I do not make any qualms nor hold  any reservations about my thespian prowess or lack thereof. I admire the craft. I respect it. Marlon Brando, Robert De Niro, John Cazale, Jude Law… long have these men been my heroes of stage and sound.

When we finished filming season one of the acclaimed webbernet comedy spectacle “Bob & Andrew” (I play Andrew), I told my writing partner/confidant/holder of my power-of-attorney Robert “Bob” Woolsey that I was finished with acting.

“I’ve retired,” I blurted between swigs of celebratory ale on that cold November morning, “So fuck you and your fucking show!”

Bob was patient with me, and after the success of those first five episodes, I decided perhaps the world was ready for more of my astounding performances. Bob offered an expected “I told you so,” and then slapped me around a bit.

Playing one’s self is not an easy task. “Andrew” of the webseries is very different that the “Andrew” you’d meet, say, outside of a Denny’s at three am on a Tuesday, haphazardly looking for his lighter on the pavement only to discover it was in his hand the whole time. While we do share certain traits- uncertainly, neurosis, timidness, prone to violence, hunger- there are several key differences.

Andrew the Character is naive, confused, but nevertheless good-natured. He puts his friends’ and others’ feelings above his own. Andrew the Human has given up on love, and has recently put a down-payment on a border-town shanty in south Texas where he will live out his days drinking alone at a bar and cursing the government. He may also begin a pirate radio station that plays exclusively big band music.

Andrew the Human enjoys scarves. Andrew the Character hates scarves because they murdered his family.

Andrew the Character- while a sometimes stupid blowhard- is infinitely loyal to Bob. It may surprise you to learn that Andrew the Human and Bob the Human have hated each other since they met and continue working together out of pure respect for how the other handles himself at the blackjack table.

It can be a strange thing, portraying a version of yourself in hyper-realistic scenarios scripted sometimes based upon true life events and people. I find that the best way to decompress after a hard day of playing Andrew the Character is to write the word “bastard” over and over in what I’ve called my “happy thoughts” notebook, until the mescaline kicks in and I drift in to a warm stupor scored by Bob Dylan outtakes on the record player and my own screaming inside thoughts.

Over the summer of 2010, when our little troupe of gungho filmmakers set out to create our first feature film, “Do Something With Your Life”, I was in my comfortable role as the scribe. Being that I lack upper-body strength, general intelligence and motivation, my on-set duties were minimal. Sure, I set up a few lights, hauled gear, even manned the boom-mic for a few takes before I was asked to go away, but I’ll never claim my work over those eight weekends was gruelling. I mainly I smoked a lot of cigarettes are told dirty jokes between beer runs with our divine producer Keith Opatovksy. (Keith is a wonderful man whom one day I hope to go fishing with.)

Oh yeah, and I watched people. A lot.

The thing about real actors is they know how to act. I relished my chance to observe several of our key actors as they set-out to inhabit a character they would be portraying for the better part of a solstice.  I asked questions. “What do YOU think your character is feeling right now?” I offered insight. “I don’t think your character gives a shit about dogs.” And I listened. “Yeah, I know we’re running in to lunch but I have no motherfucking control on either when lunch is or what we’re doing before lunch that would cause it to be delayed so back off!”

But mostly I watched, paying close to attention to what real actors do to prepare for the juicy hot spicy roles I cook up for them. But I didn’t take any notes. So here’s a list of funny bullshit I made up in lieu of facts.

7 ACTING TIPS:

1. Peppering your character’s dialogue with the odd expletive gives him or her a sense of mystery and danger.
2. When in doubt, look away from the other actor. It makes your character seem contemplative, worldly.
3. The craft services table is there to provide you with meals for at least the next three days. Bring a large suitcase, bribe some of the staff. You can have juiceboxes and apples for God damned days!
4. If ever you think someone is looking at you, stop what you’re doing, grab your script, flip to any page and write the sentence “Wayne Gretzky ate the last piece of cake.” Simply close up the script and set it aside. It’ll make you smart.
5. Shower twice daily. Once for you, once for your co-stars.
6. If you didn’t learn your lines and someone calls you on it, start to cry and tell them your father died and you got the call on the way to set. That will teach them to mind their own fucking business.
7. If you’re going to drink on set, make it vodka. Colourless AND odourless. Friggin’ science, man.

If I could summarize my thoughts into a single sentence of ten to fourteen words then I would not have spent the better part of an hour forcing this word-fuck of joy out of my hands and face. But if there’s one thing I want you to take away from this, one thought or idea I think is most important, it is this:

Acting is hard. But not as hard as firefighting. Firefighters are heroes. Actors are cool too but they’re not firefighters. Also, cops suck.

Good day and good ACTING to you all!

(Season two is going well. No one has died or being set aflame yet. Thanks to Patsy Tomkins for the stills.)

Published by Harper-Collins, “Storm’s A-Comin’” chronicles Mr. Woolsey’s life as an extreme weather-chaser as he criss-crosses Canada in search of high pressure systems as well as low pressure systems. Here’s what critics and peers are saying:

“‘Storm’s A-Comin’” is an absolute must-read if you’ve got a face, brain and balls.”
-Andrew Menzies

“This is totally a book.”
-James Marsden (X-Men 2)

“The cover is nice.”
-Neil Young (acclaimed Canadian singer-songwriter speaking about another publication)

“The paper is of cheap quality. If you add beeswax, you can roll marijuana cigarettes with it. Fuck off Dorothy, I’m on the phone!”
Terry Joseph Wharburton (bobandandrew.com Podcast Producer)

We are proud to present chapter 16 in its entirety.

Chapter 16: Night Falls

It had been two days since Hurricane Marcus touched down in rural New Brunswick. Dr. Edith Harding sent a frantic early-morning email requesting immediate help. In my haste I forgot to don my long johns. As I sat on that red-eye flight to the Dieppe airport, I mused that the error could lead to my downfall.

Edith was a brute of a woman: six feet tall, two-eighty, two-ninety, maybe even three hundred pounds of Anglo-Saxon woman. She was however lean and muscular, with an eight-pack of abs and forearms that could rip your dick clean off. “Brick shit-house” doesn’t even begin to describe her, whom with a rattle in the saddle was inevitable. It was a common occurrence, both hurricanes in the maritime region of the great nation of Canada, as well as Edith’s penchant to jump my bones immediately after a storm had passed. Our relationship parallelled the gale force winds we both lusted for. This was a fact I reminded myself of as we touched down in Dieppe; a city which I can only describe as vaguely resembling Tehran, though abundantly white.

I wondered if I had made a mistake some years ago as a young lad at meteorology school. Buxom, proud, and drunk, I took Edith on as a project, for at the time I had never been with an older woman. She was kind, forgiving and above all else, a teacher in the lessons of fucking. But father time had not been kind to Edith; the scars on her face reminded the both of us of a dozen chased storms. A dozen chased dreams. And one terrible international incident.

Nipping at over-salted cashews and cursing the airline’s lack of an in-flight moving picture, I thought back to the last time I saw Edith. The perils of the situation far outweighed the night of passion that followed.

October 1996. A boat of Tamil Tigers had landed north of the 49th parallel. I was paged to investigate, an obvious mistake as I had no diplomatic or educational background dealing with jungle terrorism. I knew that whoever made the call mistook my name on the Canadian Nation Registry of Emergency Response Technicians and Advisors (CNRERTA) for that of Robert James Wolski, a renowned scholar of civil disputes. Nevertheless I was up for a challenge, eager to prove to I was loyal to parliament.

She met me at the dock, hair damp from a light rain. Or maybe she was sweating profusely. Either way, it was nice to see a familiar face. She made a joke about the weather. It wasn’t funny, though I forced a grunt as I turned my attention to the black man standing nearby: Col. Hal McMaster, former Navy SEAL and current MENSA member, was charged with the task of leading an attack team onto the vessel in which the Tamils were camped. Col. McMaster feared they were ready to breach our shores at a moment’s notice, and he wanted me to document the siege. I had to think quickly to convince the Colonel that I was indeed Robert Wolski, 57 year old terrorism expert with a lisp and bad hip. Edith caught on to my ruse immediately, and I though I always thought of her as kind of a mongol, she didn’t break my cover.

Col. McMaster gave me a rifle: an M16 semi-automatic with a laser sight and 16x scope. I nearly wet myself. Perhaps my dream of committing murder without consequence was about to come true.

What happened next is a source of controversy among diplomats and political leaders. But I was there. I tasted the sweat, the blood. All I can do is tell you what I saw. And believe me, bub. I saw a God damn lot.

As soon as my feet dropped down from the circling helicopter’s rappel rope, I had to cower behind a drum of what I imagine contained some type of motor oil or cooking oil, as its smell was divine. Col. McMaster ordered smoke be deployed, and I watched, caressing my rifle, as the boat engulfed in fog. I could hear the footsteps. The shouting in another language. Shots range out. But I couldn’t SEE anything. Col. McMaster’s ALPHA TEAM leader Sgt. Victor Vicneiskcykiwei called out to fire at will. I stood up. I charged. Shouting curse words and spitting excrement from the tobacco chew I enjoyed at the time, I hoped I’d be home to see mum again. Things went black.

I awoke in a hospital bed, Edith at my side. I was handcuffed, morphine drip beeping like the sound of a thousand rainbows. I told Edith we had to leave immediately, as I was certain- whatever my actions- that the Gulag would surely be after me. I never trusted Euros. She obliged, using her brute strength to snap the cuffs clean off of me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t instantly aroused. It was then I noticed the fresh cuts on her face.

“Edith, what the Christ happened to your mug?” I sipped a last bite of morphine straight from the IV, threw on my trousers and began looking for a place to piss.

“Knife fight, my lovely,” she turned away, ashamed. “Do you still love me?”

I gave her a hard look and made a mental note to subtly suggest plastic surgery at some point in the future. A lot of surgery.

We went to a motel on the wrong side of town. All I wanted to do was sleep and think of a way out. But Edith seduced me with prescription painkillers and moonshine. We made love passionlessly. Like two robots. Back and forth. Swaying in the moonlight that crept in from the dirty motel window.

I felt nothing.

Final approach. Dieppe is on the horizon.

The rain was swaying sideways. After a sip, I tightened the top on my flask of double-distilled whiskey, said a prayer to a God I know is dead and rearranged my lower extremities.

Hurricane Marcus was going to be a motherfucker.

(“Bob Woolsey: Storm’s A-Comin” is available in paperback December 16th at all Coles, Chapters, and Shell gas stations across the pacific northwest.)

Happy birthday, Bob! You’re a real son of a gun!

A thirst for knowledge.

A hunger for… also knowledge.

Today I will debunk popular conspiracy theories. While I attest to professing little to no knowledge in a variety of subjects, I will attempt to beat off my detractors (heh!) by implementing a simple scale of one to ten that will determine the likelihood of truth in each theory.

Here is the scale:

The number “six” wouldn’t fit with the size and font I chose. Also, the colours are meaningless.

NEXT STOP: CONSPIRACY????????????

1. 9/11 was an inside job

Google “9/11 conspiracy”. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Holy shit, right?

There are millions of websites and even more theories, conspicuous photos and “evidence” from concerned amateurs. Everything from faux science about how steel melts or the free-fall speed of a building implosion, all spouted from the mouths of unprofessionals who desperately want to believe something complicated in place of something simple.

We’re raised in a culture of story. We’re so in tune with television and movies that we expect the truth to be just as dramatic as your standard Lifetime movie of the week. Reality, in this case, is not as satisfying as a work of fiction. The fact is that on September 11, 2001, hijackers took over four airplanes and caused irreparable loss of life at three crash sites. That’s what happened. To any 9/11 conspiracy theorist, I can only present this: the number of people that would be required to be “in” on the conspiracy is astronomical. However this blog has nothing to do with pragmatism.

Was 9/11 an inside job? GRAPH DECIDES

CONSPIRACY DEBUNKED

3. Kurt Cobain was murdered

I was nine years old when Kurt Cobain died. I didn’t listen to “Bleach” until I was seventeen. I enjoy Mr. Cobain’s music and it saddens me that he is dead and didn’t create more.You may think these musings are irrelevant. And you’d be correct.

Courtney Love is a crazy whore. I don’t put it past her to stay sober for six hours so that she could pay some pacific northwest Hell’s Angels six grand of upfront Hole money to blow away her better half (and truer words were never spoken) to gain control of one third Nirvana’s interests. That’s roughly how the conspiracy goes.

World – Cobain = Courtney Love gets the royalty checks.

POSSIBLE.

4. The JFK assassination was carried out by more than one man

True.

5. Lady Gaga has a penis

While evidence exists on both accounts, I am not about to turn bobandandrew.com into a pornographer’s playground.

But at least we know that lady/fellow can sing.

6. The world will end in 2012

I hope my simple graphs have helped you

In an age where Large Hadron Colliders and massive oil spills are the norm, the zombie uprising is a foregone conclusion.

You can pray to your God. You can stockpile all you want. But at the end of the day, there ain’t no insurance premium for the undead.

I’m pragmatic. I know this because I looked up the word. I’ve accepted that society is fragile. That our infrastructure is collapsing and that we, as humans, are doomed.

There’s nothing we can do now, expect pray. (And check our insurance premiums.)

There are six certainties that you must embrace during a zombie uprising. The sooner you make peace with your situation the sooner you’ll be able to develop a new-world marauder alter-ego complete with wardrobe, catch-phrase and small piece of your past that prevents you from getting close to another survivor.

(Me? Scribe. Leather duster, dual Glock .45′s, rollerblades; the fact that I never got to say goodbye to my parents.)

1. Find a gun and shoot it a lot

I’ve only fired a gun twice: with my dad when I was young, shooting targets in the bush during a fishing trip, and six years ago during a failed armed robbery. Shooting a gun is easy- point it, safety off, kill. Finding a gun will prove much more difficult. You can ransack an ammunitions store, attack a cop, or fashion a potato gun, but either way, make sure you hold the gun a cool way and don’t close your eyes when you fire or else people will think you’re a pussy.

2. Don’t trust anybody

If relationships and reality television have taught me anything, it’s that trust is not a virtue you can hand out willy-nilly like serviettes at Outback Steakhouse. Sooner or later you’re going to get barbaque sauce on your cardigan.

Think about the last time someone let you down. It doesn’t have to be a major issue- infidelity sucks, sure, but so does getting cut off in traffic. Any small betrayal will do. Got it? Okay. Now amplify that betrayal by fifty million thirsty-for-yours-and-only-your-brain undead killing machines. See what I mean? Don’t trust anyone.

Survival Tip #009: Wash frequently, and ladies, continue to wear make-up. You never know when that special marauder will show up!

3. Beans are suddenly delicious

With the human population instantly decimated, one of the first amenities to go will be the availability of foodstuffs. Bananas, cake, and Arby’s will quickly disappear, so you not only should you stock up on canned goods, but learn to enjoy the taste of three year old maple beans (if you live that long, count yourself lucky).

Survival Tip #190: Poke a hole in the top of your bean-can before cooking over open-flame. Science makes this step necessary!

4. No more drugs or alcohol

If you think you’ll be able to enjoy a few beers with your beans or an evening hit of Codeine, think again. Staying on alert and sober during a zombie attack is crucial. You need your faculties sharp: and that includes your depth-perception faculty and your “oh my God zombies are surrounding us but I’m too high to reload my pistol but maybe they’d like a hug” faculties. Staying clean means staying alive.

You can put that on a fuckin’ shirt.

5. Money is useless/Print your own

While a worldwide zombie pandemic will not immediately make currency obsolete (for some time after the initial infection you’ll be able to buy bread and hats for outrageous mark-ups by war-profiteers who have truly taken their eyes off of the prize), soon thereafter your precious one dollar bills, five dollar bills, and ten dollar bills will be nothing but paper with pictures of white people on them. So it’s important to recognize this fact and not waste your time during those crucial initial hours hitting up the ATM or cashing RRSPs.

Survival Tip #554: Print your own money on the backs of bean-can labels. Denominations are up to you!

6. Stay positive

Sure, everyday is a struggle for the most basic services we’ve become accustomed to over the last hundred or so years.

Yeah, everyone you know is probably dead or infected or lost and scared.

And of course humanity’s chance of defeating the zombies and rebuilding a society is slim to none, but negative thoughts never put anyone on the moon.

Or did they?

Terry was many things to many people. He was a father, a lover, a husband, a defendant, and an old man. Terry had a passion for finishing, biplaning, Italian fusion cooking as well as mixed martial arts, women and the drink. He will be missed by many, revered by few.

Click below to hear Bob and Andrew’s thoughts and memories of their long-time podcast producer and cocaine dealer.

We apologize about the quality of the recording, as we were without a producer.

After the jump, there’s an unfinished interview Andrew was conducing with Terry upon the time of his death.

Terry Joseph Wharburton produces the Bob & Andrew Show podcast. At Christmas, we interviewed Terry about his disdain for the holiday season. Today, we focus on Terry’s yearning to be a motivational speaker. We decided the only way to sort out this frustrating and frankly baffling revelation was to sit down and ask Terry flat out why he thought he had anything of relevance to share with society.

This is one man’s story.

bobandandrew.com: Thanks for coming down, Terry.

Terry: I appreciate the boot shining.

bobandandrew.com: This really is quaint, isn’t it? You don’t see a lot of old-time shoe shiners around anymore.

Terry: What the hell does “quaint” me? Are you calling me a faggot?

bobandandrew.com: Calm down, Terry.

Terry: Okay.

bobandandrew.com: So, the other day you mentioned your aspirations to speak in front of children.

Terry: I want to show the youth of the world what can happen when a man has nothing to lose.

bobandandrew.com: Do you think you have the right qualifications to become a motivational speaker?

Terry: I got a mouth and a suit, don’t I?

bobandandrew.com: I don’t think it’s that simple. Most motivational speakers have degrees or life experience that would make sharing their story beneficial to others. As far as we understand it, you have none of those things. You’re liar and a thief. You’ve been divorced three times. You verbally abused your developmentally disabled son.  You crashed an airplane and sent money to the Taliban. We’ve seen you attempt to set fire to a hospital. Terry, you’re not a good person.

Terry: Watch the heel.

bobandandrew.com: Terry?

Terry: Oh, sorry, I was talking to this coloured fellow.

bobandandrew.com: The boot shiner? He’s Portuguese, and that’s not even close to the correct term.

Terry: Portuguese? No shit. I had chow mein for lunch.

bobandandrew.com: Alright, foregoing your lack of experience or moral compass, if given the chance, what would you want to teach the youth of our nation?

Terry: Practical things. Trades.

bobandandrew.com: Like welding and carpentry?

Terry: I would be a great teacher. My father taught me how to whittle. I made a flute. It didn’t work too well.

bobandandrew.com: Your father died when you were eleven, right?

Terry: Mom shot him in the leg. Papa died of an infection a short time later. He was, after all, a Christian scientist.

bobandandrew.com: Did you have any role models growing up? Perhaps a teacher you admired, or an uncle?

Terry: Uncle Jeff went to jail for rape when I was nine. I quit school a short time later.

bobandandrew.com: Are those two incidents related?

Terry: (long pause) No.

bobandandrew.com: Who is Sol McGuinty?

Terry: My Jew lawyer.

bobandandrew.com: I don’t think that’s the correct term.

Terry: Alright. My Jew barrister. Anyway, he’s an alright Jew.

bobandandrew.com: Terry–

Terry: Hang on, I’m getting a page.

bobandandrew.com: You have a pager?

Terry: I need to take this.

Terry leaves the room. He returns seventeen minutes later, dripping with sweat and reeking of whiskey.

bobandandrew.com: Terry–

Terry: What?!

bobandandrew.com: Shall we continue?

Terry: I don’t give a God Damn.

bobandandrew.com: Okay. We were discussing your–

Terry: I need a pussy.

bobandandrew.com: What?

Terry: Been a long time. A long… long time.

bobandandrew.com: Terry, let’s call it a day. We’ll finish this up next week.

Terry: Sounds good. I’m flying my biplane to the island Friday night. Gonna see about a lady.

bobandandrew.com: Well, have a safe flight.

Terry: Thank you. You know, Adam–

bobandandrew.com: Andrew. It’s Andrew.

Terry: Whatever. You and Roger are two of the finest young gentlemen I’ve ever known. You listen to my stories, you give me employment, and when we go to bars, you don’t Bogart my tang.

bobandandrew.com: Yeah, well, don’t worry about it.

Terry: I will not worry about it so long as I have friends like you. Give daddy a hug.

bobandandrew.com: Back the fuck off, Terry!

Terry: Did I ever tell you boys about the time I had sex with twins?

bobandandrew.com: No, you didn’t.

Terry: Me and her brother double-teamed her for a good fifteen minutes.

bobandandrew.com: God damn it, Terry.

Terry: Fuck you! Don’t judge me, Adam.

Add Terry as a friend on Facebook and leave a comment on his wall. Celebrate the man.

http://www.facebook.com/thehandsomebiplaner

The pigeons have risen. And they’re out for meat.

Human meat.

In Pigeon Technology I, I chronicled how basic “Pigeon Technology” was hampering the lives of various hobosapiens in my neighbourhood.

Due to unyielding political strife/public outcry for justice, Pigeon Technology II was birthed. I will admit the second chapter was written hastily and filled with grievous factual errors, but its heart was in the right spot.

But forget all of that shit. We’ve got bigger problems than the moderate set-up for a vaguely comedic Internet blog.

The pigeons are fighting back!

Okay, so remember a few months ago when I told you guys about the metal spikes the building next to me put up under their carport in order to keep pigeons from making nests? And how initially this was a good idea as I liked to use the carport to walk/stand under?  And then I realized this same technology was being used on the homeless and therefor all Pigeon Technology was evil?

Well, it seems as though the pigeons don’t like getting fucked in the chest by big metal spikes.

Last week, I walked under the carpark like I have done and will continue to do until I remember what horrible things happen when I walk under the carpark. And for the first time in months, a pigeon accosted me. He flew down and nearly hit me in the face.

I thought we were past this.

Turns out, all of the spikes were removed. At first I deduced this was an economic cut-back due to the recession and the building manager was in trouble with Pigeon Technology Financiers. Perhaps the lease ran out or the spikes were repossessed. But when I saw two pigeons working together to pull- with their beaks- the spikes from one of the beams, I knew I was in for a hell of a night.

My cape and hat were at the cleaners, and my dad took my revolver away because it accidentally went off when I dropped it in his car.  Sleuthing on the pigeons would prove to be a difficult task that night, so I took some acid and watched Planet of the Apes. All of them. In a row.

Dig this:

This chart was designed and printed in part by The Rand Corporation.

In association with McManus Industries, The Rand Corporation has been producing high-quality digital imagine for close to twenty five years.

The Rand Corporation:

Bringing Images to Life!

1800 South Kensington Dr., Appleton WI 54915
920-749-9770

(No order is too big or too small!)

I understand most of what was on the chart is common knowledge.

However it is important to familiarize yourself with the enemy as often as possible. I suggest printing the above diagram, either blacking out or highlighting the designations, and placing the photo in an area where you spend a considerable amount of time: on a mirror, at your desk, etc. Look at the pigeon and learn to hate the pigeon.

It sounds like we skipped a few steps but I assure you we did not. If you’ve come this far I don’t think I have to sell you on the idea of a widespread Pigeon Cull.

A “cull” is when you pick a certain thing that you do not like and attempt to murder as many of that thing as quickly as possible. Hitler culled Jews. Canadians cull baby seals. Axl Rose culls guitarists. Everyone does it.

So arm yourself, friends. I suggest twine, gasoline and a strong pair of kitchen shears. The pigeons are taking back what’s rightfully theirs, and pretty soon they’ll be bringing the revolution into OUR living rooms and pecking OUR children and telling US to migrate south for the winter. And that cannot stand!

And be sure to take a photo of every pigeon you cull. One hundred culled pigeons equals one “Bob & Andrew Buck”. “Bob & Andrew Bucks” can be redeemed through the website for prizes.

100 “Bob & Andrew Bucks” = A form letter email from Bob and/or Andrew thanking you for your fan-dome

200 “Bob & Andrew Bucks” = A 300 second phone call from Bob and/or Andrew

500 “Bob & Andrew Bucks” = You get to punch one of us in the face, chest or groin

Happy hunting!

This revelation threw me. I’m usually pretty tight with words and shit. I got straight B’s in high school English; obviously above average, but not too big for my britches.

Had I gotten all A’s I would be filled with too much confidence to even explore my grammatical shortcomings. (Of which, believe me, there are many.)

When I think of words that are fucking kick ass, I tend to think of things, as opposed to ideas. Democracy is a pretty good idea, but as a word? Lame.

Some words have a particular ring to them that’s just appealing, even if the object, idea or place they describe or represent is wholly disgusting. Examples: falcon, snot, microwave.

I could go on but I’d rather share these drawings I made.

I love you all.

Man-Up March is in full effect. What? You don’t know what Man-Up March is? Well, then you’re probably not doing it right.

MAN UP; (mahn uhp); verb: To hiken one’s bootstraps; to become a man.

MARCH; (mah-rach); noun: The third lunar month.

Use your headspace to combine those two shitbricks.

Get it? Good. Let’s roll!

History

Man-Up March was developed primarily by me, Andrew Menzies, on March 1st, 2009. It was a personal promise, based principality on the guise of Carpe Diem and not acting like a little bitch. The term was simple enough to be a mantra, self-explanatory and rather blunt; each word like the pop of a machine gun. Short; easy to carve into a tree, or your arm.

Ostensibly, the idea is that you go after what you want and don’t piss around like a ninny. Man-up… ostensibly.

Man-Up March was ratified by High Commissioners Robert Woolsey and Stephen Lebail at approximately 2:12 AM, March 5th, 2009 on the chalice of Rickard’s Red in a dank hipster bar at last call. I believe T. Rex was playing over the loudspeaker and I had just come from the toilet (#1). Bob was leaning somewhat sideways (for he was drunk) and Mr. Lebail smelled of cigarettes (for he had just smoked). Both had known of my Man-Up March proposition, and upon brief debate, agreed it to be enacted.

While a crest and kilt pattern are forthcoming, Man-Up March is off to a rousing start.

Examples of Men

Eddie Van Halen, Jesus, Steve Winwood, Mr. T, Rowdy Roddy Piper, The Hamburgler, Rocky Balboa, Jake The Snake Roberts, the guy who invented cigarettes, Bob Barker.

Making it Personal

Now, there are hundreds of ways to properly celebrate Man-Up March. The most obvious is to Man-Up.

I have drafted this simple chart to answer solve of the most common problems.

Onward!

I cannot and will not declare Man-Up March a success, for we are still in the month of March. That would just be ridiculous.

Personally, I can tell you I am preparing to Man-Up in a way I have never Manned-Up before. I have to be sketchy on the details for I am certain if I were to let slip my plans, they would be circumvented almost immediately by the viewing public. Also, I am terrified of judgement. I will give you a hint: it involves a sword and a brief appearance by the element of fire.

So please, take it from me: Man Up. Grab life by the dick-straps and make it yours. Don’t hold back OR surrender. You’ve got maybe fifty solid years between being a weak and shitty baby and being a weak and shitty old shit. And unless you believe in the afterlife, this is your one shot at freedom. At glory. At redemption.

Man-Up!

And if all else fails, there’s always “Drink Your Problems Away April”.

I compile data and research, conduct thorough surveys, and generally use my magnificent (yet still uncertified) sleuthing skills to get to the heart of the issues I am preparing to list.

I have made lists of the best land mammals, curse worse and liquors. However those blogs are absolute bullshit compared to the knowledge I’m about to drop.

While some people (re. cocksucking, sandbagging motherfuckers) have suggested that list-centric blogs are lazy and child-like, I tend to disagree. Lists are what separate us from the animals. Man’s ability to take several similar objects, organize and rank them arbitrarily merely to create conflict is an essential and vital practice. Why, without the “Best Dressed” or “Worst Dressed” lists, we’d be nothing more than monkeys spitting and pooping about!

I am doing mankind a service. So without further to do, what lies onward is a series of hilarious lists.

Top 3 Movie Stars (as defined by box-office draw versus likability)
1. John Cusack
2. The Rock
3. Vince Vaughn

Top 5 Actors (as defined by awards circuit success versus Handsomeinity)
1. Matt Damon
2. Brad Pitt
3. Casey Affleck
4. Ben Affleck
5. Al Pacino

Top 5 Actresses (as defined by awards circuit success versus Hotnessdespiteage)
1. Meryl Streep
2. Julianne Moore
3. Kate Winslet
4. Amy Adams
5. Gene Hackman

Top 5 Videogames
1. Super Mario Bros. 3
2. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Turtles in Time
3. Grand Theft Auto 3
4. WWF Warzone
5. Tetris

Top 3 Bands Andrew Wish Would Die or Stop Making Terrible Music
1. U2
2. Nickleback
3. Buckcherry

Top 1 Sport
1. Hockey

Top 2 Living Beatles
1. Paul McCartney
2. Pete Best

Top 3 Dead Beatles
1. George Harrison
2. John Lennon
3. Ringo Starr

Top 3 Reasons for a Band to Break Up
1. Drummer chokes on own vomit in sleep; group disbands
2. Entire band killed in plane crash
3. Mounting tension, lack of creativity

Top 3 Reasons for Couples to Break Up
1. One person is crazy; the other is not
2. Death of a child; one parent shows a lack of remorse
3. Bear attack; man becomes too ugly to love

Top 6 People who have worked on the website that Andrew knows (who have NOT beat him up)
1. Andrew Menzies
2. Stephen Lebail
3. Marcel Perro
4. Gene Hackman
5. Darren Borrowman
6. Wade Fennig

Top 6 People who have worked on the website that Andrew knows (who HAVE beat him up)
1. Sean Minogue
2. Bob Woolsey
3. Nicholas Humphries
4. Lauren Martin
5. N/A
6. N/A
(Andrew has only been beaten up four times since launching bobandandrew.com. Both lists do not take into account emotional abuse.)

Top 3 Flavours of Cheese
1. Cheddar
2. Mozzarella
3. Kraft Singles

Top 5 American Presidents
1. Taft
2. Nixon
3. Bush
4. Crippled Roosevelt
5. Clinton

Top 2 Members of bobandandrew.com
1. Bob Woolsey
2. Andrew Menzies

Top 3 Deities
1. Jesus
2. Buddha
3. Allah

Top 4 Ways to End a Blog
1. A list
2. Vapid summation that’s both condescending and trite
3. A crushingly personal insult to someone who you feel has wronged you and you wish to lash out at them on a public form, even if that public form is still in its infancy and not too many people will view it. However since most of the viewing audience is composed of the author’s friends, the attack will appear calculated and cold.
4. Abrupt picture of the author

While death is terrible, making and seeking out a death list is not. I hope the "YEAH" banner satisfies you.

Here is my death list.

1. Build a boat.

2. Bake a comically large pizza.

3. Be in a position to donate to charity.

4. Do cocaine with Pat O’Brien. Preferably off of Mary Hart.

5. Cry on Opera. Physically, figuratively on her. Chest or shoulder; I have no preference.

6. Shave a dog into a Ninja Turtle .

7. Ship myself to someone in a large crate.

8. Sink a boat.

9. Purchase and maintain "bobandandrewsuck.com".

10. Convince Sean Minogue to stop bullying me.

11. Start a home brew. Name it "Woolsey Ale".

12. Attempt to dig to China; give up when electrocuted by buried power lines.

13. Two words: bank robbery.

14. Enter a marathon with the sole intention of punching other runners in the face.

15. Grow a Jesus beard.

16. Befriend an animal.

17. Direct a shot by shot remake of Chinatown… with dogs.

18. Operate the world’s largest protractor.

19. Watch all of the Star Wars.

20. Set "Operation Bob and Andrew crash a Hollywood awards show" into motion.

21. Invest in robotics.

22. Whittle something.

23. Learn to play the oboe; quit and start an anti-oboe movement.

24. Get a tattoo.

25. Finance a porno.

26. Attend a funeral.

27. Open a restaurant called "Restaurant".

28. Shoot a pistol.

29. Briefly change name to "Tibidious St. Jackson"

30. Dance in public, most likely at a parade or baseball game.

31. Drop the puck at an NHL game, but not in a ceremonial way; get my ref ticket and do it for keeps.

32. Go back to America when the charges are stayed.

33. Never purchase a Fleetwood Mac album.

34. Operate a crane.

35. Break up a fight.

36. Have an award or sandwich named after me.

37. Achieve baron status.

38. Grow a mustache.

39. Take flying lessons from Terry.

40. Revenge.

41. Name a child ‘Dandeneau’.

42. Bowl a 300 game. Presently I do not bowl.

43. Bake an erotic cake. Leave by the side of the road.

44. Motorcycle race.

45. Avenge.

46. Fly a hot air balloon.

47. Learn to fence.

48. Hunt quail.

49. Hunt bear.

50. Hunt moose.

51. Hunt deer.

52. Hunt man.

53. Write a play.

54. Attempt to break the land-speed record set by Adolph Hitler in 1933.

55. Be a contestant on Jeopardy. Draw a penis in place of my Final Jeopardy answer.

56. Start a propane fire.

57. Make a citizen’s arrest.

58. Testify as a character witness in court.

59. Take a bullet.

60. Start a gang.

61. Navigate a corn maze.

62. Steal Tony Gilroy’s Oscar from Diablo Cody.

63. Shake Frank Black’s hand.

64. Burn some bridges. Figuratively.

65. Seize the Diem.

66. Skydive.

67. Perform as a clown for a children’s birthday party.

68. Sing at least two songs with the original line up of Rush.

69. Kick-box a kangaroo.

70. Own and operate a successful tave.

71. Win an award.

72. Host a talk radio show in which I take song requests but then ridicule callers for not knowing the format of a talk radio program.

72. Learn Spanish just for the passionate yelling.

73. Ride a scooter.

74. Ride Scooter.

75. Ruin a wedding.

Suggestions? Got your own Death List?

COMMENTS ARE NOW OPEN

Marriage is stupid.

Let’s look at the facts: 50% of marriages end in divorce. I didn’t research this statistic nor do I care to, but it seems more than reasonable. If going in to something that has a 50/50 chance of failure, what’s the point? I feel the same way about checkers as I do about marriage.

Second point: marriage is stupid. If you love someone, why do you need to throw a giant party and buy a couple of shiny rocks to prove it? Invest in mutual funds and take a trip some place warm. That’s how you celebrate love. Or buy a boat and name it after your significant lover.

“The S.S. Bob Woolsey sank today. All 375 on board perished in the icy waters of the Adriatic Sea. Human error is to blame.”

You may think that my disdain for marriage is deeply rooted in my psyche, that perhaps my parents have divorced and it soured me on the experience. Frankly that’s a little personal and you’re a bastard for prodding me, but since we’re on the subject, no, my parents are not divorced. They have been happily married for twenty five years. They love each other unconditionally and have been nothing but great parents.

Andrew 1, Reader 6.

While marriage is stupid, weddings are not.

Weddings are the opposite of stupid. Weddings are… insightful. (Damn my poorly-lit internal mindchamberthesaurus.)

If you are unfamiliar with weddings (may I also direct you to these simple articles about breathing , Shakespeare and puppies?), I’ll give you a brief run down on what a “wed-ding” is: a wedding is a giant party in which two people come together in marriage (see above). Generally, there are toasts, cake-cutting, and drunken uncles who tell you dirty jokes in the men’s bathroom and then ask if you want to  share a joint and you have to say no even though you really wouldn’t mind getting high but told yourself you’d never do drugs with a relative despite the fact that you know he always has weed and it’s free weed so why not, right?

I excel at weddings. I have been to exactly two. The first, I was eleven. It was my mom’s best friend’s second marriage and I really didn’t do much beyond complain about the shitty cake and fight with my brother.

The second was a fine example of what a borderline alcoholic can do when given a live microphone and seventy-five Americans’ attention. I assume Scott will provide details. I cannot, as I was drunk three days out of four.

As it oft happens in my blog rage, I have come to a moral crossroads. What brash, uninhibited hatred has somehow given way to an understanding, or at least a new view on things.

I hate marriage. I like weddings. You cannot have a wedding without marriage. Well, you could get two dogs together and pretend to get them hitched, but if that’s the kind of excuse you need to crack a case of red wine and do the chicken dance, well you’ve got bigger fucking problems than me, pal.

I’ll probably collapse under society’s pressure and get married, but not anytime soon. When I hit 35, 40, I’ll start to think about settling down. I figure that’s a good age- halfway to death- to choose a mate. But then again, you can always make the arguement that you don’t really know until the right person comes along. The same can be said about pants. I don’t often think about buying pants, but if I pass a pants display and there’s some sort of deal on pants I might hasten to try on a pair or two.

Husband of Yoko Ono and renounded Brit John Lennon said it best: if you love something, set it free.

This blog has been set free.

In the Animal Kingdom, there is no rule of law. There is no schools, is no churches, is no grocery stores. You gotta fight to survive.

Every animal for herself.

I am here today to count down the top three land animals based on a detailed flow-chart of various factors. However, the flow-chart was damaged in transport therefor I cannot show it to you. You’ll just have to take my word that it was an intricate and complex flow-chart that would have illustrated my points quickly and concisely.

Now, some of you might say ranking the best land mammals is a fruitless and trite waste of time. I have no immediate defense for such accusations. Seriously, why you gotta go breaking my balls like that?

Keep in mind this list is exclusive to land mammals. Sharks, eagles and dinosaurs were excluded for obvious reasons. (Sharks swim, eagles can fly, dinosaurs do both and were genetically engineered by humans.)

Marmot

I can relate to the marmot because a marmot is basically a large ground squirrel that whistles when it is frightened. Marmots also helped spread the bubonic plague. At one time, they were the number two killer of humans. Number two! It’s really easy to see how a marmot could kill a human. Look at him. He’s adorable.

Imagine a couple of sixteenth century children frolicking in the mountains. They come across a clearing, perhaps near a stream and/or river. A small, dashing young squirrel-like creature emerges from an alcove. It’s furry, quite rotund, and chirps like a bird.

The children bend down to pet the critter. He purrs, tensing as the children giggled with excitement. But suddenly, there’s a swipe of the paw, a blood-curdling scream, and before you know it…

Bubonic plague.

Grizzly Bear

Dig this: what animal can be a source of delicious meat, make a warm comforting coat, and be stuffed and placed at one’s doorway a sign of danger to trespassers? If you answered grizzly bear, you are correct.

Native to the mountains of Canada and the burgeoning indie rock scene , the grizzly bear is a killer of both fish and people. It hunts in packs and in fiercely loyal to it’s cubs. Yogi Bear is a case study in bear loyalty. While Yogi yearned for that picnic basket, his first and foremost concern was for that of the well-being of his son, Booboo.

Human

Even if you take away all of man’s advantages- opposable thumbs, karate, bifocal glasses, the English language, nuclear weapons, helmets, grappling hooks, soccer cleats- humans are still a formidable opponent for any animal also on the list of "Best Land Mammals".

Yes. You may read many articles in newspapers about Grizzly bears attacking and maiming some hapless hunter. But this is just the liberal media spreading anti-bear fear. Do you ever hear of a human attacking a bear? No! But it happens all of the time.

In the spring of 1972, Gerald Walker was hunting quail in the Pacific Northwest. Alone, and thirsty, he paused by a river to get a drink. All of a sudden, a marvelous grizzly bear appeared out of the myst. Gerald shot the bear in the face and made the bear’s pelt into coat and boot liner. Did the New York Times runs a front page story about Gerald Walker murdering a bear? No, of course not!

Honorable Mentions

Squirrel

Antelope

Hamster

Super Shredder

Gremlin

Today I am twenty-four years old. Older than Super Nintendo, younger than the World Trade Towers. 

I’ve got more years on me than Mickey Rourke’s chin, but less than Cher’s tits.

Twenty-four years. Woopity doo.

I burst through the vagina at exactly 4:44 PM, February 16th, 1985 (consult your Almanacs). I was greasy and irey: thespians will recognize this as foreshadowing. A welcomed changed from months in the womb, I was a stand-out example of what a baby should be.  What a baby can be.

Did you bring a coat? Good, cause I’m about to take you on a journey.

Did you know: Everyone has a birthday. Even you.

So it’s your birthday: Who gives a shit?

Right. Birthdays, rather the celebration and promotion of one’s own birthday, is tacky, pathetic and sad. However I do believe and try very hard to make other people’s birthdays special. Last year I was an accessory to planning Bob Woolsey’s surprise party. I often send cards to my sister on her birthday. These are prime examples of my charity. I am a philanderer.

I’m really good withbirthday cards. Like, exceptional. I can tickle your funny-bone and touch your heart all with the same hand motion. My old standbyby is buying a card unrelated to a birthday- bat mitzvah, pet death- and crossing out select words in the card message so that it is hilarious and vaguely birth-related. Other times I’ll make a card by hand with crayons and construction paper, as a developmentally disabled child would.

If you have a birthday and a mailing address, I will send you a card: email andrew@bobandandrew.com. I also give relationship advice and Vegas over/unders for NCAA basketball. Do NOT take my advice.

24 Years Old

James Dean died at 24. He was a famous actor (a.k.a. “factor”) because he was young and attractive like Billy Crudup or Emile Hirsch. I think he was also Howard Dean’s grandfather. Or Jimmy Dean’s brother. Did he make sausages? I don’t know and frankly don’t give half a fuck.

The Notorious B.I.G. also died when he was 24. He was shot, and if memory serves me it had something to do with Tupac or Puff Daddy or Tupac and Puff Daddy.  The B.I.G. died in 1997. In 1997, I was 12. Weird!

I was born in the year of our Lord, 1985. I don’t remember much about the 80s, except that my dad had a beard and Jimmy Page-like hair that probably led to him bedding a women, a.k.a. my mother. My dad is my inspiration for my 2009 “No New Haircuts” Policy, though I strive to look like 1960s Neil Young. Look at that magnificent man.

(Editor’s note: Andrew has since gotten a haircut and disappointed his father immensely.)

During the eighties, in addition to pooping in a bag and being fed by hand, I found it difficult to reach things in high places. That is my collective knowledge of that decade. We’ll move on.

Life Lessons

While I may not possess the gumption of say a 52 year old or 71 year old, I have, in my brief years, amassed some knowledge that I feel is worthsharing. And since creating a humorous list is the easiest way to wrap up a blog, I leave you with:

“Andrew’s Seventeen Life Lessons: Volume One”

1. Wear socks. Always wear socks.
2. If in doubt, go with the Olive Garden.
3. Beer is a suitable meal replacement if you drink two or more.
4. Do not take your pants off until someone else in the room has already done so.
5. Eat your vegetables. They make you strong so you can fight.
6. Do not underestimate the power of a good sandwich.
7. Drunk dialing = Bad idea
8. Batman does not exist. Do not invest in a bat-signal.
9. Never pass the dutchie on the right hand side.
10. At best racism can only seldom break a tense social situation.
11. If you can build a good snow fort, you will make it through elementary school.
12. If you’re around a whole bunch of people who like cats, do not exclaim your disdain for cats.
13. You’re not a man until you take a puck to the unprotected stomach, arm, leg, back, shin, buttocks, hand or face.
14. Any argument about music (especially with the female species) is not worth having.
15. The c-word is to be used sparingly if at all around women.
16. Invest in a good hat.
17. Anyone who quotes movies in everyday conversation is probably a rancid cunt.

I’m going to spend my special day doing all of the things I enjoy: I’ll go for a walk, eat a sandwich, stare longingly at the Burrard Inlet while lamenting my failures… I’ll probably catch a movie too.

Happy birthday, everybody. See you next year.

And when I look back on it, I think of what a mistake I made. I’ve had a hard time forgiving myself and am just now able to look in the mirror and not be disgusted with what I see.

But today, through the power of words, I am here to make amends. To talk through my emotional strife, in an attempt to perhaps find comfort, solace, an understanding. Hopefully my tale of woe can serve as warning to you, the reader. This may not be the appropriate forum for the trail of emotions I’m about to spill, but since I own 39% of this website, I feel I have a right to my caustic flow. I hope my troubles can serve a cautionary tale.

And we begin.

I should have never sold my X-Box.

Hi Nico. I miss you, man.

I miss your caustic Bulgarian wit. I miss doing backflips on a PCJ over the river. I miss taking you through Middle Park and pushing joggers. I miss Roman’s phone calls for 3:00 AM bowling adventures. I miss the rocket launcher. I miss the Vigilante missions. I miss shooting pigeons. I miss your little Russian hat and how it would fall off when you got clipped by a car at Star Junction. I miss buying you boots.

God damn I miss Grand Theft Auto. God damn I miss it so much.

I blogged several times about my trials and tribulations with Grand Theft Auto IV. And now, I can honestly say, as I lay naked on the floor of my bathroom, computer lit only with a small oil lamp and hands clasped around my knees in the fetal position, I was completely wrong.

Look, Bob and I do a lot of drugs. We’re big time sketch comedy writers and we get a lot of play. Ladies, older ladies, dudes… life is our proverbial fishbowl and we try to put our hand in it as often as possible. Cocaine can only sustain you for so long before you crash after a three day binge and find yourself shoeless and with someone else’s blood on your cardigan. And before I got into the white thunder, I had my X-Box. It was my soma. My comfort, my electronic soother.

And I sucked the crap out of it!

What am I left with?  Yeah, the cocaine, but that’s beside the point. I really do miss galloping through the imaginary Liberty City, where I’m but a meager Bulgarian just trying to fight for his meals. In the videogame, I’m not a broke, lonely, cocaine-addicted writer, no. There is no judgement in the world of Grand Theft Auto. Racism, drug use, homophobia, conspiracy, driver-by shootings, rape, incest, treason, violence against women, terrorism, yes.  But judgement? No sir.

I’d like to offer you, the reader, some advice. First, “Carpe Diem”. That’s Latin for “seize the diem”. Live every day like it’s your last.  Second, don’t get caught up with the little things. Relationships, conversations with co-workers, cake baking… all of this is a colossal fucking waste of time. Bypass the bull and go straight to what you love to do. If it’s basketball, go shoot some hoops. If it’s baseball, go shoot some hoops. Do what makes you happy.

I had a third point prepared, but I think I’m going to run a cold bath and cry some more.

Good night, sweet prince. May your dreams carry you into heaven like the wings of a dove.

President.  Hawk.  Boot-stomper.

Bush was many things: A thief. A liar. A war criminal. But apart from sending young men and women into the desert to die on a God damn lie, Bush accomplished many, many great things that will stay with the world until time stops.

Today, we take a look back at the legacy George W. Bush.

But before we begin, a little about myself.

Hello. How are you? That’s good. Are you comfortable? I’m making tea. Do you want a cup? Well just let me know. I can reheat it. My name is Andrew. I have no socio-political expertise, no formal education nor credentials to speak of. I shoot from the hip. I vote with the gut. I suffered a severe brain contusion as a child that sometimes affects the way muffins. I am however a staunch advocate of history and have a strong thirst for justice.

You might be thinking, “Hey, a lot of this stuff Andrew claims Bush to be celebrated for is actually bad. Is this that fancy new ‘irony’ that my father warned me about?” The answer, Kevin, is no.  Irony is the use of words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of the literal meaning. Now go fuck yourself.

Oh that reminds me. This blog will contain no Cheney.

The Man

George W. Bush was born on July 6, 1946 in New Haven CT. Contrary to popular belief, Connecticut is not in Texas and therefor George Bush cannot and will never be a cowboy.

Bush was spawned by his father and mother, former US President George H.W. Bush, and possible chick with a dick Barbara Bush. He married grape juice baron Laura Welch in 1977.

Bush graduated Yale and owned the Texas Rangers baseball club for awhile. He often wore bluejeans.

While achieving moderate success both as a businessman and functioning alcoholic, George W. Bush reached his true calling on the morning of September 11, 2001, when two aeroplanes hit the World Trade Center in New York. Bush didn’t exactly rise to the occasion, but he did use the events to spur a false war that has since claimed some 4500 American lives.

A Brief Overview of Achievements

- Did not attend one single US soldier’s funeral
- Plunged the US into a record deficit
- Almost died from pretzel-inhalation
- Waved at Stevie Wonder
- Ducked not one but two flying shoes

Next Week

On Part Two of my eleven part series, we will look at George W. Bush’s greatest adversaries*: his father’s love, cocaine, and Barack Obama.

*Greatest adversaries subject to change

However, not everyone loves Christmas.

Terry Joseph Wharburton, producer for the weekly podcast hammer “The Bob & Andrew Show”, recently blogged about Christmas.  While nothing remotely interesting was said, Bob and I were both intrigued by Terry’s under-laying disdain for the holiday.

I sat down with Terry to get his true feelings on the Christmas season.

bobandandrew.com: Thanks for doing this, Terry.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: My pleasure. I have no where else to be.

bobandandrew.com: Your blog was pathetic and morose. Why do you act the way you do? Are you suicidal? Do you hate Christmas?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: No, I never said–

bobandandrew.com: You obviously have a deep depression about the holiday season. Does Santa make you sad?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: I used to dress up as Santa on Christmas morning for my kids.

bobandandrew.com: Really?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Yeah, a couple times in the 1980s. My second son, the regular one, he really liked to hug Santa. I got jealous of that mall prick so I bought a suit from Sally Ann. He loved it. He would always run up and grab my boot straps, shouting “Santa I love you!”. I’d let him sit on my lap as he opened his gifts. Really loved that red hat. Heck, I’d keep the suit on most of the day. One time I had turkey dinner in it. My son started to ask “Where’s papa?”, so I went into the bathroom and changed back into my overalls and slippers. When I came back in the room he started to cry because Santa had left.

bobandandrew.com: What did you other kids think of it?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: My eldest, Greta, she always saw through it. She tried to make me break character, asking me complex questions about sleighs and reindeer and such. If I didn’t knock her around a bit she would have ruined it for Josh and Rico. Rico was the retarded one.

bobandandrew.com: That’s not the correct term, Terry.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: It’s on his birth certificate. Do you want to see it?

bobandandrew.com: No.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Can I get something to eat? You guys promised me a meal.

bobandandrew.com: After the interview, Terry.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Okay.

bobandandrew.com: So when did your wife leave you?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: 1993. Well, the most recent wife.

bobandandrew.com: Was that at Christmas?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: No, the second week of July. I tossed a firecracker into her bed while she was sleeping. Didn’t much care for that gag.

bobandandrew.com: You could have seriously hurt her.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: (laughing) Yeah, but it was fuckin’ funny at the time!

bobandandrew.com: I don’t understand how that’s at all funny.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: You had to be there.

bobandandrew.com: Don’t you like presents?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Sure.

bobandandrew.com: What about snow?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: My truck runs well in the snow.

bobandandrew.com: Are you paying attention?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: I fancy myself a man of God.

bobandandrew.com: I want to switch gears and ask you about Ringers.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: No, I don’t talk about Alberta.

bobandandrew.com: What happened at Ringers Tavern in 1982?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: No.

bobandandrew.com: Terry, come on. This is between friends.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: I will NEVER talk about that.  We’re done here!

bobandandrew.com: If you leave now, you don’t get your sandwich.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Really?

bobandandrew.com: Answer the question and we’ll buy you a BLT.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: And a Coke?

bobandandrew.com: No drink.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Deal.

bobandandrew.com: So, Terry, it’s 1982. You’ve been tending bar at Calgary’s Ringers Tavern for about two years. Fresh off the farm, young man in a big city. Must have been exciting.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Yeah… yeah.

bobandandrew.com: What happened?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Well, shit, I never thought I’d have to talk about this, but… Christmas eve, 1982. Ringers has this annual karaoke contest the night before Christmas. Just carols. Big turn out, lots of door prizes. Anyways, we’re coming up on last call, and this big meat truck, brick shithouse son of a gun is fuckered. Really drunk, falling on his ass. His whole party- college kids, mostly- are having a ball, laughing him and egging him on. Up on stage, this sweet little thing is singing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”. She had range, but no emotion. Either way, he gets the idea that she needs a duet. So he stumbles up on stage. I’m sitting behind the bar pouring double whiskey ryes for Old Jack Swinagin, a real meat truck, brick shithouse son of a–

bobandandrew.com: Terry, you already described what I assume is the principle antagonist in that same exact way. It’s poor storytelling.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: I don’t know what a lot of those words mean. (long pause) So he gets on stage and grabs the girl, swings her about. She’s scared. He’s just trying to kiss her. His table loves it. Couple of other guys get up on the stage and they start passing her back and forth. Can’t stand for this, I thought. I go under the bar for my knife, but low and behold someone had tossed it in the dumpster the night before. How I knew this fact, I forget exactly. Knife wasn’t there is my God damn point. I know I had to do something. Can’t let a sweet girl get pushed around like that. I roll up my sleeves, tighten my apron, and get ready to dance. I climb on stage and tell the three guys to get to moving. The girl manages to run off, right to Old Jack Swinagin, a real meat truck, brick shithouse son of a–

bobandandrew.com: Terry!

Terry Joseph Wharburton: The first guy, the biggest guy, he grabs my collar. Asks if I’d like to dine in hell. And I’m thinking, “What does that mean?”. So I spit in his face. The other two kick over the karaoke machine. The music stops. The whole bar looks at us. The big guy punches me right in the jaw. I hit the ground. They all start kicking at me. A couple of regulars, Brent McCreary, Bastard Johnny, Sue-Kimo and Old Jack Swinagin rush the stage. They start pulling the college boys off, and an all out bar fight erupts. It was fast as lightning, as suddenly a man in the back attacked and they all collapsed. As the song goes. Irregardless, it’s a good thirty, forty minute fight. And back in those days, in 1982, it took the Mounties a long ass while to come out to a bar call. The place clears out, I sweet talk the cops, and we close down Riggers after one fuck of a rumble.

bobandandrew.com: That’s quite the story, Terry, but it doesn’t seem like a simple bar fight is enough to make a man truly hate Christmas.

Terry Joseph Wharburton: Yeah but the next day those college kids and a bunch of their friends came over to my apartment and sodomized me with a broom handle.

bobandandrew.com: Wh… what?

Terry Joseph Wharburton: And that’s why I hate Christmas. Can I get that sandwich now?

I figure I lie about thirty times a day.  It’s mostly small stuff, things I could easily tell the truth about but choose not to.

Sometimes people will ask me how I’m doing. I always answer “fine” even though I never am. The idea that one can be “fine” is abstract to me at best. If every problem in my life suddenly solves itself and I’m left with a short window of happiness, yeah, maybe then I’m fine. But I assume that window so distant and brief that I probably won’t recognize it, let alone be given the opportunity to answer that question, for the first time, truthfully. But that’s neither here nor there.

This lady was handing out free cookies at work the other day. I said I was allergic to sugar and she looked really upset for me. I am not allergic to sugar and sort of wanted a cookie. But, I lied.

Oh, and one time this little girl was looking for her cat, crying her eyes out and shouting it’s name (something cliche, like “Mittens” or “Donut”. Fuck if I remember.) Anyway, I walk past her, and she asks me if I’ve seen it. I say “no”, despite seconds earlier passing by a cat of the exact description she gave me.

Life is painful. Better get used to it, little girl.

Lying: How Do I, and Yes I Will!

The best way to lie to someone is to look directly into their eyes and tell them the opposite of what is true.

If you’re having trouble lying to someone, like say a child or an elderly widow, just picture them in 1940s Germany at Buchenwald with their hand on the switch of the gas chamber. Stare into their soul and watch as they smile and laugh, snuffing out dozens of lives with a single flick of their finger. Should be pretty easy to lie to a murderous Nazi, shouldn’t it?

When Not to Lie

While lying is a invaluable skill, there are certain moments where lying is not the best idea.

I’ve yet to come across such a situation. Am I lying? Look into your heart.

Homework

It’s time to get out into the real world and demonstrate what you’ve learned. Perform one of these tasks by 6:00 PM Friday.

1. Shave your head and tell women you have cancer.
2. Tell your mom she’s going to be a Grandmother. Then, never mention it again.
3. Lie about your income and name to secure a bank loan in excess of $50 000.
4. Murder a neighbour’s dog, feign empathy and anger when the mutilated corpse is discovered hanging from a tree several weeks later.
5. Send Michael Mcdonald fan mail.

Parting Thoughts

Remember, if you can tell the truth, you can lie. Because:

Falling brick. Murdered. Sheep-attack. That kind of thing.

But that’s glass half-empty death-talk.

However as a twenty three year old male with a family history of alcoholism and heart problems, I think it’s safe to say I’m going to die within the next sixty years.

And damn it, I want to be prepared.

Death scares people. I know this because I took a small sample survey at Kinderson’s Daycare Academy in Port Moody and every child I asked about death started to sob uncontrollably.

Death is sudden and so final: you’re just not there anymore. I like the idea of having some control over my last days, as if I had a terminal illness and the doctors gave me a best-before date. If I knew I had say, three weeks left, I’d make the most of them. Bed-ridden, squalid, pooping in a bucket Andrew can’t skydive or do heroin.

I’ve thought extensively about my funeral. I’d like the casket to be translucent, made out of plexiglass from the old Montreal Forum if possible.  Bury me in a suit two sizes too small, with a top hat and cane, and positioned as if I am dancing or about to escape from the coffin. Make my face appear as though I am smiling, surgically is need be. Tilt the head so it looks like I’m watching everyone through the plexiglass; seat the children in the front row. Hand out glow sticks.

By default I wish for Bob Woolsey to host the gathering. In the event that he died before me or we were in the same hot air balloon, I’ll let my brother do it. He’ll put in a solid effort.

I don’t want to give my stuff to anyone specific. In a will, you can leave your house to your son, money to a wife, whatever… no. Not me. I want everything I own to be placed in a pile as it will be claimed on a first come, first serve basis.

I think burying a body in the earth is utterly stupid. It’s a waste of land and shovel work. Donate my carcass to science or cannibals. If someone wants to wear my face a hat, let them. I’m dead. Whatever happens, happens.

Ten Ways Andrew Could Die

1. Heart attack
2. Alcohol poisoning
3. Stabbed by prostitute
4. Hit by bus
5. Hit by tractor
6. Double jeopardy
7. Falling telephone pole
8. Broken neck
9. Crime of passion
10. Spontaneous combustion

I like to curse.  I consider swear words the pepper to the potatoes of the English language.

(Adjectives are salt.  Conjectures, the paprika.)

There are no “bad words”. Intentions can be bad, but to say a word is “bad” is just trite and childish.

Some say cursing is a sign of a lack of intelligence. The notion being, if one is too daft to think of something better to say, he will revert to the fowl. I can see the merit to this argument however there is something to be said about a well placed swearword. There’s a psychological reason we use these words, whatever context. And that reason is not something I’m qualified to give nor am interested in exploring that shit.

And now, onto the God damn cursing.

I think I first started cursing in fourth grade. I don’t know exactly when I first heard swear words or really how I felt towards them, but I do know I cursed quite a bit in fourth grade. Something to do with all the long division, I imagine.

My parents, of course, never liked hearing those words. Now that I’m older they don’t really care, but that’s not to say I call up my dad and ask him how the fuck he’s doing. If one of those words so happens to slip, they’re not about to punish me because I am still technically an adult.

I still mind my manners, especially around ladyfolk, because I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten myself in a pickle for dropping the c-bomb around some woman who just can’t handle that word.

Here are five of my favorite curse words.

Bastard

I defy you to name one other word that sounds better. The only people who don’t like the word ‘bastard’ are actual bastards, and if you’re an actual bastard, you’ve got bigger problems than what words I say.

Shit

Shit means poop, but the accomplished cursor will never refer to poop as shit. If you’re gonna poop, just say you’re gonna poop. Save ‘shit’ for really heavy shit.

Shit.

Fuckstick

Why call someone a ‘motherfucker’ when you can call them a fuckstick? Not only will they be hurt, but they will be confused. And then… and then you can attack.

Assbag

Now, you may be saying to yourself “Wait a second, that’s just another curse word combined with an object, like fuckstick.” And you’d be right.  But screw you, fuckstick. This is my blog. I’ll blog whatever the shit I want. Fuck.

Douchebag

Ah, douchebag. Quite possibly the greatest word in the English language, period. It just sounds so perfect. ‘Douchebag’ sounds like two songbirds making love beneath a rainbow, as a child is born.

Summation

Summation is not a curse word. It is a variation of the word summarize.

Language is just a series of words strung together to form sentences and complete thoughts. What’s it to you if those thoughts happen to include an f-bomb or a variation on the word “anus”? Does it make me less of a human? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not seek revenge? Damn right we will.

Kids, curse all you want. If your dad says anything, fuck him.