hole punch for teeth?!

This is a fine example of how a great, funny ad campaign is ruined by people who just don’t get it. Or care.

Sip sip stir stir

You Stupid Dick

I’m stealing this from SharkBoy.

I have a new peeve. Yes! A new one, brought forward out of my periphery of hate by my husband not so long ago. He mentioned to me about people who take their time at creamer stations at cafes.

You know who they are. People who stand dead centre of the station and pour in their sugars or sweetners one at a time with copious amounts of stirring and sipping between packets.

Okay. I know you buttpussies are doing this to piss me off. If you’re utterly new to the experience of “coffee” then that’s the only time you can do this. If not, and this is at least your second or one millionth time to Tim Hortons or Starbucks or Coffee Crime, then YOU KNOW HOW MUCH TO PUT INTO YOUR COFFEE.

Grab, tear, pour, stir, lid and go. That’s all it takes. No humming to yourself, no staring off out the window as you wistfully stir your java.

If you did that in NYC or London, you would be knifed. By an old lady. I swear to god.

And what’s up with airplane food?

Cropdusting

The Bad, Toronto, You Stupid Dick

Last night, two stops from my destination, the subway decided to catch fire and I was forced, along with half of Toronto, to walk down Yonge Street.

I’m not complaining. I like a good walk after work. What got me pissed was having to walk behind a lot of smokers, which meant I had to endure clouds of second hand smoke and ashes blown in my direction. Ugh.

I’m sure you’ve heard of the Urban Dictionary version of “crop dusting“:

Passing gas in a stealth manor [sic], usually while walking through a crowd or a group, so that someone else gets blamed for the stench, or at the very least people besides the assailent [sic] must suffer it.

Yes. I did a couple last night.

The twist on this tale, my friends, is how I alert SharkBoy that I’m going to assail some poor bastard behind us. This is what I say:

“Okay so he gets off the bus and he’s standing in the middle of a field all alone. Crazy long shot of him utterly alone. Two roads converging in the middle of nothing. And him alone! And suddenly a plane comes from no where and brrrooooffmfppp! It tries to run him down! A plane. Tries to run down Carey Grant. Forget that if anything touches your prop on a plane, you instantly crash. But on the second pass, a machine gun is fired, so that’s ok…”

I could go on but by this time I’m all farted out. Now all I have to say is: “He gets off the bus and it’s like, nothing around!” poot.

Anyway, back to last night.

I’m about to pass this munchkin of a man who is smoking like a drag queen (draws in a toke, throws head back and with pursed lips, exhales in a thin fast stream of vile choke). As I approach, he looks over his shoulder to see if any buses are coming. We lock eyes. My eyes say “you dirty fucker” because I’ve had to endure a block and a half of his weird smoking and ash flicking. His eyes say “get over yourself, Mary”.

I cut in front and release the solitary Carey Grant from my ass.

Actually that’s where my story ends. No sharting, no coughing, no other incident. Sorry.