Bonne Année 2018 Happy New Year! {Holiday Special, Part II: Getting it all out of your system +PLUS+ With any luck, you won’t be a Utility Duck.}

First off, congratulations to Samoa, whose inhabitants

I understand are already celebrating 2018. Which proves that, when you don’t like the year you already have, just use a little reverse psychology.  Just look them in the eye and say, “Samoa. Samoa, please. Samoa!”

You will sound a bit like Katharine Hepburn after she’d realized she didn’t actually have to move her lips to say her lines and thenceforth froze her mouth into a permanent rictus, that’s what we call the bonus; and, since you never get what you ask for, you’ll get another year.

Samoa, please!  Samoa!!

There’s no planning in any of this, you know.  None.


Next, a New Year’s Message from Susan Dreamy:


This is Susan Dreamy??!! Happy, like, New Year?  OK?

And I’m gonna share my secret with you guys! Of like!? How to have a Dreamy life?


Shhhhhhh! Don’t tell!!

It’s real simple? Just wake up, go out and have yourself a Dreamy Day OK???

Don’t let life get you, like.


And then one day, when you are thinking, you’ll remember you’ve had all those Dreamy days and you’ll think, I had like!?

A Dreamy life??!! OK??!! And then you’ll, like.


Are you having a Dreamy day??? LO freakin’ L??  I am!!??!


The year 2017: Getting it all out of your system

I’ve developed this new superstition about fresh starts and new years, and without even asking you, I can tell you’re already “focused” on what I’m going to say, like golden labs who’ve just heard someone unwrap a cheese slice.

Funny how reality always moulds itself to my desire. Like those coconut tuiles Martha Stewart was always encouraging me to drape over a broomstick when soft, which project remained, like those proverbial twenty-six egg whites, festering at the back of the refrigerator of my mind as I searched for a broomstick that wasn’t attached to a scraggy, urine-colored yacht mop soaking in a pail of muddy water and Pine-Sol.

But I digress. Digress? Hell, I clatter down the spiralling metal staircase of my free-associating metaphors on the Louboutin stilettos of my confusion into a rabbit-hole of What The Frig is he on about now? 

My new superstition is:  You have to get out of your system everything from the nightmare LIFE-IN-DEATH was She who thicks man’s blood with cold, the Whore of Babylon, the stumbling, legs-akimbo bitch-mistress that was 2017, and get it out of your system NOW, Murgatroyd McGraw—or I guarantee you will spend the next three hundred and sixty-five sunrises cursing the day your mother had that second sip of Tia Maria at Trader Vic’s back in September ’63 and ended up passed out in a Beck cab.

“Your dad’s a traveling salesman”, indeed!

So, my little broomsticks, here’s coconut tuile number


timbercrookThanks are due to Timbercreek Property Management.

Here’s a little story that will make you weep with laughter.  On November 1st, 2017, I headed, brave little bald head held high, crystalline tear poised and ready to trickle on command, to the Landlord Tenant Board, to plead for relief from eviction (which I was granted).

My crime:  Admittedly, a little creative accounting with the paying on time scenario, plus, NOT admittedly, the ghastly imposition on my fellow tenants of a worried friend having knocked on my door, on one occasion, late at night.

As I locked the door, I was struck by a pungent, prickly smokiness in the atmosphere, and as I headed down the stairs actual smoke was noticeable and increasing. In a second, I was accosted by a fireman saying, “I’ll help you down, sir”.  The smoke increased to holy crap, there’s a fire in the building, a serious one, too proportions.

As I headed out the north entrance of the building I saw my fellow tenants gathered on the front lawn, and, looking back at the building, I saw the burnt-out shell of what I could identify as apartment 509.

A couple of days later, I learned that the tenant in 509—are you ready?— had doused his female partner with gasoline and attempted to immolate her with a flame-thrower, in the process immolating the apartment.

Shocking, crazy, and I’m not making this up.

I’m happy to say that the woman escaped to the safety of another tenant’s unit, unharmed (at least, un-immolated).

But THANK YOU, Timbercreek, for dismissing the continual complaints about the noise of arguments and abuse coming from 509; and instead focusing obsessively on surveillance of me and my friends’ comings and goings as you attempted to save my neighbours from the life-threatening dangers of creative accounting and a single night of door-knocking.

Gold friggin’ star.

And here comes coconut tuile number


I was stood up for Christmas dinner this year, but that is neither the main nor the heart-tugging-est event of this tuile-tragedy.

On Christmas Eve, while perusing the “No Frills” grocery store flyer, my attention was drawn to a promotion for frozen ducks.

Now, we all know that, as Albert Einstein once remarked, “there’s not much on a duck”; that duck always sounds like a good idea in a 1950’s, classy-date, I’ll-have-the-Cherries-Jubilee kind of way, but is actually not a great idea because no one really likes it; and that it is one of the most labor-intensive meals you can prepare.

I mean, honestly.  Classic French?  OK.  Joint the duck, because legs-thighs must be braised, but breast must be seared; make duck stock from the carcass once you’ve butchered and jointed; skim off the five gallons of fat, with which you are planning to make roast potatoes someday but which will actually live at the back of the fridge with—yes!—the twenty-six egg whites, until you have to throw them both out because you’re moving into a new building; now reduce the stock and make a gastrique (a citrusy-caramel sauce to counteract the duck’s richness; analogous to how you are getting gradually sauced on neat gin to counteract the six hours and counting of the duck’s tedium).

Oh my sweet friggin’ Julia Child… Next step is a short break, during which you update your schedule for the dinner party, completely eliminating “take bath and shave”; and substituting “just wear track pants from laundry hamper” for “black tie”.

Moving along into the home stretch, time the cooking of the body parts for meltingly tender braised thighs but rare seared breast, reheat the gastrique, plate, sauce and garnish the body parts on your best china, serve your guests with a self-deprecating, “oh-it-was-nothing” smile as you listen to their exclamations of wonder, then excuse yourself for a moment; at which point you run to the bedroom sobbing from exhaustion and stress, pop two benzo’s and crawl under the covers, where you remain until Family Day.

Chinese is even worse, requiring as it does steaming your waterfowl with a steamer you contrive with a roasting pan, aluminum foil and a rack, the massaging of the duck (“you like Happy Ending?”) so it will extrude—yes!—the five gallons of fat, then drying the duck skin with a hair dryer.

So I was about to dismiss the whole idea of duck until I read more closely.  The flyer said:

Great prices on frozen utility ducks!

and in a single, stabbing, vertiginous moment, my life changed.

Utility duck.  Some phrases just get you where you live.

Yes, utility ducks. Working ducks. High- (but small)-minded, hard-scrabble ducks, sad-eyed-but-plucky ducks, asking nothing for their life-long sacrifice of service. Giving up their birthright of lazy halcyon days quacking and paddling and sifting algae through their strainer beaks as their comical duck-butts point to heaven.

Instead? Utility. Mowing-lawn ducks. Shoveling-snow ducks. Take out the garbage, garage-sale ducks. Keeping OUR houses beautiful (although their cheap foreign labor, it must be said, is destroying the Ivy League university student economy, one blond, Aryan, Ralph Lauren-clad football scholarship at a time).

Utility ducks die for their country, too.  Think bomb-sniffing ducks, flying in platoons to the Middle East. For stupidity is the better part of valor, and ducks have stupidity like god has green apples. An unlimited supply.

Did I say stupidity?  My apologies: I meant innocence.

But once in a while, Private Mallard wakes up hungover after a poker night, a night spent drinking and whoring in the compound, and then comes predictable tragedy.  Out on a bomb-sniffing mission, Private Mallard forgets itself, quacks the wrong quack at the wrong time and—kablooey!

That’s duck all over.

When you got lemons, make lemonade; when you got duck all over from a foolhardy waterfowl, think “Julia”. Reheat your gastrique and carry out your new culinary masterpiece, Canard éclatant, on a bed of couscous, and warble, “Never let on that anything is amiss!”

But pause before you dig in, say a little prayer for duck orphans, duck widows, for whom Victoria Crosses and Medals of Freedom are cold comfort, no matter how much wild rice with dried cranberries and walnuts you decide to throw at them.


I would be remiss to not mention the ubiquitous seeing-eye duck, noble, obedient. Unfortunately, also ridiculous, due to its slight problem of running around in circles when distressed, which is most of the time. Laughing at blind people is not cool, guys. Not cool.

Don’t ever cook Christmas dinner for someone you’ve just met the night before. Will you promise me that?  Don’t ever invite just anyone for Christmas dinner because you’re lonely and just anyone will do.

Don’t be a utility duck.

Jump back into the pond, sift some algae through your beak, feel the water run right off your back, ruffle your glistening, iridescent blue-green feathers, quack a few crazed quacks of triumph, then dive, baby, dive!

Stick your pointy, feathered butt straight up to heaven and make us laugh, Murgatroyd McGraw!


Commercial Break: David plugs himself with a poll, suitable for all ages.



Pre-order my e-book for only $10 and start 2018 dyspeptically right!

Yes, friends, the e-book of the blog is coming February 1st, 2018, and you have the option of pre-ordering NOW.  You luckybitches!

This will 1. Show me how much you care; 2. Help with the print edition (the cover of which is shown here) 3. Get YOU a reduced price special edition of the paperback when it rolls out Spring 2018.

{The print book will be available on (fingers crossed) Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other fine booksellers who have the taste and discernment to recognize my comic genius, or who at the very least are subject to the bribery/extortion/kidnapping-while-in-possession-of-an-old-rusty-refrigerator-that-still-has-its-door-attached-a-picture- of-their-kids-and-a-ticket-to-Niagara-Falls spectrum of behavior.

Inbound marketing, in other words. I hope this makes sense.}

My publication is in the form of a Pillow Book.

Yes, siree, a Pillow Book! The first, most famous Pillow Book (a kind of diary filled with aphorisms, clever stories and pungent commentaries on social life) was written by Sei Shōnagon during her time as court lady to Empress Consort Teishi during the 990s and early 1000s in Heian Japan. I’m kind of embarrassed to remind you of something so “common-knowledge”! Go on, roll your eyes, I deserve it!

Well, anyway, as many of my friends spend virtually all their waking hours in court, the similarities between Sei Shōnagon and me simply couldn’t be more obvious! I’m always thrilled to carry on a tradition!

I was also macrobiotic for a while, which basically means you eat Japanese food wherever you live and pretend that that’s better for you.  And I’m a trained and certified shiatsu therapist, which is a traditional Japanese type of energy massage.

Holy Rice Balls!  I’d better stop before I have to fire myself for being over-qualified!!!

Just don’t get the idea that my book has anything to do with Japan.  It doesn’t.  Not in the slightest. In fact, this blurb has more info to do with Japan than my entire e-book, which is to say, any content at all about Japan.  OK?  Moving along.

(No offense, but—are you always this high-maintenance?)

Both the print and the e-book will contain new, rejigged and painstakingly fluffed versions of your favorite posts from the past four years, and, with no good deed going unpunished, exclusive new content just for YOU!

This is you: “Oh, stop! Oh, STOP, the dyspeptic humor is just so—! Oh, my RIBS—!”

You’ll also get a checkout code entitling you to 30% OFF any item in my Snatsch ‘n Foofer online store, valid until 2019.

Look, just do it, OK?

» Here’s the link, if you didn’t work out you could actually click on the book cover image above.

A rather long poll

While we’re at it, take the poll (see above) and give me FREE advice!

Happy New Year to all my friends and followers – you’ve truly made 2017 bearable.  Let’s hang out more in 2018.



blackNODATE Signature

Something I don’t normally do…

… is post something short, sweet, non-dyspeptic and by someone else.

But, goldarnnit, the someone else here is J Walter Thompson, the venerable ad agency, the original “Mad Men” blue-suited dinosaur that’s updated its DNA and partnered with Tourism Toronto to create a soul-stirring 60-second promotional video (actually, an entire campaign) about my hometown that brought tears to my old-man eyes and gratitude to my aching, feckless heart.

I’ll be updating with an authentic slowpainful post very shortly. In the meantime, enjoy:-

“The Views Are Different Here”


T♥ronto, Canada / last days of 2017.


“Mon pays ce n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver …” {Holiday Special, Part I:- I’m Dreaming of a Whitey Christmas}

xmas tree2Very merry happy holidays. It’s the fag-end of

2017, the annus horribilis that saw me narrowly escaping eviction from my home;

Brought my first, and, I guarantee, my last, summons in the name of Her Majesty The Queen to Estreat Court (a special royal garden party, but without the fruity hats and crustless sandwiches, for those who’ve put up bail for their loser friends—only to have the loser friends break their conditions of bail, leaving them at large, and us, their hapless gaolers, in the Superior Court of Justice, undergoing public humiliation for our idiocy in believing that anything would change, ever);

And, naturally, or my name ain’t Murgatroyd McGraw, continued my death-by-roommate via a graduating class of seven new specimens so feckless, so untruthful, so institutionalized in their freaky, senseless behavior and coddled pre-teen expectations, that it’s either a case of

a.  I have the world’s worst bad judgement, or

b.  I’m the problem and should probably move out.

(It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve thought: maybe it’s ME. Or, as expressed by the last roommate, who—having been taken on in order to help me pay the rent on time, never paid the rent on time, then absconded on November 3rd having paid no rent—texted me and said:

“Stop blaming everyone else for your problems”.

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  I’m NOT blaming him or anyone for my problems, which are as the stars in the heavens, so numberless they be. I AM blaming him for HIS problem, which is not paying the rent on time.

Yes, no?)

Two thousand seventeen was the year of a whole new cast of fairy-tale characters, Germanic as genocide and grimmer than Grimm: der Führer des neuen amerikanischen Reiches, Herr TRUMPF and his gnädige Frau Melania; and, as the corresponding Shakespearean low-comedy couple, though it’s hard to see how much lower you could get: Wicked Killary, who eats dead babies for tea in her root cellar, naked, seated on a pile of moist, yellowing e-mails; and Obama Satanica, black as coals at midnight, who fucks the babies to death for her with his scaly, forked devil-dick.

I ask you. Could anything be more plausible?  Now, eat your spinach or they’re coming to get you.

It was the year when Truth raised its fuzzy little newborn head, took one look at the orange glow emanating from the Oval Office and died in its cot, and when the real news was more unreal than the fake; a year when child molestors ran cheerfully for office while every third male in the civilized world was unmasked as nothing more than a small, unruly penis dragging along an eight-armed sociopath; and the year, though it feels so very much longer, when Bernie Sanders flailed his arms a lot and blamed everyone else for his problems.

(Hint to Bernie:  It’s your fucking dandruff, you deal with it.)

Meanwhile it’s cold as fuddle-duddle in Toronto, North Korea keeps saying “war”, with the same unnerving conviction as a two-year-old calling everyone “dada”, and it’s our first white Christmas in a few years.

For the White House, it’s the first Whitey Christmas in a while, too; because, hallelujah, Trump has reinstated Christmas, snatched the twenty-fifth December—originally, I believe, a pagan solstice celebration—from the dark, heathen hands of Hussein and “Mike”.allanGardensSnow


Don’t bother to point out that the Obamas had a Christmas tree, offered Christmas good wishes and Christmas prayers and all the Christmas trimmings every year for eight years, with no interruption.  The Facebook commenters are adamant:  “It’s so good to see a Christmas tree in the White House again!”

Every fucking one of them.  It is astonishing, and not a little frightening, to see a bunch of people so convinced against all evidence to the contrary—real, tangible, watch it, listen to it, touch it evidence, on video, on the net, in print—of a complete lie.

Even, presumably, the guy who gushed:  “It’s so wonderful to see the Negativity Scene [sic] in our nation’s capital again!”

You couldn’t make shit like that up.


White Christmas.  Genuine, ankle-to-knee-deep snow,

howling Wuthering Heights wind at night, at sunrise snow-silence and at the horizon a veil of pink and blue.

People don’t like snow any more, because it’s inconvenient, it requires work, it slows you down.  They don’t get snow:  snow on pine trees, snowmen, snow angels, packin’ snow for Roberston Davies’ snowball fights; and fluffy, fresh snow like icy down, each flake, yes it’s true, every single billionth one a different, perfect crystal.

They don’t get winter: Have they never heard tree branches glazed with thick transparent ice creaking like tall ships in the wind, never squinted in pain from the diamond ferocity of light reflecting off a kajillion flakes piled high as a nine-year-old, never tried to open the front door in the morning to find snow has drifted two-thirds of the way up and felt that anarchic, school’s-cancelled joy?

People die in the snow.  That’s also true.

As a child, you awaken one morning, maybe in November, to ethereal silence and silvery light: snow, you think, with a little thrill, and you rush to the window to confirm your prediction, see the cherry tree by moonlight cast indigo shadows on steel-blue drifts. It takes an hour to get dressed for school, in the semi-dark, and your mother makes porridge—oatmeal or Red River or Cream of Wheat—and you walk to school like a plump little Michelin man, you walk to school by yourself, and at lunch time you come home and have Campbell’s tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

They don’t get winter, any more than they get that you don’t eat turkey at Easter or asparagus in December, or that you don’t need “rapid oatmeal” made in the microwave which takes the same time as cooking it on the stove, but less attention and care;

They don’t get that you don’t respond to an invitation to dinner with, “I don’t know, what are you making?” (It’s not about “dinner”, lughead, and I’m not McDonald’s; it’s about spending time with each other, but the concept of “other” doesn’t register with you, and your mind immediately goes to: “what’s in this for me?”);

They don’t get that you don’t respond to “Thank you” with the rejoinder “no praaaahblem!”

My long-suffering friends reading this can go powder their noses, but if you’ve just arrived: Can I tell you my praaaahblem with “no praaaaahblem“?

I say to you, “Thank you.” I’ve offered something to you: acknowledgement that you’ve made an effort, perhaps even a small sacrifice, for my comfort.  Graciousness.

You say to me, “You’re welcome.”  You’ve offered something back to me:  “What I did was not a burden, it was a pleasure.”  Graciousness back, “you” and “you”.  A circle of grace, each person focused on the other.

But say to me, “No praaaaahblem!!” and the circle does not complete.  “It was no problem [for ME”].  It was not a problem, to do what I did.  So you got lucky this time.  But what I did has nothing to do with you.  Maybe someday – it will be a problem, so watch yourself, Murgatroyd.”


The primary Canadian personality trait is fortitude.

We don’t expect leadership by default, universal deference, or prizes for the biggest, tallest, best.  We don’t expect the world to jump at our command or dance to our tune.

We expect to survive.

The oldest of us, which would include me these days, know that the rhythms of nature are tsunamis that, indifferent to our preposterous schedules and self-importance, erase human certainty.

With one good blast of snow, one nostril-searing sniff of icy air, one three-hour traffic jam, cancelled flight or broken ankle, you are permanently relieved of

the touching belief that everything is about you.


Thank heaven—for little girls—! +PLUS+ Facebook Life Event #209a: Slept. In a Bed. With Covers. Vaguely at night.


“Vogue Enfants”:  Sexualizing little girls is only wrong when it doesn’t make someone vats of money. Got that?  Crude Photoshop composite ©David Roddis, 2017.

First, I need you to know that Donald Trump was right:


But Roy Moore, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal —you know, the Alabama guy with the eight arms, that long overcoat with pockets stuffed full of candy bracelets, and the dog-eared copy of “Lolita” on his bedside table—lost.

That’s the LAST thing America needs: A victory for bad on Crime, Life, Border, Vets, Guns & Military Dems; an ignominious defeat for All-American, good-clean-fun, national-anthem-standing, horned-for-young-girls Republicans.

You, know, and can I just say, seriously. There’s just no predicting how voters can suddenly get all un-American and decent on you.  Talk about fickle!

Nonetheless, I really, really need you to know that Donald Trump was right:


Strange indeed, then, that Roy’s numbers, as opposed to anything else of Roy’s, did not “go up mightily” at the siren call of the Great Mouth Breather’s endorsement.

(You do know how to endorse, don’t you, Donald?  It’s easy—you just put your lips together and blow.)

But what do you expect?  Hard as Roy might work, huffing and puffing and giving the task at hand his best shot—those fickle voters were just too well-stacked.  It can happen!

So to make this all perfectly clear:

Trump was unequivocally right, in that uniquely wrong kind of way of being right that’s endeared him to world leaders from the Palace of Westminster to the Dome of the Rock and every point in between.

Are you great again yet, America?  ‘Cause I have to be honest: Your continuing attempts at again-greatness are becoming a terrible strain on the nerves.


This just in: Are black women inherently smarter than and superior to white women? Ah DO declare!

Exit polls after the Alabama Senate vote show that nearly two-thirds of white women in Alabama voted for Roy Moore.

Yes, siree! Nearly two-thirds of white women in Alabama voted for Roy Moore!

(At least, we’re pretty sure they were white women.  It’s hard to tell who’s under those pointed hoods until you get the secret handshake.)

On the other hand, 98% of black women voted for Jones, who fought the Ku Klux Klan and won, as opposed to only 34% of white women.

Stats for the Presidential election show similar divisions. Black women, regardless of education, voted 95% for Clinton.  But only 34% of non-college educated white women voted for her, and an only slightly more encouraging 51% of college-educated white women.

Think of that. Black women, whatever their level of education, voted monolithically for Jones/Clinton; that is, after they updated their ID’s, hired a notary public, then walked with the notary public thirty-four miles to the polling station and cut through the barbed wire fence.

But white women went to college and, at least in Alabama, got only 17% smarter!  Their complacent Confederate stupidity, compounded by too many years spent doling out jello salad in their church basements and inhaling bleach fumes as they soaked the bloodstained linens, is apparently as impenetrable as Roy “Huff-‘n-Puff” Moore’s thirteen-year-old nymphet.


Meanwhile, in another part of town, Twitterers

were all a-twit at the Netflix employees who got bored one rainy afternoon and decided to publicly tease three people about their obsessive viewing habits. On Twitter.  Just for, you know. Fun.

Use customer data irresponsibly?  As if!

Ever since the revelation that three “Likes” on Facebook will predict with high accuracy whether you’re gay or not—for the record, they are: “All About Eve”, “Barbie Collectors” and “Cute Guys in Jockstraps”— I spend a full third of my waking hours telling youngsters about the necessity of using super-secure, ephemeral messaging apps, like Wickr, for example, only to receive, via Facebook, something like, “Whatever, grandad, and could you score us some more of that awesome weed??!!!?”

Similarly, a Greek soldier once said to his colleagues,

“Cassandra says she has a funny feeling about the big horse thingy, though I think it was kind of thoughtful of the Trojans and I do agree it would look smashing in the atrium as a begonia planter!”

Yes, peeps—it’s time for another in my recurring series:

Facebook Life Event  #209a:
Slept. In a bed. With covers over me. Vaguely at night.

24899721_1595842147128580_6752123882156218646_nLast night, around 2 A.M., while “working” (surfing the deep Internet in search of the most time-wasting cat videos I could possibly find), I started falling asleep at various inconvenient moments (at one point finding myself unaccountably naked on Skype) and slamming my face into the computer keyboard.

I’m not sure how many of you understand that this blog does not magically appear on the internet via my voice-activated, machine-learning-capable supercomputer responding to my command of “Hey, Cortana, write my blog, bitch!”, but involves real effort.

As a way of illustrating the concept “real effort”, compare, say, me staying up three nights in a row smoking twelve-dollar packs of cigarettes and risking carpal tunnel syndrome in order to produce sly, humorous material that I pray an average person will even understand, never mind laugh at the appropriate moments; to you, say, starting to make a cup of instant coffee, getting bored halfway through, then returning to your master bedroom and texting Starbucks to see if they’ll Uber you a Grande Caramel Latte made with Lactose-Free Low-Fat.

Now that we’re on the same page about real effort, I can tell you that my falling asleep problem was exacerbated by my complete failure to find a thread of right-wing Amerikanischer nut-jobs frothing at the mouth about transgenders and the dangers they pose to American public washrooms, so that I could engage and eventually end up screaming for the millionth time that Canada’s healthcare system is not “Socialist Satanic Hillary Socialist Obama Communism”.

The fourth time I nodded off, I slithered in a Martha Graham-type slow motion off the chair and landed scalp first on the sharp corner of the surge-resistant power bar by Ikea that only extends three inches from the socket so bored Swedish children won’t trip over it when they’re finger-painting the walls with lingonberry crumble.  This was the first time I’d ever hit my head hard enough to understand the term “seeing stars”.

Well, you know— It got me to thinkin’.

So having stanched the flow of blood and suppressed my hysterical screams, I went into my bedroom—which I haven’t had use of since 2014, when I rented it out to a top-secret provincial mental-health project as a cheap alternative to biohazard disposal—lay down on the futon, pulled the duvet up over me and—slept for about five hours.

Slept. In a bed. Futon, I mean. With covers over me. Vaguely at night.

I don’t necessarily recommend it. If you try it yourself, don’t expect too much. You might not say, “That was AWE-SOMMMMME“, for example. My response was sort of, “Well, that was different, eh?”

I didn’t say “eh”, really, I just added that to fulfill the expectations of any American friends who happen to read this. It’s always good to live up to people’s expectations of you. You’ll find that’s a really effective strategy for your life.

About The Pictures (PG)

You may be wondering. The luscious pics have nothing to do with the above life event. I just chose to share them ’cause of how fucking hot they make me look.

Above: Me being hot as fuck as I sit in an expensive chair 24900075_1595842420461886_7722705345910293837_nin an expensive condo on the Île-des-soeurs, Montréal and catch my breath so I can be super fucking hot in the next pic.

Right: Me, in the same expensive condo on the Île-des-soeurs, Montréal, being super fucking hot after my rest (see above).

Some people have suggested to me, from a respectful distance, that being as fucking hot as I am is actually a potential danger to the public and should be illegal.

But I disagree. There’s always room at the party for one more hot-as-fuck guy, and that guy right now just happens to be me.

Since you asked.