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  • Un Long Dimanche de Fiançailles draws record crowds in Houston. It's almost like I made the movie.


    I got off early for the first time in ages. You take that however you want to take it. After all, I promised bodily fluid launches. But if you really want to know what I mean, read on. Otherwise, go get off yourself.

    The movie is good. Not great, not bad, not a masterpiece. Maybe shit gets lost in translation. Doesn't help that the only French I know is Grey Poupon.


    You know, now that I'm thinking about it, I do not remember seeing Grey Poupon in France last year. Will have to investigate during the next trip.

    Anyway, the movie had some wicked shots. I particularly liked the cinematographe and actualite references. Good stuff for a geek like me. There's some semi-good stuff for the geeks like you. You get to see Audrey Tatou's butt, a soldier's pecker when he urinates, and Jodie Foster getting an orgasm from a guy.


    Word on the street says that Jodie Foster is a lesbian, or at least anti-men. I don't really care if she is or isn't. All I know is, she doesn't sell that scene. Not for me. I know she's faking it. Trust me, I know what faking is like. Dealing with it my whole life.

    Sad, ain't it? But now do you know why I hate your lying sack of shit mom?

    Kidding.


    I thought I'd be the only one at the theater. Naturally, I stretched out and made myself comfortable. Taking off my pants crossed my mind, but god knows what is on theater chairs and I ended up keeping the goods covered. That turned out to be a great decision. Not just good, not bad at all, and definitely an example of my intuitiveness.

    Not only did a handful of people come into the theater, but there was going to be some sex up in there. Shocked the shit out of me. Don't get me wrong, I know there's a lot of sex up in movie theaters, but that's shit I expect from high school kids, not two middle aged men.

    There's a part in Un Long Dimanche de Fiançailles where the audio goes quiet and someone gets beheaded. Problem is there was excessive slurping noises and there wasn't an Icee in sight. A squeaky chair signaled its need for oil as it screamed a syncopated beat. As someone lost a head onscreen, someone in the theater got some.


    The girl sitting in the row in front of me must have got an eyeful. She got up and plunked down next to me. We gave each other a look and almost cracked up. It was kind of awkward.

    Actually, it was really awkward. In French, it's called really fucking awkward. Oh well. Sava.


    Her husband doesn't really like going to the movies. Loves to rent because he can watch something in the comfort of his own home and also because it's cheaper than going out. I could relate because my dad is the same way.

    Both my dad and her husband like war movies, but we suspect they'd hate this one. She started to remark how crazy it is that my dad and her husband are alike even though they're separated by at least twenty five years. Then she said something kind of weird about my dad being her husband and her being my mom.

    I let out a nervous laugh because that is some twisted shit to say to a stranger outside a movie theater. To add to that, she's not that much older than me. A decade maybe? I looked at my watch even though I wasn't wearing one and said, "Hey, Crazy Bitch, it was nice chatting with you but I gotta go."

    "Well where are you off to? Getting something to eat?"

    I just kind of nodded and started to walk towards my car.

    "Mind if I tag along?"

    What the fuck? "Actually, I'm going home to eat."

    "Sure you don't want some company?"

    "Yeah." I got in my car quick and got away from Crazy Bitch as soon as possible. Oh well. Sava.


  • I'm quitting smoking. Cigarettes at least. Cohiba time.



  • I miss food in San Francisco.

    And I miss mojitos.

    Can anyone in Houston recommend a good mojito to me? A decent meal to go along with that would be nice. If it's a winner, I'll buy your ass a drink.


    Fucking unreliable. The shoot for Sunday got cancelled. Waiting for a later date. All I know is, I'm gonna shoot an explosion if I have to blow something up myself.

    But for right now, I'm just going to blow up my toilet.


    Considering my girl is on her way to U-Dub, there is a slight possibility that she might meet someone nice. Nice meaning much better than me. I can admit it, it's okay. I'm definitely not bachelor number one. At least not in this country.

    I think in Taiwan I crack the top ten thousand while in the Arctic I'm in the top ten. In the US, I'm like number ten billion, way behind all the George Clooneys and autistic children.

    Anyway, I'm wondering if I could actually function as a single man in today's society. I'm not sure if I can still woo woman or if I ever did. If you ask Kinky how I trapped--I mean started to date her, she'd probably be silent for a few minutes and realize that she has been duped but she doesn't know how.


    I used a line. Really, I did. It took this gem to win her heart.

    + If I were a fly, I'd fly to you because you are the shit.

    And I have felt that way ever since we started going out.


    Forgot my camera today, but we decided to test the blast box further. Wow, that fucker can take a beating. The plexi-glass is so thick that it beats out a thinner piece of left over Lexan I have.

    I fired a fully automatic airsoft MP5 at the box and nothing happened. I shot the Lexan and cracked that bitch. I guess the only good thing about the Lexan is even though it cracked, it doesn't affect the surface. Just the material between the laminate cracks.

    I'm feeling a little bit better about leaving the camera in the box now, but I'm not sure I'm comfortable leaving my girl around handsome phD students. Any male phD U-Dubbers reading this is being warned right now: talk, wink, or breathe around my girlfriend and you get a test tube shoved up your anus. Open side first, asshole.


    This rectal and general penetration talk is getting old. Next entry will focus on my fabulous hair and bodily fluid ejection.





  • It's not a fish tank, it's a fish box. With rails, you dummy.


    Hi boys and girls. Do you have any idea what Mr. Cypherningya has been doing lately? No, it's not your mother. He has a big project, a project bigger than your mother.


    On Sunday, I will not be able to watch the NFL Playoffs. Instead of watching grown men run into each other because of an oddly shaped ball, I will be shooting an explosion. To protect my camera, I have been building a blast box.

    I will not be able to share any footage because of a NDA. If you don't know what an NDA is, you don't need to know. But I will let you know if I lose a finger or, you know, my life.


    In all honesty, I don't really know what a blast box should be or how to make one. So my cousin and I guessed that it should be built out of Lexan. Also, it being a box, it should be in the shape of a box.

    The camera also needs to attach directly to the box. Because if the fucker rolls around, the camera will stay on one edge. Some padding would be needed for shock absorption. Weather stripping should grace the corners in an effort to keep moisture and dust out.

    Doesn't seem like much, right? Well, it's really not much, but simplicity doesn't stop my cousin and I from fooling around and being general dolts. It took us a good two days to figure out what the box needed and how we should put it together.

    In a way, this box is two days worth of our brains. And I'm sad to say that it's sobering to know that such a simple device is all we can manage in two days.


    When I saw the price of Lexan, my penis shriveled like someone dumped ice water on my crotch. Being the frugal man that I am, I went with cheaper plexi-glass. I did manage to make sure that the plexi-glass would protect my camera by hammering a whole sheet of it. I also threw it on the floor and gave it the People's Elbow. The Home Depot guy asked me to stop when he found out I was going to pee and poo on it.

    I put that fucked up sheet back on the shelf and grabbed a nice un-scuffed piece. Suckers.


    Back at our shop, we decide to put the plexi through more tests. Actually, it was just one test; a .22 caliber bullet.

    It kinda worked. Only part that sucked is no one got popped in the nuts.


    Anyway, I'll post pictures of the finished product later. I think I'll use this space to tell you that I am going to France and Greece in May. I'm not sure what the rest of you are doing in May, but I think it'll be pretty stupid compared to what I'll be doing.

    Hate me all you want. I'll just throw a semi bullet proof box at you in retaliation.


  • DAY 6/7:::WHISTLER/VANCOUVER NYE

    THE LAST DAYS


    The drive to Whistler licks baboon shit. You have to get back on good ol' route 99, the slowest freeway in the world. There are backroads in Taiwan faster than this.

    Mountain driving can get annoying when you're rolling with the wrong pack of cars. There was a Yukon from Washington State who drove nervous. The driver thought every curve deserved a tap on the brakes. I thought one of the first things you learn about freeway driving is not to use your brakes excessively?

    What's worse is homeboy speeds up when a passing lane opens up. My little Lexus can barely compete with the gobs of torque the Yukon has. I drive a Yukon in Texas because it makes sense there. This guy in front of me doesn't make any sense, but I pass him up anyway and moon him for good measure.


    I'm not much of a snowboarder, meaning I don't do it much. Skiing is my forte. I am very proud to say that I haven't fallen for over six years. That probably makes me a dork. But I guess if I bleach my hair and grow it past my neck, I can be a ski instructor.

    Actually, I'm very suprised that I haven't fallen in so long because I ski like an asshole. I like to cut people off, especially snowboarders. If they have something smart to say, I stab them in the crotch with my pole. If they've got something clever, they get a pole in the butt hole. Dare show me up with a move? You get the shocker.


    I swear the runs here are a lot harder than in Tahoe. Like a black diamond in Whistler is a fucking double black in Tahoe. This is crazy. I wasn't prepared at all. My 'didn't fall streak' is still alive, but I almost bit the snowflake. Get it? Snowflake like dust. Oh god. Shoot me.

    Anyway, Whistler has me confused. First I have to slow down for stupid route 99 even though the speed limit reads 100. Now I have to ski for my life on a run I thought would be brisk and peppy. Fucking metric system. Sure it scared the shit out of me, but I started to feel like John Cusack getting chased by a paperboy. If you know what movie I'm talking about, you get a gold star. You're also probably much older than I am and I have to ask why you read absolute crap like this.

    Then again, you watched John Cusack get chased by a paperboy.


    New Year's Eve rolls around and I set up Kinky real good. I keep trying to talk her into having dinner at Denny's. It was pretty good, too, my performance. I'd look deep into her eyes and ask to share a Moons Over My Hammy with me. We can sip on a bubbly Sprite and share a special sundae.

    C'mon, who wouldn't want to spend a special night at a fine establishment that has a $3.99 Sampler Platter and things on the menu that is tough to pronounce? I'll have you know that French Canada calls it the Gran Slam.


    To get her mind off of my bad taste and lack of romance, I take her to Stanley Park and the Aquarium. I was really psyched because they had sea otters. If you're looking for some crude commentary about sea otters, you have the wrong blog. I fucking love sea otters and believe I will be re-incarnated as one if I'm lucky.

    I'm not kidding. At all.


    We get back to the hotel and I let her know that I took the initiative weeks ago to make reservations for us and a few of her friends at a restaurant called Coast. She kissed me and stuff. By stuff, I mean she started yelling, "I knew you wouldn't make me eat at Denny's!"

    I could tell you about how the hotel discouraged us from walking there and how we could have walked there and that Canadians are lazy asses. Except this time, the hotel was right. We had fifteen minutes to walk about twelve blocks, and all the girls were wearing heels. They were walking faster than me, though. Fucking clown shoes. The buses had free admission, but they were crazy packed and running way behind schedule.

    So I hail a cab easily and we end up at Coast five minutes too early. It's in the middle of Yaletown, a trendy area that seems to have a bunch of lofts. Kinda reminds me of those small alleys in Earl's Court in London. For a few minutes, Kinky and I think about moving and being canucks.

    And then I realize I'm straight and have a giant penis, prompting me to sing "American Soldier".


    Okay, I didn't do that because, well, I don't have a giant penis. But I really did think about what life must be like in Vancouver. Seems so laid back and that's terribly appealing.


    The food was good.


    This was our last night in Canada and we started to get those last night blues. Man, none of us had felt this relaxed and spoiled in so long. Kinky goes back to work after this and so do I. Except I have to go back to fat ass Houston.

    There's a lot of good stuff that happened that I didn't cover. Words wouldn't do it justice, especially cheap words like mine. All I know is, I still feel a good vibe reverberating in my soul. Let's hope it can last through my last three months here.


    My thinking, route 66 is next as far as road trips go. On the international side, I've nixed London in favor of Greece.



  • DAY FOUR:::SEATTLE & VANCOUVER


    We're up early again and we need to find some food. There's a bit of a drizzle during the five block walk to the Public Market. She has to squeeze closer to my arm because it's cold. I can see myself doing this day after day after day and not worrying about going crazy.

    For a few minutes I am not the guy who writes dirty shit in a blog. Until we see the Public Market sign, that is. I make some kind of Pubic Market remark.



    The Athenian is where they shot a scene for Sleepless in Seattle. I didn't see Tom Hanks, but there were a lot of grizzled old men. Our server was a little pink eyed and the couple behind us chatted a little too loudly about business oppurtunity and cost.

    I really wanted to turn around and yell at them with:

    A) Shut the fuck up!
    B) Shut the fuck up and bone already!
    C) Your business idea is just like you two because it stinks!
    D) All of the above!

    So I yell, "D, all of the above!" and they look at me strangely. Kinky suddenly needs to use the restroom and I realize what an idiot I am. Before she makes it back to the table, I salp the man and woman with a bottle of ketchup and feel a little bit better about myself.


    After breakfast we bid farewell to the Westin by farting in all of the pillows. We pick up our buddies and head off for Vancouver. I can't remember if everyone fell asleep or if they kept talking because I felt like going to sleep the whole time. You want a prescription for trouble sleeping? Listen to three girls talk. It's utter pointlessness multiplied thrice.


    Pulled up to the border and the first thing Canadian I notice besides the 'Think Metric' sign is the stop arret sign. We had no french speakers in the car so I had to use my best judgment. I told everyone to fart as much as they could so that when the border guard questioned us, no one would arret by accident and send us back home.

    It wasn't until my seventh or eighth fart that Kinky told me arret meant stop and it took her nearly ten minutes to explain to me that they put the equivalent of stop in french underneath.

    I was going to ask the border guard if arret meant fart. Kinky didn't let me ask the guy because of something about him having a gun. Then I wanted him to pose for a picture with me, but he wouldn't let me. The only proof of his existence that I have is the above blurry one. I just want him to know that I will never forget the exchange we once had, no matter how short it was.


    The signs on route 99 say 100, so I go 100 mph. Kinky tells me to slow down and the other two girls keep their eyes closed. My excuse was that the Canadians didn't put the equivalent of 100 kmh, so I had every right to assume it meant mph.

    The screams start to get to me so I slow down to 60 mph, which when thinking metricly is around 100 kmh. Although I slow down the screams don't stop. I ask why and am responded with, "Only the British drive on the left side of the road."

    Oh. No wonder that Mountie on horseback tried to flag me down when we passed the maple syrup stand.


    Canadians do not know how to plan freeways. There are stop lights on this fucker and the freeway disappears on the south side of Vancouver and reappears on the north side. What the fuck? This doesn't make sense.

    CalTrans did a similar thing with highway 1 when it hits San Francisco. But I want to point out that highway 1 is a freaking highway. Route 99 is supposed to be a freeway, though it's more like a byway.


    Vancouver doesn't have route 99 because they blew all of their money on this sign.



    She got in my shot, prompting me to give her a shot in the eye with my knuckles.

    I grabbed this girl to give to one of you guys like I promised I would. Problem is that she went bad (what the fuck is that smell, eh?) in half an hour. Please don't blame me, but all of the Canadian gifts I brought back for you guys went bad in Canada. Must be the French influence.


    Canadians, while nice, give horrible directions. I had to jump out of the car to ask a few people where Alberni street was. I had gotten the Vancouver map ready last night, but absent mindedly dumped it into the bag buried under three women's worth of luggage. So smart.

    Anyway, the only answer I get is an index finger pointing west and a verbal command to 'go that way'. Later on, I imagined the GPS systems in Canadian cars only provided pointing fingers and voices saying 'that way'. Probably explains Boxing Day/Week, too. There is no way Santa can find anything around here.



    I get to the hotel and am pleased. No cum stains. Always a plus.

    The view isn't quite as good. We're only on the 17th floor this time. Plus we've got two other people with us, meaning I can't walk around naked. This upsets me very much and I throw a temper tantrum.

    After the kicking and screaming on the floor, we decide to take a walk on Robson street. I didn't remember all those shoe stores Robson had. Kinky sees them and goes bananas. It's Boxing Week and she finds some elegant shoes to match her New Year's dress.

    I find some clown shoes to match my New Year's suit. Boy, I ain't ever seen her frown like that before.


    The whole crew goes to a Chinese seafood place for dinner. I tried to get directions from the front desk which turned out to be futile. What is it with these people? Friendly as hell, but all I get is a finger, 'go that way a little bit', 'make a right', and a smile. Perhaps this is the Canadian form of assholism; giving wrong directions to make you frustrated.

    I consult the map, instead, and we head out. I'd show you pictures of the dinner except they're only full of sexual positions that I'm not in. Friendly wait staff, but terribly horny.


    Are there any famous Canadian explorers? A Canadian found Nova Scotia, right? Because I have ten Canadian dollars that says he found it by accident. He was probably trying to find Senegal.



  • DAY THREE:::SEATTLE











    I woke up and saw fog rolling into Seattle. It was an awesome sight to see fog underneath you rather than above you. This must be why gay men fight to be on top.


    The original plan was to go to Seattle Center, the Aquarium, have a late lunch at Pike's Place, see Lion King, and find a spot for a late supper. But then Kinky's friend called and needed a ride from the airport. She goes to UW and it's ironic that I will be picking up someone flying into Seattle from California with a car with California plates. No one thought it was funny except me. Different state, same old shit.





    The main reason why Kinky and I need more than one toilet is because we tend to move our bowels together. It's so romantic.


    At the hotel, I let her go first. Mostly because it is one of those unwritten rules of chivalry under the ladies first policy. There are a couple of more reasons, first being my bowel movements tend to be as long as symphonies. Second, people tend to die of air deprivation if they are in the vicinity of where I laid one.






    On the elevator ride up the Space Needle, we have the world's most feminine operator. He's asian, which makes me swell with pride.


    The view from the Space Needle could have been great, but the fog has covered the city. Ten minutes after we're up there the clouds come in and you can't see shit. Oh well.














    After we pick up Kinky's friend we decide to go to lunch. Ten years ago, I ate lunch at Maximilien's in the Public Market with my parents. Now, me and my woman pass by the original Starbucks and watch people throw fish around as we make our way to the restaurant.


    Throwing fish would be an awesome job because it would give you some crazy hand grip. I suspect I would be able to strangle people easily. The only drawback is smelling like fish. But if anyone complained about my odor I'd probably just strangle him. Easily.





    Sunlight was pouring through the windows at Maximilien's. It's a French rustic seafood cafe that has killer mussels. Everything lived up to my memories. The stunning view, good food, slow service, and scheming Iraqi terrorists are all still there.


    What could have been an hour long lunch took three hours. It was a nice pace though because we got to catch up with Kinky's friend and see our server drop two different plates of salad. This is a job that would definitely suck to have.


    I can bring joy to any job, though. Like if I were a waiter who tends to drop salads on the the floor I'd totally flip out in front of customers. I'd curse at the salad as if it were my sworn enemy and stomp the lettuce good and dead. Again, I'd get fired. But I could get another job to get fired from.





    The Lion King is good, but not great. Kinky likes it a lot, but I thought the show ended up being more about puppeteering than dancing and singing. It looks like I can pull off some of those dance moves and the songs that are already popular keep getting cut off. Zazu is easily the funniest character and Scar did a great job of making me want to shoot him with an elephant gun.


    What's weird is the audience in Seattle. They were talking through most of the show and booed the guy playing Scar when he was taking his bow. I've only witnessed booing once after a high school show. The villain was the only actor who played his role convincingly and got booed for it.


    I really wonder how that actor took the booing. It's such a weird reward for doing a good job. That combined with rainy weather must increase the desire to commit seppuku. I wonder how many Scars they've gone through up there. I wonder if it was the same guy I saw in high school.





    I've read hipstomp's blog and his complaints about how people in other cities urge you to drive rather than walk. Man, I have got to agree with him. The Paramount Theatre is only five blocks away from the Westin and everyone told us to drive.


    Makes me question why Seattle is the fittest city in the nation.





    We didn't get to go to the aquariam, but I'm sure I would love to work there after I learn how to throw fish.






     



  • DAY ONE & TWO:::SEATTLE




    Somewhere in Oregon.



    Portland is so nice that I decided to pass it up at 80mph.



    I can sleep while driving. It's in my Asian driving genes.



    Fish, chips, and chowder from Ivar's in Seattle. The fish n' chips weren't all that.



    The view from a bed 39 stories above the ground.



    We could see lots of things from that height, including Washington's favorite phallus.



    Dinner at the Dahlia Lounge started with the seafood sampler. Pretty good, but nothing wow. Like my phallus.



    Rack of lamb with cheddar cheese fritters and anchovy crusted broccoli. Really good.



    Blurry picture of top notch belgian fries and sea bass.





    We were making great time before we hit major traffic in the Mt. Shasta area. The snow was coming down hard. I was worried that I might need to put on chains but the four wheel drive handled it well.

    Here's a tip for people who have never put on chains. Don't do that stupid thing where you lay them down and roll over them. Pull out your jack and lift the car up. It takes seconds and you won't get aggravated by mud and snow quite as much. Also, if it's snowing, chances are you don't need them. It's when shit ices over that you should put them on.

    Take my word for it. It's not like I want you to slide your car off of a cliff. Well, not that much.




    After passing the shmucks putting on chains in the mountains, we stopped for the night in Eugene, Oregon. It's the home of Nike, the UO Ducks, and really ugly people. I wear Nikes, almost went to UO, and am really ugly. So I fit in perfectly.

    Kinky likes to wear shoes I can't pronounce, draws a blank stare when hearing 'UO', and is cute as a button. Unless I find an ugly mate, I'm not moving to Eugene anytime soon.





    Passing Portland the next morning was cake. No reason to stop in a city of roses during winter, right? Besides, I think I learned a lot about Portland while passing it. It's a city of bridges, the Trailblazers, the aforementioned roses, and very polite drivers even when they get flicked off.




    First thing we did in Seattle was get some grub. Ivar's looked interesting. The seafood stand's ordering system is absolutely abysmal, and if you know me then you know abysmal is my thing.

    You have to shout your fish/seafood fry order when a guy points at you. He takes between a dozen and two million orders at one time and re-iterates your wants to Asian cooks. Then he refers to you by what you ordered and asks what the fuck do you want to drink. Actaully, he didn't say fuck, but I know I would if I had that job.

    There's no way I would be able to keep that job for more than a month. Someone is bound to catch me and the cream for the chowder cauldrons in kama sutra positions.




    Second thing we did was walk around. Seems like more than few Seattle-ites carry coffee around with them. The amazing thing about Seattle-ites besides their grungy clothes and displeasing aesthetics is how calm they are despite their caffeine fixes. I expected to see people running up and down the Space Needle in a coffee infused craze, but I was very disappointed.

    The people really didn't live up to any of my expectations. When I think of the northwest, I think of trees which leads me to conjure up an image of the Brawny paper towel guy. You know, that lumberjack? Anyway, why are guys in Seattle, for lack of better term, pussies? Their voices are high and they dress like fags. They walk all dainty, too.

    I used to think the Brawny man dealt with obstacles and people he didn't like by uprooting a thousand year old redwood and smashing them into smithereens. Now, I think he sips his coffee with his pinky up.




    My room at the Westin was impressive. The grandiose view took me a good twenty minutes to survey. To my suprise, the furniture was as comfy as it looked good.

    Westin rooms have Heavenly Baths and Beds. The bathroom looked pretty spartan but made up for itself with its twin shower heads. One head has a massage setting and the other is a spray/rainmaker. I probably took a half hour shower, which should make up for the twenty years since my last shower. Kidding.

    I never take showers. It's pointless. You're going to get dirty anyway.




    The Heavenly Bed was even better than the shower. I don't think I've ever fell into as a deep a sleep as I did at the Westin. Kinky told me I actually snored, which only happens after I pull a few all nighters. But you know how you might get bed sores after sleeping for a long time? Yeah, well that shit didn't happen to either of us. We might not have slept that long, but we didn't move. I know because I actually held on to Kinky the whole night and woke up in the exact same position.




    Dinner at the Dahlia Lounge was pretty good. I wanted to try it because I saw Dahlia Lounge's Tom Douglas on Great Chefs of the World. I love that fucking show. The voice over lady is so proper and concise. Makes me think I can make that gourmet shit even though I know I can't. She's like a polite teaser.

    In all honesty, Dahlia Lounge isn't anything out of the ordinary, but everything is executed pretty well. At first I thought the service kind of sucked because our server was so impersonal. A few days later, I realized that's just Seattle.

    Kinky and I had some interesting discussions about our jobs and our futures. She's thinking about grad school which is really cool. It means one of us will be qualified to make a commanding salary. I'm definitely not qualified to even be paid at McDonald's, but I'm going to do my best to win the Lotto.

    I'm also going to do my best to smash people into smithereens with a giant redwood tree. I drink my coffee with my pinky down, so it's just a matter of time. Kind of like the Lotto.





  • I need to run some errands. So here is one picture. You aren't getting anymore right now.


    Mostly because I probably hate you and want to get started on my new year.







  • EDIT: Back. Will update soon.





    I'm leaving. Not on a jet plane, but an automobile. Eight hundred fifty miles of road awaits me. Time to go please her.


    Merry Christmas and have a happy New Year.



    Pictures and more when I get back from the land of maple syrup, hockey, funny football fields, and Mounties.


    That has got to be the most homosexual nickname for a cop.