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The other day I went into the fridge to eat everything on shelves 1 through 3, as is my usual Tuesday evening routine. Near the rear of shelf 1 I found some banana creme yogurt that didn’t belong to me. I checked the expiration date and I was a solid 2 weeks out. Had this been a flavour that didn’t sound appealing I may’ve, just may’ve let it go, but this banana thing intrigued me. I yanked a spoon out of the cutlery drawer faster than Ryan Spoar yanking his wang out of a girl’s babyhole and with a ravenous fury I sent tepid yogurt flying through the air also in a Ryan Spoar-like fashion. ...

If you guys are driving your sorry asses Northbound on Concession Road and you get to Bertie Street and are caught at a red light, please take a second to gander to your left. Look at the light post. Notice something missing? I stop at those lights most mornings and take notice of a “Parade Parking” sign that was leftover from a War of 1812 Bicentennial Parade earlier this year. Now, unless I misunderstand, we’re probably not going to need that fucking sign for another, like, hundred years, right? I also notice that the top set of plastic ties holding it in place have broken, leaving only two strapping down the bottom half of the sign. Each morning as I masturbate in the shower, I pray to myself that those ties have broken and that the sign will have blown away, out of my life for good. No such luck. Every morning it’s there, advertising parking for an event that has by now long since passed. ...

Yeah, it’s almost 1 am and I have to wake up at 6:15 to get to the lumberyard. My boss, Mr. Johnson will humiliate me with his usual Wednesday morning request to wipe his ass with my tongue. I’ll do it, because seeing Mr. Johnson happy is the only thing that makes me happy. Well, that and hearing via Facebook/Twitter/text message that you’ve had a bad day. When you head out to your car after catching an afternoon showing of The Hobbit and see that someone’s keyed it, please let me know, because unlike you telling me you’ve just asked your girlfriend to marry you, that news will put a smile on my pimply face. ...

Ate some late night pizza last night and penciled in a 4 am shitsplosion, but 4 am came and went and my slumber went uninterrupted. I did wake with sweaty buttocks several hours later, but I’m not gonna blame that on the pizza. Probably just blame that on the 8 to 10 pounds I’ve put on in the past couple of months. Why have I gained weight? Same reason your Mom always compared your face to the dog’s ass – it’s the right thing to do. ...

Well, I don’t have any photographic evidence because I’m an absent-minded fucktard and forgot my camera, but couple days back was Jeff and Stacie’s wedding reception. What did I not forget? An ample supply of chins and an embarrassing shortage of dignity. Reception began around 5:30 pm for us at Ridgeway’s in, oddly enough, Ridgeway. Double rye and ginger ale’s began around 5:38 pm for this guy. Good chats with some of the old crew like Dan, Adam, Ed and Shaun “homeless 4 life” Carolan. Even had the pleasure of chatting up Nugget’s wife who, as it turns out, does not hate me. I found out that we were both at one time “gifted,” we both had no problem with me sharing her close-up booby picture on this site, we share a dislike for long drives to work and we both find Nug’s face a not-remotely-humourous degree of salty. The high resolution photograph on her Nikon I believe captured the exact moment where I realized that doing something gay like that for a laugh is not always worth it. That said, the simulated hand release I performed on Shaun at the dinner table was still a good call, in my opinion. ...

BREAKING NEWS: Unearthed some new (old) pics today that has me making a correction. The photos that I thought were from New Year’s Eve 2000 must have been 1999. These are, in fact, the pics from New Year’s Eve 2000. There’s only a handful, but they’re breathtaking. I even mustered up the energy to put stupid comments to each of them. Weak, man. They’re weak. Anyway, check them out below before your boss comes around and sees you doing it. If he’s like my boss, he’ll slowly wrap his buttocks around the back of your head before farting out the drum line to Plush by the Stone Temple Pilots. ...

This post was going to be titled Why am I fat? but one glance at the photo above and it’s clear that this post is an answer to a question that need not be asked. I woke this morning and found myself in an empty house. No one to trip over, no one to keep an eye on, no one to get to school and no one to Zammit (steal) the one remaining slab of smoked ham in the fridge. ...

Woke this morning to the sounds of my boy getting ready for school. Sure was a jolly chap at the breakfast table. Went downstairs and gave him a kiss and then sauntered back upstairs, had a sizable bowel movement, soaped my stretch marks, crow barred my rolls into some Autumn khakis and hit the road. No breakfast for this guy. Headed on over to the MTO. Ooh, plenty of parking. Good timing, Barnhardt. Filled out the license renewal in the car. Decisions, decisions. Do I put down the legitimate mileage on my vehicle, 495,181 km’s or what the car is showing me: 185,181 km? As you faithful, desperate readers will recall my odometer stopped at 300,000 km’s, I drove another 10,000, then got it replaced, at which point it started back at zero. I decided I would proudly write in the more impressive 495,181 as the chances of me trying to sell this car one day are (unlike my waistline) slim to (just like Dan’s recent dentist visits) none. ...

To the blonde bird in the frozen food isle at Sobey’s… um, do you think you’re better than me? Is there something wrong with a tubby, bearded, bespectacled, wool-jacket-wearing guy carrying around some cooking onions? You needn’t feel ashamed to make eye contact with me. I mean, it’s not like… what’s that? You’d like me to shut up so you can answer my questions? Well, go to it, doll. Do you think you’re better than me? ...

To the lady purchasing the two small luggage bags in front of me at Zeller’s, when the price rings up as $50 and the regular price is $200, that is in fact a 75% discount, so you have no beef. When the counter lady pulls out a calculator to confirm this, you should probably believe her and shut your donut hole. While I have a good feeling that, in all likelihood, neither of you finished high school, she’s the one in the red shirt with the big fuckin’ Z on it, so take her word. ...