Reasons for committing suicide

Thinking about ending it? Don't just think about it. Consider flipping that off-switch if any of the following has happened to you:

• Coworker called you out for throwing out birthday cake
• Zipper broke on your laptop sleeve
• Ran for bus, left wallet at home
• Ill prepared to explain why browsing in incognito mode
• Finally decide to accept the advances of the homely girl that digs you; get rejected immediately
• Awkward run-in with ex-girlfriend's, ex-roommate's ex-girlfriend at a movie theatre
• Jerked off to someone else's porn (without knowing)
• Have to update Calibre every time you open it
• Referred to George Harrison as Geoff Harrison
• Knocked a baby over while holding a beer
• Can't get rid of that moldy smell in your towels

What's the worst that could happen?

A train station prophet was wrong

It occurs to me that exactly five years ago, a train station prophet foretold the transmogrification of my two-wheeler into a German automobile. Truth be told, that bike was stolen and so while it is possible that the long-pilfered frame and wheels were (somewhere, somehow) melted down and folded into a new 3-series, I doubt this is the case.

Besides, this would be a needlessly literal interpretation of that Asian man's pronouncements. He meant that I would no longer be riding a bike, but instead be driving a BMW (and not to put too fine a point on it, my own BMW) though this has not come to pass. I still ride around the city on two wheels, and neither my vocation or lifestyle or income admit of a luxury sedan at this time.

It's hard not to interpret this as a failure. Even though I didn't know this strange Chinese man loitering around the train station at sunset, I took his prediction seriously. Possibly because it was unsolicited but probably because it was positive and so personal. Over the years, I have forgotten the many suggestions of my inevitable failure, but I have not forgot this. I can't help but feel that I have let him down somehow.

That said, he was probably shit-bombed when he said that. I wonder if he remembers my face or his prophecy of so many years ago? What would he think that it has entered my catalogue of remembered thoughts?

Two space or not two space

I thought I would punch out this Public Service Announcement in regards to the usage of spacing after periods, and this site's policy thereof.

It's worth mentioning that I grew up fascinated by computers and anything remotely like them. When my mother signed up for a typing course at a community college, we inherited an old IBM typewriter (it looked like this) and I went crazy on it. I went even crazier when we picked up a badass electronic typewriter that could even erase text (so long as you hadn't moved on to the next line).

I didn't quite know how to type, but I learned from my mother that two spaces followed a period. Since all the other rules I followed seemed equally arbitrary, I didn't give this much thought. Sentence. Period. Space. Space. Another sentence. Space. Space. I internalized this rhythm, and when we finally got our first 486, I carried this habit forth into the electronic medium.

Two decades later with some learning in typography and a slap in the face from Slate, I realise that I've had it wrong all along. Not only does one space after a period look better, it is less wasteful and less effort to accomplish. It wins.

This is why you will see one space between periods from now on on The Slow Motion Suicides. I am considering hiring a young Chinese boy to correct my previous posts, but there are no immediate plans to do so. Depends on the boy really.

Underdogs Bite Upwards

Friends,

I'm not really technically or statistically minded, but fuck if I'm not obsessed with this site's analytics. It all started when the fine people at Blogger (and I really have no idea if they are "fine," it's more likely they are complete shitheads) added a "stats" tab. Now I can retroactively stalk the the dozens of people who accidentally make it to this site looking for ways to kill themselves (slowly, of course) or find discounts on facial tissues.

As it would turn out, half the traffic this site has ever received is thanks to another blog penned by an anonymous miscreant. That site is a lo-fi and moderately shitty-looking blog, in the way most blogspot sites are, but heavy on readable content in the way most Tumblelogs are not. Did you even know those gay-ass hipster-pages were called tumblelogs? You're welcome.

Now, I don't read the site. Not that it's poorly-written; quite the opposite in fact. It's a hilarious screed against nanny-state bull-jive written in the most British way possible. It's so dry, I have to moisturize after reading each post. It spreads on the anger so thick it's like smooth peanut butter; it really fills your mouth and sticks. A sample:

The antics of the antismoker are now so ludicrous that only a politician could be taken in by them. Unfortunately, we are plagued by low-energy politicians because the EU has banned the old tungsten ones. The current lot take ages to warm up and don't do much when they get there.

You can see why I don't read it: it's too damn good. Remember Deuteronomy 4:24? That's me in a fucking nutshell. But you ought to check it out loyal readers. The both of yiz.

Ta,

Harvey

Words I hate

I remember the first time I heard he expression "goody goody two shoes." It was so weird and alarming to my young ears I immediately dropped my toys, and imagine probably started crying too. It was in one of those shitty Rankin-Bass cartoons it's very utterance filled my head with a tonne of questions:

• did I just hear that?
• am I sure?
• what does that mean?

Okay, just three I guess. But I was plenty confused. I gathered through context and tone that this was meant derisively. I was also able to surmise from the "goody goody" that what was being mocked was altruism and mewling supplicating behaviour. I got all that. But "two shoes"? I hated hearing it. It made me angry, and twenty years later still does. Wikipedia doesn't help at all:

Goody Two-Shoes is a variation of the Cinderella story. The fable tells of GoodyTwo-Shoes, the nickname of a poor orphan girl named Margery Meanwell, who goes through life with only one shoe. When she is given a complete pair by a rich gentleman, she is so happy that she tells everyone that she has "two shoes". Later, Margery becomes a teacher and marries a rich widower. This earning of wealth serves as proof that her virtuousness has been rewarded, a popular theme in children's literature of the era.

What a lousy moral takeaway: if you're poor, a "rich gentleman" will surely stop by and purchase what you need for you. Oh, and if you can, try to marry a rich widower too. Be sure to brag about your shit.

Further reading reveals that the story author is unknown. Well, no shit. With such a paper-thin premise, I'd be embarrassed to take credit too. This story is long forgotten, but somehow this ungainly Victorian expression still thrives. Let's kill it please.

Reasons for committing suicide

You know, there are days and there are days. And sometimes one of those days should be your last. Dontcha think? Don't take my word for it. Here are some reasons to hasten death's hand to your lousy worthless throat:

• Outed by your wife
• Too much beauty in the world
• Really can't find that pen. (It was right. here. Are you sure you didn't take it?)
• Featured on NPR but not on This American Life
• Only one naked in the hot-tub
• Refuse to abandon your commonly held misconceptions
• Assume your Toad the Wet Sprocket CDs might be saleable on eBay
• Anorexia is taking too damn long
• Saw the forest, but not the trees
• Thought she was waving at you; partially waved back but corrected to fix hair at last minute
• Hate everything about yourself

I won't stop you.

On self-loathing

Is there really any other kind? I mean there's non-self-loathing but I believe that's called "hatred" (or "standard operating procedure" for the hardcore Musselmans among us). Truly, the most accurate target of loathing is oneself. For example:

Loathing the honeyed cakes, I Ionged for bread. - Cowley.

Now, I don't know who this Cowley cat is but really? That's a bit strong.  How can you loathe a honeyed cake? Or any kind of cake, really? I could understand: detesting, abhorring, rejecting, even hating a cake, but loathing is a step too far. Loathing is that deep, pristine sense of hatred that we can only feel for something we know as intimately as ourselves, viz., ourselves. We can only loathe that which we know inside and out; in fact, I would argue that loathing is the very phenomenon of knowing the essence of something completely. To understand something is to hate it. (You learn this in first year English Literature; this isn't news.)

And to those of you in the crowd that insist that you love yourselves (and not merely in an Onanistic way), I can only shake my head and squint my eyes in the powerful beam of your glistening denial. No one loathes him- or herself more than the person who claims to self-love. Besides, the type of person who loves herself (because men don't self-love unless lubrication is involved) probably enjoys the humor of Cathy Guisewite, which intellectually speaking is the equivalent of spray-painting Q.E.D. over everything I just said. Emotionally speaking, its the same as sobbing between mouthfuls of a red-velvet cake.

Self-love? Please. Self-hate! Self-loathe. It feels so right coming off the tongue and makes all the sense in the world. Honeyed cakes be damned.

Five Years

It occurs to me that five years have passed since I started this blog. The project started, in earnest, as a way to bring my enemies down a peg and woo ladies "teleblognetically." Obviously I have failed in in those efforts, but what have I actually accomplished in that time?

Word up:

• Writing a double-dactyl
• The craft of self-aggrandizement
• Endless listery
• Racism
• Mustard
• Perfecting my recipe for stream-of-conciousness pancakes
• Creating my own religion
• Making complaints not really worth writing about
• Alienating you, dear reader

I couldn't possibly explain why I've kept up this weblog for an audience of none. And stranger still, why I have this feeling that this project is far from finished. That I'm just as far in as I'll ever be out.  What do I hope to gain from this? Why am I here? Where is that pussy I promised myself? And are those Anna Nalick lyrics?

To all those questions, I can only supply what I promised at the outset; a resounding "go fuck yourself." There are no answers on the ground I tread. Nor is this wall of text climbing into the sky a magic beanstalk.

But it is a calendar. And looking back over the past five years, I see what this this blog is: a tree in a vast forest, stretching its arms to the sun, growing by only the smallest and imperceptible progress, and living in silent fear of an inevitable axe or chainsaw.

(Perhaps one day the forest will be felled altogether, in a controlled blaze or brushfire. But that would be at best, stretching the metaphor, and at worst, needlessly apocalyptic.)

So, I'll keep at it for another five years, and maybe longer if I haven't grown up by then. If you have any objections, go fuck yourself.

Your pal,

Harvey Kornbluth

Words I hate

Given the resources and time I'm certain I could prove mathematically, that anyone who uses the term "fortnight" is a complete douchebag.

There are exceptions of course.  For example, those swiped from the fifteenth century by time pirates.  But even in this rare circumstance, I would hope these confused time-travelers would be briefed on the appropriate use of the "F" word in our time period, viz. never.  Ever.

Barring the time pirate scenario, only the most rigorous farmers of douche whip out this anachronism. I can't understand why anyone would. Frankly, there are only two reasons to use this outmoded and obsolete junk-word:

1. You want to be appear clever by showing you know what "fortnight" means.
2. You willfully want to confuse anyone who doesn't know what "fortnight" means.

No matter how you slice it, you're a douche.  Why do you need to measure things in two-week periods anyway?  On the 'Bullshit Measurement of Time' scale it's nestled between 'Olympiad' and megaannums. Unless you're editing Silas Marner, you don't need to use the word "fortnight."

Besides, if something is going to happen in two weeks just drop the subject.  It's too far away for me to care.

I found this scrawled...

I wrote this late one night, prob-possibly high and poss-probably extremely high.  It appears to be the legend for a menu for a restaurant from the future. (You might want to read that again.) I'm not sure why the intoxicated me is so enraptured by the promise of things to come. God bless him, he tries so hard.  Fortunately, I know better; the future is nothing more than the past with more plastic and smoother corners.

Perhaps, if we're lucky, they'll approve those sex-domes I've always wanted, but more than likely:

• we will still wage wars with coloreds
• other coloreds will continue to starve
• people will bitch about download speeds
• cars will remain firmly on the ground
• George Clooney's appeal will continue unfettered
• Florida might finally disappear underwater and
• world politics will flop like a restless sleeper or else collapse into a fascist theocracy

Here's exactly what I wrote that night:

Captain Zoom's Outer Space Eatery

Background radiation = french fries
Hawking radiation = curly fries
Weak nuclear force = onion rings

Quasar = burger
Pulsar = cheese burger
Parsec = veggie burger

Supernova = milkshakes
White dwarf = sundae
Black hole = cola
Ever-increasing entropy = diet-soda
Nebulae =

And that's where I leave off, unable to think of a suitable candidate for "nebulae."  Since we're here, can I offer perhaps, "root beer"?  Or "Sprite"?

I'm not sure what the purpose of this was, or how I thought I was ever going to use this.  Besides, reviewing it now, it seems so implausible that an Earthling of the Future would walk into a restaurant and order a "pulsar with a side of Hawking radiation and a black hole."

Actually, that sounded amazing.  Was I planning on opening a restaurant?  Where would I get the seed money?  I must have had some sort of a plan.  (It's also possible that I thought you could literally fashion these food items out of the astronomical phenomena listed.  I was baked, dude.)  The problem with high me, is that he's frightfully optimistic.  I know the success rate of restos in this city.  Something tells me Captain Zoom's wouldn't cut it.

Words I hate

Jewnatalia.  It's possible that I (just) invented this crude portmanteau, but that doesn't mean I like it.  On a related note, how is it that there are no porn stars named Jenna Talia?  It seems like a no-brainer to me.

After a quick Google search, nevermind.

But since we're here, how about the term "no-brainer"?  This expression should be dropped like it's hot from the English language.  And ditto "dropped like it's hot."  And I would also add: "ditto."

Drink more milk

Those dairy clowns are at it again.  Never satisfied with our level of milk intake, the Dairy Farmers of Ontario have put together a helpful list of ways to jack-up the amount of dairy you're consuming.  For example:

Add two containers of yogurt to your lunch box: one for your snack and the other for your lunch.

One yogurt isn't enough for these people.  Have two.  We're already eating yogurt.  They're just politely asking us to double our intake.

Insert a wooden stir stick in individual containers of fresh cheese and freeze them to make delicious frozen snacks.

I'll get right on that. I'm sure these homemade cheese popsicles are as delicious as they sound.  Why can't I just eat the cheese as is?  Who does this?

Opt for a yogurt drink to quench your thirst.

Nothing quenches your thirst like the viscous glug of a Yogurt drink.  That's why we see so many athletes chugging yogurt after the big game.  So refreshing.

Stir in a bit of skim milk powder to your cooking and baking. An excellent way to add calcium to all your dishes!

Oh, is that all? Just keep some powdered milk handy and add it to everything I fucking make.  Thanks for keeping it specific and limiting your reach to my "cooking and baking."  I guess I won't stir it into my orange juice or jell-o shooters.

You know, I think I might go for a run and then pound a couple of Yops.  Then I'll go down on a container of Sour Cream. You'd like that Big Milk, wouldn't you?  You sick fucks.

Just because you're born in a parking lot...

...doesn't mean you're white trash.  You are however, probably some form of trash.

Baby born in parking lot.

Okay, fine.  She looks adorable.  But I'm not changing my policy on babies born in Windsor, namely, they are probably some form of trash.

Bigger is better

In case you were wondering, this blog* can also be reached by using the following, easy-to-remember, Huge Url:

http://www.hugeurl.com/?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

For the cocky touch typist with a photographic memory and a penchant for alphanumeric strings.

Enjoy.


*Ha! More like slog, am I right? Eh? Aw, forget it.

Still smoking

Recent research has described the hazards of third-hand smoke. Being that smoking is our second-favourite form of slow motion suicide (after popping crank (or ice, or tina, or shabu)) we have decided to provide for you, gentle reader, an ordinal catalogue of the degrees of danger of this decadent and deliciously enjoyable drug.

(We have also formed a commitment to the first person plural.)

The degrees of smoking:

1st hand smoke: breathing in smoke from a cigarette.
2nd hand smoke: passively inhaling vapours in a smoke filled environment.
3rd hand smoke: coming in contact with smoke residue in furniture and clothing
4th hand smoke: shaking the hand of a smoker
5th hand smoke: breathing in second hand smoke through a HEPA filter
6th hand smoke: eating a dish prepared by a smoker
7th hand smoke: eating a dish prepared by a former smoker
8th hand smoke: giving oral sex to a smoker
9th hand smoke: enjoying a hot tub or sauna session with a smoker
10th hand smoke: reciting poetry including the words "smoke", "cigarette", or "nicotine"
11th hand smoke: catching an unlit cigarette in your mouth
12th hand smoke: engaging in intercourse with a smoker
13th hand smoke: holding a pen in your mouth as if it were a cigarette
14th hand smoke: smoking a cigarette through a straw four miles long
15th hand smoke: having a dream where you are a smoker
16th hand smoke: eating tobacco flavoured ice cream

The list goes on really. Further down:

37th hand smoke: getting a handjob from someone who just quit smoking three months ago

And:

134th hand smoke: leaving a voicemail for a former second hand smoker

And obviously:

283rd hand smoke: licking the bottom of a bus shelter.

Tobacco-caused diseases of the heart and blood vessels kill more than 17 000 people a year in Canada

Haterade: is it in you?

According to Googlism:

hate is learned and can be "unlearned"
hate is no laughing matter
hate is growing
hate is what resulted in the death of 167 people
hate is truth
hate is hate
hate is wrong
hate is not my rap
hate is hot
hate is a many splendored thing
hate is a union
hate is just a four letter word
hate is not
hate is a strong word

Hate is a strong word. I am frequently reminded of this. Whenever I say things like, "I hate children," or "I hate waking up with a chicken bone in my mouth," or "I hate you, Lucy, I really, really do," someone is quick to point out that, hate is such a strong word. Especially that bitch Lucy.

Apparently "dislike" is more appropriate. That's bullshit. When I say I hate something, I hate it. I know it's a strong word: that's why I used it. I hate eggplant. I hate the teachings of Karl Marx. I hate that Matt LeBlanc appears in movies. I don't merely "not like" these things. And what's worse: I'm supposed to blithely replace "hate" with "dislike"? Why? That's just euphemism. For example:

"I really dislike that the man who raped and then murdered my wife is walking the streets."

Does that make any fucking sense? Folks, we should be free to hate what we hate. Do not accept that we must merely "dislike" or "find distasteful" or "prefer otherwise." Hate! Hate is hate! Fuck me, what else do I hate?

• Softball
• Mac devotees
• Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace
• Roman numerals
• The term "ramp up"
• Poorly wrapped pitas/gyros/shawarma
• French rap
• Eatmore chocolate bars
• Commercials for yogurt
• Illeism
• Fart jokes
• Hearing about your fucking puppies. Lucy, shut the fuck up!
• Patriotic art
• Restaurants where the waiter writes his name on your table
• Pews
• Holier-than-thou attitude of modern homosexuals
• Animals wearing hats
• When post-it notes lose their stickiness
• Cockblockers
• Reality shows starting with "The"
• Lanyards
• One-woman shows
• Barack Hussein Obama
  

Just kidding, that man means Change.

(I also hate change.)

Real letters from real geeks

Dear purveyors of Budweiser (Light),

Hey boys.  Long time drinker, first time writer.  Just wanted to say: saw your television commercial about that dude who drinks your beer and then is like, transported back in time to Salem, Massachussets where everyone's all "you're a witch", and he's like, "no, dude" and then his cell phone rings and again everyone's all "you witch!" and he's like "no, man, it's a text message".

Well, I gotta say, I got ya. Because for starters they totally didn't have cell phone towers that would be able to relay the message to like 200 years ago. So he totally could not get that text message.

But second, and more important, even if he could get that message, do you know what the consequences of inter-time communication would be? Don't even joke about that shit, man. It would be fuckin' insane.

Just imagine that that guy wasn't tied to a stake and about to be burned, and that he was able to reply to the text message.  Dude!  His friend in the 21st century could totally text him lottery numbers and shit!  And if his friend was writing a history exam, the dude could just text his friend the answers; from actual history!

That put my brain in a headspin.  I know you guys are about beer first, and that time-travel stuff isn't your forté.  No problem, I'm looking out for ya.  But seriously, you don't want to joke about this stuff.  The consequences are serious.  Imagine if the dude killed the guy who invented Budweiser beer.  Then there would be no commercial.  Wait, but then the guy couldn't kill the inventor of the beer.

Whoa.

Wicked beer guys,

Harvey

Inappropriate things to say to a man who just had his penis cleaved in two

For starters:

• Pal, no need to go off half-cocked.
• I'll just have half a hot dog, one is too much for me.
• Well, call me Suzie and chop my dick in two.
• (Sung in the voice of Scott Weiland) Well, I'm half the man I used to be.
• Hey guys. I just got back from my Large Penis Support Group meeting.
  
• I heard you got your penis chopped in two. You know that makes you 50% eunuch right?
• Hey Demi!
• Lovely weather we're having isn't it?

And also:

• Of course. I'd chop my penis off for another slice of tiramisu!
  

And obviously:

• Did it hurt?

Get a load

Am I the only one appalled by the Milk council's highly suggestive new slogan, "get a load"? I can't be the only one. This entire campaign has left me sickened.

The website implores me to "make a mooovie". Yeah, you'd like that wouldn't you? You freaks.