They aren't funny, Mal. They're not.

This is how I feel about puns:


My roommate, Mal, is a huge fan of puns. This puts an enormous strain upon our relationship.
Her answering machine is always presented as a pun. Always.
The worst part of puns is when the punner pauses afterwards, asking with an idiot grimace on his or her face, "do you get it?" And then they proceed to explain the intricacies of some stupid phrase that you'll probably hear them utter two or three more times to other people throughout the lunch break, and with greater emphasis each time.

I mean, at least being ironic or newly antiquated means you don't have to follow it up with a stupid catch-phrase. Punners everywhere should just stop talking and start wearing Mickey Mouse tshirts.

New career path...

I'm considering pursuing my flock of corporate suits so that I may levitate from my hell hole of student debt. The fruits of this particular thought process have me questioning why I shouldn't get a few pairs of Prada pumps and a Stam bag while I'm at it?
I feel like I'm letting this opportunity pass me by while I saunter down the sidewalk in shoes that are too cheap for my cultured soles and pedicured toes.
Sigh, I'm at a crossroad.

I AM SO HOT, EVEN I MASTURBATE TO ME

Sorry, I was feeling a little low and needed a pick me up. I couldn't find my dealer, so this nostalgic utterance of mine is the next best thing.

I am a total babe.

Crying in public sucks

Last night I had to withstand a short, creepy man yelling at me in broken English about how he was "The KING" for two hours, and about how he was "a photographer," and towards the end of our chat, informed me that he had taken "over one hundred pictures" of me since he had sat down to drink his four glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.
Why?
So I can be even more violated during the day by McGill University.
I smile and play stupid barmaid psychiatry games all through the night so that I can pay to be treated like shit by some faceless institution that takes my dirty money, tells me to pick a number and wait so that I can be enlightened as to why I am not good enough to make the grade or the tuition payment deadline, so that I can be informed that my essays are not following closely enough to the the requirements of the assignment, and that my poor attendance has resulted in a dock of 10% on my final mark.
I'm sorry I wasn't in my conferences last week; I was busy giving blow jobs to your accounting secretary whilst taking it up the ass from the dean of Arts, all so that I can come back for round 2 next Wednesday afternoon.
McGill really is the school that just keeps on giving.

Take my dirty money you fucking fucks; it's the least that you deserve.

I am too stylish and intelligent for my Euro trash employers

Because I have enough taste to choose not to wear gold lamé 'bar shirts,' I am denied the promotion I deserve.

My bosses will marry me, fuck me and serve me drinks until I can drink, fuck and wed no more, but will not let me pour vodka-red bulls at high volume on Fridays.

Love at first Ugg

In most cases, I find that black leggings and Ugg boots are the most repulsive of outfit combinations. I wonder how these girls ever bring themselves to believe that there is some sex appeal to be had in Australian post-surf footwear, but alas, men like this exist.

Young and rich? I feel like I hopped on the wrong bandwagon. I'm starting to feel insecure about my un-pedicured feet. I need a steam.

Sometimes, I just can't help myself

Sometimes I forget that I am not at work.
Sometimes, flirting with older men is deemed 'unacceptable.'

Yesterday, I exchanged words with a friendly, red-scarved and starry-eyed man at the campus snack bar. The climactic portion of the spectacle went something like this:

NEW YORK TIMES READER: So are you a visiting student or a visiting charmer?
JACQ: Both.

New York Times Reader, who reveals himself to be a professor of economics at the university, starts for the nearest exit and goes for a long cigarette.

Mid-day carafes of wine are of what college dreams are made.

Vote or Die!

Eleven of you would holler at Dolly Parton because... 9 to 5 is the greatest movie ever	1 (9%)
She created jobs for people of her home town by erecting Dollywood	3 (27%)
"You'd be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap!" -Dolly	5 (45%)
Boobs	2 (18%)

I am appalled by the fact that the most radical film ever made in Hollywood— the only one in which the workers overthrow their oppressor and take hold of the means of production— earned only one vote.

The superficiality of this world makes me want to fuck off and go shopping. Forever.

I am a failure; I lack; My life sucks; I am going nowhere; They didn't have any sour cream glazed timbits at Tim Horton's

To cope with my sadness and disappointment surrounding what I call 'my life,' today I purchased impractical shoes.

I am the most typical woman in contemporary hyper-consumer history.

My legs better look fucking fabulous in these. If I don't continue my daily dates with the Y and the steam room, all I'm going to have by the time the snow melts in this god forsaken city are chunky, stumpy gams and impractical studded wedge heels.

You Know Journalism is Dead When...

...Celebrity journalism attacks Quebec's finest export for leg hair:


Give the woman a rest. In fact, "Because You Loved Me" sounds infinitely better knowing that she has some angel hair on her chic little thighs.

I am taking this opportunity to praise my fellow Quebecoise on the naturalist approach she has taken to presenting her legs, as they seem to balance out the obscene spectacle her make-up artist and hair stylist have created that has enabled her to live comfortably and with others of her kind in Las Vegas.

Tu va, fille!

Links!
Draggerific
(She was probably a dance mom in her previous life)
Go Home

Daily Thoughts from the YMCA Steam Room

Training Bra: Underwire Bra
is as
Hamster: Puppy

This analogy came to me as I bathed this evening in a sweet warm cloud of eucalyptus at the YMCA. As the sweat and vapour glistened on my feminine curves, I pondered the hamster wheel. I came to the conclusion that the hamster wheel is the most depressing invention known to suburban pet-domesticity and beyond. I do not care to elaborate on this today, but would rather encourage a discussion about this contraption.

I wanted a puppy or a kitten when I was five. My parents bought my sister and I each hamsters. Mine was brown, named Sarah. After her first grade boyfriend, my sister named her white hamster Neil, even though it was a girl (we were raised in a gender neutral household- NOT). My Dad is really cheap so he decided to economize on the caging issue. Consequently, Neil ended up eating Sarah. Sarah and Niel were my training bras to what I now have, which are kibble-eating, good-tempered dogs and underwire bras.

Today, I love my Java-puppy and my fashionably-engineered perky tits.

I continue to be saddened by the hamster wheel, and the more recent invention known as "the clear plastic ball with breathing holes." I wish hamsters were smart enough to be freedom fighters. Instead, they eat each other.

Links!
My Life Sucks
I'm too quick for these social constructions

Dick Measuring

If the world was about to end and all that was necessary to save it was to have a man run around a restaurant and touch all four walls after last call without stopping to engage in homo-erotic activities, two biceps with a typical man's conscience between them would fail to save us all from catastrophe.
Why?
Fucking arm wrestling.
A man cannot turn down the opportunity to reveal his inebriated sub-human strength to a crowd of grunting and hollering males.
It's like a pre-mating ritual, only there are no potential mates in sight, save for me, the alleged 'feminist' of the staff who has x-ray vision. From this tired, weary, behind-the-bar vantage point, I can still clearly see the penis size of each man who is in the process of trying to defend his Johnson's (and therefore his) so-called honour.
To my un-surprise, their dicks are all small.

Corporate Suits Love Me

So I am the best barmaid in the world.
Lonely white-haired men sporting Black American Express cards are drawn to me like moths to a flame.
I'm not sure what it is, but I get such a kick out of them telling me over the bar of their secret Panamanian financial hideaways and high-budget, yet low-caliber movie productions that I just beg them to go on about their loveless and relentlessly quantified lives. It's sad and I, the fair barmaid, fawn over them, topping their Greygoose-on-ices, making them feel young again.
I really do love my job.

Pony Tails Suck

So I went to Nuit Blanche this past Saturday, and opted for a Michelle Tanner-styled coif as I thought it would be 'cute.' As it turns out, they are repulsive and connote highschool more than studded canvas belts with seat-belt buckles.

I'm never wearing a high pony tail ever again. Even Miss Winter Muffin got more attention than me.

Welcome!

I'm doing this to channel my wit, creativity and snarky remarks, because self-indulgence is underrated. I'm hoping to become famous from this and be invited on to talk shows in Korea where I can be loved and adored by college kids everywhere without being gay and celebrity endorsing.
But then again I love celebrities and wish I was gay.