Leaving Tomorrow!!

...and all I've packed is this!


Why yes, dear readers that is Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim up at the front there. The thing about David Sedaris however, is that he stole my ideas before I thought of them. Yes, I know they're based on his life, but if he can profit off of a weird family and personal neurosis then I deserve a cut of it. Been there, done dat, but Dave wrote the book. I might also have invented insulin if Fredrick Fucking Banting hadn't gotten to it first. I blame it on the times we're living in; all the good stuff to invent's already taken. What's left for me? Cure for cancer? Not fucking likely.

I hope to tap into west coast interwebs and do some port-a-blogs but I might just be having too much fun. Too damn much fun, do you hear me??

See you on the other side (of Ontario).

-b.

Brittney Accidentally Attends a Metal Show; Doesn't Look Out of Place

Last night we went to see our friends band The SSRIs play and in a startling turn of events the band playing before them turned out to be "heavy fucking metal" as the young man giving the microphone a verbal lashing described it.

The guitar player was a young lady who was certainly not a day over 17 and had all the stage presence of wet plywood (more exciting than dry but less exciting than, say, anything else) and the lead singer was an angry feller with a bald spot and facial hair that can only be described as sideburns that turned into a chinstrap that ended just before his chin. In other words, fuckin' hawt.

While I found their incessant screaming and cursing startling at first (I inched ever closer to becoming my mother when I said, 'Oh for heavens sake') I soon found myself in a fit of laughter so intense that I couldn't join in for the audience participation portion of the evening wherein the lead singer led the crowd in a repeat after me style chanting of 'DOWN WITH EMO! DOWN WITH EMO!' Question: is it the goal of headbanging to evacuate the frontal lobe via the forehead or merely a welcomed side affect?

However, after their System of a Down cover (Chop Suey, obv) as well as a tribute to the Ramones, the 14 year old girl in me who wept when she didn't get to go to Edge Fest had a raging boner. Mxpx? Nofx? Blink 182? (One of those things is less punk than the other.) Ahh to be young, when the world is your oyster and if you crank the volume you can't even hear the pearls rattling around.

Anyway the point of all this is that in what is being called The Greatest Outfit Choice Ever I was forbidden from wearing my birkenstocks (even my classy black 'nighttime' ones) and so I changed my look from granola bi-curious to bull dyke for the occassion.




So badass. So so badass. In case you can't see, that shirt that once belonged to my father says 'Rockin' Into '84, Streetheart, Headpins and Helix.' On the back there's a map of Alberta with all their tour dates: Edmonton, Calgary and Lethbridge. Quite the whirlwind tour to say the least.

But the SSRIs are super good and super cute and real nice dudes so you should check them out okay? Okay?

Adios amigro-ettes.

Brittney Get Drunk and Runs Into Things: Part of an Exciting New Mini-Series






I was trying to get some shots were my arm didn't look like an Oprah wing but alas, fly on extra tricep skin, fly on.

I'm going to go think about pushups. And chocolate.

On feminists and other angry bitches.

Women's lib is all well and good, and much thanks to the Famous Four, but in my opinion the real test of women's equality has nothing to do with the gender income gap, whereby here in the land of plenty for every dollar a man makes a woman will only make 70 cents and is even less for university grads and young people (check it yo) or even our recent plunge of 13 spots on the gender gap index, which now places Canada below the US of A-holes, and ranks our political participation 60th of the 130 countries surveyed.

No, the real test of women's equality is whether or not the vaginas are barbecuing.


The time honoured tradition of the suburban male as king of the bbq must be put to rest. We must dismiss the belief that menstruation makes women more suceptable to spontaneous combustion and dispel the urban legend of the woman whose labia caught on fire while trying to flip the burgers. I am woman, hear me bbq!


First step: buy a recently deceased animal.

Here we have Babe. Isn't he cute?

Trim off any big chunks of fat, season with salt and pecker, and then chop it up into good sized riblets. They go down into a hot pot for just one hot minute to brown them up, then douse the whole thing in beer and let is set a while (at least a couple hours).

Meanwhile, make your own bbq sauce:

1 cup ketchup
1/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup vinegar
juice of a lemon
some oil or butter
a squeeze of mustard
as much as you like of:
salt
pepper
worcestershire sauce
celery salt
hot sauce

Make it how you like it, add honey of maple syrup if you like a sweet sauce, add chili powder or cayanne to up the hot factor. Go nuts. Just go balls to the wall apeshit with this stuff.

Next up, fire up the grill, get the coals nice and hot, pay attention to where the hot spots are and then slap your meat down accordingly with a good slather of sauce.

Then just grill it to perfection, or somewhere in that ballpark.

The meat will have cooked pretty well in the beer bath, so we're just looking to grill up the outside and caramelize the sauce up real nice.


And there you have it. No penis required.


ps: really? really really?

Also, I image searched 'women barbecuing' and I got this, which was labeled as 'hipster barbecue' and appears to be the beginnings of a rape scene. Awesome. The only photo I found of a woman actually tending to a grill was a middle aged lady in pigtails who was obviously not wearing a bra. We've got a long way to go folks.

Weathermen and other cronic liars.

One day

it was
sunny
see?

then it

went back

to rain

again.

I just had a half hour long angry raised voices exchange with my landlord who, as he put it, "has mad" about the sidewalk chalk we drew on the public sidewalk outside of our building. An in- depth explanation of the ephemeral nature of sidewalk chalk did not calm his litany of complaints with said popsicles and sunshines on the ground which included his concern that neighbours would complain, potential tenants would refuse to rent from such an establishment, and it would lead to posters. I don't know what posters, or the link between chalk and posters, but alas, posters. If what he was after was a confrontation then he came to the right place because I am hungover and naturally bitchy. I am also underemployed and am looking forward to the sweet feeling of accoomplishment as I spend my day filing a complain with the regie du logement. Nothing like a little paperwork and beurocracacy to give meaning to my life. I'm going to make a sequel of that movie You Got Served all over his ass and it's going to be called You Got Served 2: Exercising a Recourse in Defence of Tenants Rights. Beeeyotch.

Jazz Fest '09!

Jazz Fest '09 concluded on Sunday but I didn't get around to posting this until today. So sue me. I successfully made it to opening and closing nights and not a moment in between. But rather than talk about my experiences at Jazz Fest, see for yourself:

So, this is me at Stevie Wonder opening night. I'm the black bit at the front, and Stevie is the black bit (not racist) behind me. See? Can you see?
Ok, here's a better picture. Here Stevie has reincarnated himself as Michael Jackson and played himself an entire tribute show. Give it a rest Stevie/Michael. This is obviously after we pushed through the crowd for literally one hour to get such a good view. We reached what we thought was the stage but turned out to be only a screen. That is how far back we were. Stevie was seriously two blocks around the corner, but it's ok because he couldn't see us either on account of his dead eyes.
Here's a picture I found on the internet taken by someone who was obviously closer, but still so far away all they got was a decent shot of a screen.

And finally here is Ben Harper who played closing night and is like, so dreamy. Some say he's a master of the guitar, but I say he's a master of being handsome. I couldn't find a good picture of it, but if you are at all into tall, dark, handsome men with beards, then you can just cliquer here and drool on sister. Drool on.

For the first time in weeks montreal has some sun today so I'm going to go soak up my yearly dose of vitamin D before we go back to being franco Vancouver. Adios.

Food Finally Finally Food

I realized I haven't done a food post on this partial food blog in a long time. Prepare to be rectified dear blog.

Grilled Salmon and Asparagus with a Dill Cream Sauce

I really wanted salmon that day, irregardless of the fact that it's not the freshest or cheapest thing here. I almost choked on a bone and I reduced the cream sauce too much, but all in all pretty good.

Grilled Portabello and Goat Cheese burger with Onion Rings

I have to say I was a little disappointed with the onion rings. They were greasy in a way that A&W onion rings are not, and that is the standard by which all onion rings must be judged. I'm not sure if I should have used a different oil (I used canola) or if I needed to blot them more with paper towel. In any case, they were good when they were warm but as they cooled I could have just munched an onion and sprayed Pam directly into my mouth for the same effect.


Breakfast at Timothy's
It's Saturday morning and what is young Timothy cooking for breaky?

Why it's pan fried salt and vinegar chips! Served in a sandwich with mayonnaise and chased down with a redbull.

And then he ate the rest with a spoon and a healthy dollop of mayonnaise.
Breakfast of metabolic champions.

So the other day I burnt my arm on the oven and instead of icing it or running it under cold water I just left to see how bad it would get. I realize now that this is a) fucked up, b) masochistic, and c) now looks like I'm a cutter, or like the crack rock I was melting spilled out of the spoon onto my arm. I think. Is that possible? (We had to google "smoke crack, how to" and I'm still unsure.)


As with most things, I went too far and got a bit sad when I found someone on a forum who said, "i like how it turns red, it glows and you can watch the crack melt, it looks pretty!" As pretty as your future darling. As pretty as your face before your pimp taught you a lesson. As pretty as the sun setting on your emaciated body as your cat claws at your face looking for food.

Today was a macaroni and cheese, cookies and chocolate day. I might not eat my emotions if they didn't taste so good.

BREAKING NEWS!

AMERICAN APPAREL FOUNDER GOES TO REHAB FOR SEX ADDICTION, CREATES AA BURKA.

American Apparel founder/creator/owner/operator/CEO of coke operations, Dov Charney (more commonly known as Hipster Jesus), was admitted to rehab earlier this year for sex addiction after numerous sexual harassment lawsuits and far more cotton swabs up the urethra than any one man should have.


Low level American Apparel employee Zsofia (pictured below, working in the stockroom) was quoted as saying, "I mean, I don't mind that he keeps his change purse inside my snatch, it's made of lame so it's cool. Plus he says he likes to hear the money jingle when we have anal over a pile of deep v's. And the factory workers get paid well too!"

Charney was admitted into rehab after a brief visit to the an L.A. county emergency room to treat third degree friction burns on his cock. Inside sources say that the on-call doctors experienced some difficulty applying the burn salve to his dick wounds because Charney continued to become aroused during the procedure. The engorgment of his penis stretched the open flesh, causing him a great deal of pain, which reportedly led to further arousal.

After being released from the program, where he allegedly seduced several staff members as well as a nun who led the chaplaincy services for the residents, Charney appears to have taken the centre's message to heart as evidenced by his latest collection of American Apparel burkas. The traditional garments once worn exclusively by middle eastern women are available in a wide range of colours such as kelly green, lapis, and all manner of neon, as well as fabrics such as sheery jersey, flex fleece and, of course, lame. The burkas are being marketed towards hipster girls who don't want to be harrassed with the slogan, "If I can't see it, I won't fuck it."



The collection also includes a selection of anti-rape devices, made with the best barbed teeth that well paid immigrant workers can provide (available in a wide range of colours and glow in the dark!)


Urban Outfitters is also said to be coming out with a novelty version of the anti rape device, pictured below:


Self Proclaimed Animal Collective fan Ozias Tarquin (below) says of the novelty item, "It's so ironic. You know, because you wouldn't expect fish teeth in a vagina. So ironic."


The AA burka retails for $279.99.

Editor's Note: Since the article went to publication Mr. Charney has relapsed, as evidenced by his latest line of tights:

Oh Dov.

Happy 2 Days After the 4th!

We watched Independence Day on Independence Day! Oh neat! How original! Did you guys think of that yourselves? Yesh.

20th Century Fox-Puppy.

So in an effort to make myself some more cash monies I've signed up for some medical studies. An obvious choice for someone who has EXTREME doctor/hospital anxiety issues. Anyway one of the surveys I had to fill out asked me two full pages of questions like, 'did anyone in your family ever hit you hard enough to leave a mark?' (rarely, because my parents knew how to beat a child properly), 'were you ever punished with hard objects?' (hard like my daddy's fist?), 'did people in your family ever call you stupid or ugly?' (only 'cause it's my name). My answers sound like I should have been in foster care. I'm temped to add a clause that I'm from Alberta, sooo it doesn't really count, ya know? Plus I done deserved my comeuppance on account of my smart mouth. If I'dta done learned quicker I wouldnta done got hit so much.

Also, I just got rejected for a menstrual study. FAT LOT OF GOOD THESE STUPID OVARIES DO ME! Can't even get me into medical studies. I don't know why I keep them around with all the trouble they cause me. My uterus is feeling particularly rejected right now, this is really not very good for my reproductive self esteem.

When I told my mother I was doing the studies and she informed me that all medical testing involves radiation which is carcinogenic. When I tried to explain to her that mri's actually use magnets, not radiation, she said, well why do you think the technician leaves the room when they turn the machine on?? huh??? Radiation. She also let me know that I shouldn't keep a radio too close to my bed on account of the radiation. I think she gets the words radio and radiation mixed up. So then I told her I was doing a study where I get an x-ray taken while sticking my head inside a microwave and I am just not sure she knew I was kidding. Anyway she said she'd give me more money if I didn't do the studies so obviously I'm going to take the money and do the studies there by killing two birds with one radiation rock. Radiation rocks!

Remember Film?

I am so tired I could shit twice and die.


Do people say that in non-rural-alberta places? One time I really horrified someone with the phrase 'tear him a new asshole.' In my defense it sounds less vulgar when my mom says it.

(this is my 'have to pee at church' dance)

On another poop related note, we have a two week holiday from school at the end of the month and someone in my class was talking about what a long time that is and I thought, I've been constipated for longer than that.

(i am squeeshing your church)

Someone once told me about a friend who was getting married after dating their (less than) significant other for six months and I thought, I've had cheese whiz for longer than that. And my processed cheese and I will probably be together for longer too. Even if it's because it's glued to the inside of my bowels.


You'd think he was pretty or something with all the damned photos I have of this guy.


Gag me with a spoon. Take a dump on my chest. Get fucked.

I'm going to bed by 10.

And so we called it Kan-a-ta.

Misunderstanding languages. A part of our heritage since before your grandpappy raped that nice Aboriginal lady. Metis status, awesome!

I was going to write something about the stupidity of Quebec's moving day and how it has surpassed International Box day as the world's most retarded holiday (why would you set a day for everyone to move instead of people moving when it suits them, thus causing mass chaos, huge quantities of garbage and lack of moving vans. Also, the government changed moving day to July 1 in 1973 because they thought it would be easier for students to move in the summer. You know, directly smack dab in the middle of the four month summer break in stead of hte beginning or end of the school year. Thanks gouvernement! ), but I just started french school and I'm so tired I could just cry. It doesn't help that class was so boring I wanted to punch myself in the face just so I'd have something to do.

So instead, a photo diary of my Canada day bbq. The photos are, however, mostly of me because no one came to my party save for two cats from the Red Herring and the people who are always here anyway. Shout out to the Red Herring kids for raising my self esteem up to -12.

A single example of the fucktarded amount of shit on the streets.

Isn't she looooooovely? Isn't she won-der-ful?
(ps. I saw Stevie Wonder, more on that later)
Homemade corn dogs, fuck yeah!
Who's a dirty bird?
Cup the balls.
All wiener. No bun.