An update on the current state of some issues CheeseburgerBrownadelic.


In the pursuit of cashola Littlestar is taking a few odd shifts at the Ein-Stein pub in downtown Toronto. If you'd like to visit her, try tonight (she already ran into one K5 denizen the night before last, the minor trolling cause celebre Stinky Bottoms and one of his fraternal cronies). Due to Google, I will refrain from posting any detailed assessments of the establishment, lest I annoy the wrong chequewriter. Ahem.

It's a wonderful bar, and anyone who can should visit it frequently and with enthusiasm. Tip generously -- it's a karmic world.

Last night a certain party of University of Toronto engineers thought it would be funny to run out on their tab after an evening of copious beer drinking and wing eating. As a result, Littlestar made only enough gas money to come home again and that's about it. "They didn't seem sketchy at all," she said, shaking her head.

So I now get to entertain violent daydreams about being there on the spot, chasing the rapscallions down College Street and then a) extracting the money from them and b) roundly kicking their asses.

This is pure fantasy on several levels, but the most blatant is probably the part where I roundly kick their asses. If the scene were ever made into a movie, it would probably feature Brat Bitt, Sean Penn and Vin Diesel being cornered at the end of a dingy alley by Woody Allen. "I-I-I've heard of eat and run before, fellas," he, as me, would stammer, "but, you know, this is ridiculous."

Later, while recovering in hospital, he would have fantasies about having not been involved in any way -- wishing he'd been farting around on a computer 70 kilometers away, rating Scoop comments and drinking rye.

Which, coincidentally, is exactly what I was doing at the time.

Before Littlestar left we had an ongoing debate of joshery about how far up her blouse should be buttoned. "That's ridiculous," she said, buttoning up the button I'd undone. "You can see my bra!"

"It's a nice bra."

"Are you trying to whore me out for better tips?"

"Yes. Yes I am."

Speaking of whoring, thanks to all of the good folks who contacted me about commissioning articles and artwork after my spampology last week -- the response was pretty overwhelming, and I now have the uneviable task of trying to make a working schedule for executing all of the assignments I have undertaken. I low-balled every quote to make the deals unquestionably good, but nevertheless they should add up to a not unreasonable sum when all the dust settles. Between that and Littlestar's barmaiding we may yet see out the end of the month without vomiting from stress!

I turned down only one commission of those offered, and that was an assignment from Hulver. I told him I'd do the work, but I couldn't take money from him. I said if he felt like contributing, he should donate to the HuSistock Fund. And then I realized that I hadn't gotten around to putting the Donate! button up on the HuSistock page. Littlestar already gave me the code for the campaign, but I've obviously screwed something up because it doesn't display correctly. So, that's on the big to-do list, too.

In other news, I haven't worked at all this weekend. This is a rare event. Usually my sense of terror at my own mortality causes me to put in at least a dozen hours working on Fish's Wishes or something, but I'm granting myself amnesty from guilt for forty-eight hours in order to collect myself for plunging into next week's string of commissions.

...And, because it never rains but it pours, next week I have also double-booked myself with two animation assignments -- a tedious French lip-synching job, and mixing an extended version of some already completed digital signage for a store that sells overpriced (Google who? I meant competitively priced!) golf gear.

I'm still borrowing three quarters of the value of our equity life insurance policy, though, because otherwise our finances are a glass train and the mortgage due date is a brick wall. At least the borrowing is without interest. Our requests are currently oozing through the bureaucracy.

Money, money, money! How quickly it can infect every thought.

Old Oak is still pissed off at me, weeks and weeks later (if you recall, my original infraction was failing to create a web page for him that, due to creeping senility, he forgot already existed). Just when we all thought he was going to get over himself he sends me a delightful parable in which I am portrayed as a ruthless despot ("King Cheeseburger") who spits in the face of Old Oak ("Evil Wizard Oak") despite his selfless acts of service to benefit all who inhabit the Realm of the Old Schoolhouse.

Fairly peurile. I kept turning the paper over, trying to find a way to rate it zero.

Trying to wound me with words is likely a retaliation for a recent blog post in which I suggested that he worships Condoleeza Rice like "a right thinking person's Princess Di." Rumour is this enraged him, and he subsequently stayed up all night drinking and smoking and cursing, taking it out on his wife with barbed surliness the next day.

Listen: if you knew what nonsense this man spouts, you would appreciate that a comment like saying he worships Condi Rice is...well, glossing things over sweetly and casting him in a more favourite light than his actual spittle-laced wood-headed diatribes would. My jibe was affectionate, but it has been taken as a declaration of war.

Why? Because, obviously, I hate Condi Rice.

For the record I should probably state that I do not habour any hatred for Condi Rice, because I barely care who she is. I am not what you would describe as "politcally active" or even reasonably "politcally literate." All I know is that Rice is some brainy black chick who's a big-wig in the Bush administration. There ends my knowledge.

But the point is that Old Oak knows better. Despite what I may think or say, he knows that I despise Condi Rice. And that is something he simply cannot tolerate, because such thinking must be based on the same kind of soft-headed bullshit that fuels the philosophies of baby-eating shameless liberals, welfare-state drug-addicted whiners and the entire population of Europe.

You know -- those fucks.

As a minor consequence Old Oak has decided he doesn't want to contribute to the hydroelectric bill anymore, so we received no pittance toward utilities this month. He did, however, rush upstairs to accuse me of sabotage when the free Internet connection I provide his household with hiccuped temporarily. He also theorized that I may have sabotaged our yard-truck (now deceased) and the ATV...which is a hilarious proposition considering I know about as much about sabotaging motor vehicles as I do about, say, building a cold fusion reactor out of pipe-cleaners and old tampon tubes.

On the other hand the weather's been very nicely lately, so who could help but be in a good mood? Also I've been enjoying lots of hot sex, so there's no complaints there, either.

Our toddler helped a kitten pour a glass of water into my newest fancy USB keyboard. It is now a fancy USB paper-weight.

We rented I Heart Huckabees. I thought it was a good time. Littlestar really liked it and wants to buy a copy of the movie. We also tried to watch Catwoman but were foiled in the attempt by our own gag reflexes.

Outside it smells mudlucious. Gotta go 'n play now. Bye!