It’s Saturday night. I’m feeling blue and antsy. And bored. And still sick from Wednesday night’s mass absorption of alcohol.
But hey, it was all for a good cause. After all, the Habs, aka the Canadien, aka the CH, aka Montreal’s hockey team have won yet another round in the Stanley Cup playoffs, and that, in game 7 for the second time in a row.
Such a shame they’re not playing tonight. Because you know what I think would cheer me up and give me a nice little morale boost?
Seriously, what better way to cheer for a winning team, to demonstrate one’s joy and excitement than by smashing a few store windows, looting a bunch of shops and attacking a couple of cops with broken beer bottles?
Of course, these kind of practices are a bit on the expensive side, but who cares about a few grand when what we get for them is a celebratory riot on Montreal’s main commercial street?
Plus, as an added bonus, once the cops have cleared the streets off all the euphoric revellers, we get the alas too rare chance of walking on broken glass for several hundreds of meters, something we all know is awesome (as long as you’re not wearing flip-flops.)
I originally wanted to title this post: “The times they are a-changin’: the very drastic evolution of my celebrity crushes over the last 20-ish months” but it was a little long for Twitter, which has a very strict “No more than 140 characters” policy and which is where I intend to plug this post if I ever manage to finish it.
I’m really worried, you guys.
I have a celebrity crush.
But the scary part of it, is *whom* I have a celebrity crush on…
You better sit down for this…
And no, it’s not one of my trying-to-be-clever post titles, it’s actually a true story, which I heard on the news a couple of hours ago.
In a way, the idea that somewhere out there, there is a contest I’d have an actual shot at winning kinda warms my heart some. But seriously, when did the ability of stinking up a pair of sneakers without storing them in a bucket of shit every night become an achivement?
This world is going to the nuthouse in a handbasket, and it’s walking all the way there in a pair of stinky, rotten sneakers.
Either that, or it’s a slow news days. VERY slow.
US boy wins smelly trainer glory
Unless you live under a rock on another planet, in a galaxy far far away from this one, you must have heard about Nadya Suleman, the woman who took it upon herself to single-handedly fill all of California’s available space with people.
I will spare you the backstory. You should know it by now if you possess a TV, a radio, a computer, or a pair of ears. I haven’t really followed it that closely myself, but I haven’t had to, since it seems to be following me. Every show I watch, every message board I read, the woman with the magically extensible womb is mentioned. Whether it’s the eight new kids, the six old ones, the NBC interview, the alleged plastic surgery, he doctor who did the procedure, Nadya sure gets the tongues going and the fingers typing.
And sooner or later, I was bound to fall into the trap. Which I just did.