In the past few months, I have received a certain number of questions from the VAAAAAST audience reading this blog (read: my mom and a Croatian dude whom I ill-advisedly friendbooked and who keeps sending me videos of a mousy, tone-deaf Balkan chick singing about Red Bull). Here are some answers:
What does Gargy eat?
In the wild, and contrary to popular belief, gargoyles do NOT eat any birds or rodents they can get their claws on. They actually have a rather... symbiotic relationship with pigeons. While I can't go into to much detail without causing widespread upchucking... let's just say that gargoyles are really good at tossing popcorn into the air and into their mouths. It's practice. For what pigeons toss into the air. Pigeons in turn practice their aim on statues.
(Alright. That's far enough).
As my little hemp boiler now spends his every waking moment in chains and pigeons have not yet infested my living space, I feed him dollar-store dry dog food and, every few months, I'll give him whatever rancid furry vegetable matter I find when I open the drawer at the bottom of the fridge.
Oh, and gargoyles don't EAT rats, but they do enjoy using them as hacky sacks.
Whatever happened to Jade Dragon?
No one really knows. She has always been rather discrete with regards to her professional life, saying only that she is "in the military". One time I made a comment on how I would like to gut some guy who had just cut me off and she asked if I had the appropriate cutlery on me and whether it was sharp enough. Given that it was winter, she also explained that hanging the entrails on a lamppost would provide a good source of protein to her friends the ravens.
...oh, and I got a charming bloodstained postcard from her which was postmarked "Kandahar". I don't think I'll be asking too many questions when she returns.
Can gargoyles really speak?
Yes. From what I've gathered, the average gargoyle is quite eloquent. Gargy just seems to be a little "slower" than his brethren. I'll keep zapping him with the shock collar to see if I can't rewire his synapses.
Any news from the Crazy Ex?
She's still making videos and boinking her mocha-skinned goddess and rebuking my attempts to join them.
These stories are all made up, right?
As mentioned - twice - in the last post, I'm not smart or demented enough to come up with these things.
How can Gargy walk around? Won't people notice that there's a GARGOYLE in their midst?
Montréal is a place where one can generally act as strangely as one wants, usually without attracting a second glance. Gargy kind of fits in with the young'uns when he slobbers and bounces around spastically.
People around here DO however take exception to street exorcisms of nattily-dressed teenaged girls (my church group needs to be more discrete with its kidnappings).
I'm thinking of getting married. What is your advice?
Make sure she is still a virgin and will remain undemanding. Some women get these "expectations" that just screw the whole concept up. Also, there have been wonderful advancements in the field of female chastity belts recently.
When is Gargy's birthday?
Gargy's birth predates the Gregorian calendar. From what I can gather, he was born "two moons and six suns after the Happy Moldavian Parsnip-Sitting Festival". We accept gifts year-round however (Gargy prefers cash).
Do you REALLY beat him??
"Beat" is a misleading term. Gargoyles are inherently hard-working beasts, they just have a lousy sense of time. Flogging him kind of restarts his inner metronome. In my managerial experience, paddling also works on supermarket cashiers while strangulation gets software programmers going.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Breakup
Montréal is a worldly city, attracting tens of thousands of tourists each year. My French ancestors had settled in Ville-Marie - Montréal's olden-times name - in the 1600s and our history is visible across the Island. In order to satisfy visitors' insatiable appetite for "things to see", our Leaders have set up a network of museums and exhibitions to toy with those wanting to have "something to do" and "something to photograph to show to the people back home that the vacation was actually in Montréal and not some sleazy sex convention in the Midwest".
One of the more interesting attractions our city offers is our Botanical Gardens/Insectarium. The Insectarium is a unique place where bugs of all strains are set up on display, and many of the multi-legged creatures have NOT been impaled on pins, but are rather allowed to continue on with their hockey-fan-like-intellect's lives spent under glass. Having been there (forcibly, and having been thoroughly disgusted by the experience. THAT was a bad first date), I understand it to be the kind of place where children scream and run around and old people are allowed to roam freely, spreading their spoiled corporal aromas around people who have taken a shower since the John Turner Prime Ministership.
...though SOME things will get you thrown out of there.
My gargoyle returned in tears from his three-dozenth date with his British breakfast pastry in four days. As usual, he sprawled on the couch. As usual, Annie used her forepaws to rub Gargy's neck in some feline interpretation of shiatsu. Unusually, he did not dunk his masculine appendage in ice in order to keep its friction-induced swelling down. He was bawling like an infant who just saw his parents French kiss to Abba's "Fernando" (ok, we all have our personal traumas and I didn't need to put mine on display. Though any ex-girlfriend who was wondering why I curl up and stick my fingers in my mouth when I hear popular Scandinavian music now has a better understanding of my psyche).
As I was taught modern management theory, which indicates that it is better to try to empathise with one's profit-generators rather than to bring out the Taylorian caning box, I tried to figure out what happened in order to get hemp production back on track. This - and I reemphasise that I can't make these things up - is what I was able to ascertain between ghoulish gargoyle sobs:
Apparently, Gargy's bitter half was somatically triggered by the sight of creepy little arthropods. She was found in the ladies' WC - once again, my imagination isn't fertile enough to come up with these things. Please don't have me locked up. Again. Mommy. - trying to procreate with roughly a dozen of the world's rarest entomologist's delights.
Now, while this behaviour vaguely explains her attraction to the Thing Staining My Velour Furniture With Greasy Nasolacrimal Duct Waste, it does NOT pass muster with the authorities tasked with protecting our nation from itself and its baser impulses. She has been deported back to her homeland, where our Majesty will no doubt have her cast in irons and whipped in the finest tradition of English morality policing.
Gargy is devastated. He now has learned that fateful lesson that all good men have: never trust a vile, libidinous woman with your heart. Feminine chastity is a disappearing virtue in today's society, which will make it evermore prized among those men who truly deserve it.
I've got a gargoyle to flog back to his kitchen. Dammit.
One of the more interesting attractions our city offers is our Botanical Gardens/Insectarium. The Insectarium is a unique place where bugs of all strains are set up on display, and many of the multi-legged creatures have NOT been impaled on pins, but are rather allowed to continue on with their hockey-fan-like-intellect's lives spent under glass. Having been there (forcibly, and having been thoroughly disgusted by the experience. THAT was a bad first date), I understand it to be the kind of place where children scream and run around and old people are allowed to roam freely, spreading their spoiled corporal aromas around people who have taken a shower since the John Turner Prime Ministership.
...though SOME things will get you thrown out of there.
My gargoyle returned in tears from his three-dozenth date with his British breakfast pastry in four days. As usual, he sprawled on the couch. As usual, Annie used her forepaws to rub Gargy's neck in some feline interpretation of shiatsu. Unusually, he did not dunk his masculine appendage in ice in order to keep its friction-induced swelling down. He was bawling like an infant who just saw his parents French kiss to Abba's "Fernando" (ok, we all have our personal traumas and I didn't need to put mine on display. Though any ex-girlfriend who was wondering why I curl up and stick my fingers in my mouth when I hear popular Scandinavian music now has a better understanding of my psyche).
As I was taught modern management theory, which indicates that it is better to try to empathise with one's profit-generators rather than to bring out the Taylorian caning box, I tried to figure out what happened in order to get hemp production back on track. This - and I reemphasise that I can't make these things up - is what I was able to ascertain between ghoulish gargoyle sobs:
Apparently, Gargy's bitter half was somatically triggered by the sight of creepy little arthropods. She was found in the ladies' WC - once again, my imagination isn't fertile enough to come up with these things. Please don't have me locked up. Again. Mommy. - trying to procreate with roughly a dozen of the world's rarest entomologist's delights.
Now, while this behaviour vaguely explains her attraction to the Thing Staining My Velour Furniture With Greasy Nasolacrimal Duct Waste, it does NOT pass muster with the authorities tasked with protecting our nation from itself and its baser impulses. She has been deported back to her homeland, where our Majesty will no doubt have her cast in irons and whipped in the finest tradition of English morality policing.
Gargy is devastated. He now has learned that fateful lesson that all good men have: never trust a vile, libidinous woman with your heart. Feminine chastity is a disappearing virtue in today's society, which will make it evermore prized among those men who truly deserve it.
I've got a gargoyle to flog back to his kitchen. Dammit.
Friday, April 11, 2008
The Crumpet
For three long months, my gargoyle has been patiently waiting to meet the woman of those dreams he has that almost drown him in his cage. This is the week he finally gets to sniff her.
Gargy was chomping on his claws and micturating approximately every 90 seconds (which is almost twice as often as usual. Luckily, he now uses Annie's litter box - especially when she's in it, which makes her grumpy, which is just dandy - so that's one less urine-soaked stress on my Cleaning Lady). While his usual mood can be described as "depraved hyperactivity", I would characterise his current demeanour as "stupid male waiting to meet his potential pink penis cozy".
We've all been there.
The Girlfriend arrived an hour before the Canadiens' first playoff game to pick up her date. I met her at the door and, before introducing Gargy, I briefed her on the best ways to handle his chains (it takes a little practice to get the choke collar to stick properly into his oesophagus). She acted disinterested and aloof, almost hostile towards me. When she spat at my feet, I assumed it was that British sense of humour I've so often heard of (though a woman whose passions combine English hooliganism with the Ice-Bound Sport of the Illiterate and Dentally-Challenged can be expected to expectorate).
When the little secretion pumper made his appearance, the attraction was instantaneous. Upon seeing his belle, he started making what I assume is the Gargoyle Dance of Seduction (three hops on alternating legs then four pelvic half-thrusts. Quite impressive). The Tart seemed to appreciate it - I assume this by the way she lustily licked his nose hairs.
...I handed her the remote to the shock collar (he wore two collars. One can't be TOO safe) and wished them both a good time. She blandly returned the pleasantry by goobing on my Rockports.
Lovely girl.
*******
The Canadiens won and Gargy did not return until 2:00 p.m. the following day. I had no way of communicating with the young lady, so I was slightly worried that my spastic buddy would never come back, leaving rope orders unfilled. In his absence, and being left alone with me, Annie had become unsettled and her fur-vomiting became particularly acute.
When the new couple finally entered the appartment, my usually wired little friend seemed rested and vaguely blissful. His female, on the other hand, was a wreck. She had changed clothes, but otherwise was completely shabby. Her hair seemed to have been shampooed with cabinetmaker's adhesive and all visible skin was striped with claw marks and dried blood.
They kissed (which, considering the size of Gargy's nose, was quite a remarkable thing to witness) and made plans to see each other later on that night. She then waddled down the stairs, somehow looking fearful and incontinent.
...my gargoyle splayed himself on the couch and instantly fell asleep. Annie nuzzled him and farted.
Hm.
Gargy was chomping on his claws and micturating approximately every 90 seconds (which is almost twice as often as usual. Luckily, he now uses Annie's litter box - especially when she's in it, which makes her grumpy, which is just dandy - so that's one less urine-soaked stress on my Cleaning Lady). While his usual mood can be described as "depraved hyperactivity", I would characterise his current demeanour as "stupid male waiting to meet his potential pink penis cozy".
We've all been there.
The Girlfriend arrived an hour before the Canadiens' first playoff game to pick up her date. I met her at the door and, before introducing Gargy, I briefed her on the best ways to handle his chains (it takes a little practice to get the choke collar to stick properly into his oesophagus). She acted disinterested and aloof, almost hostile towards me. When she spat at my feet, I assumed it was that British sense of humour I've so often heard of (though a woman whose passions combine English hooliganism with the Ice-Bound Sport of the Illiterate and Dentally-Challenged can be expected to expectorate).
When the little secretion pumper made his appearance, the attraction was instantaneous. Upon seeing his belle, he started making what I assume is the Gargoyle Dance of Seduction (three hops on alternating legs then four pelvic half-thrusts. Quite impressive). The Tart seemed to appreciate it - I assume this by the way she lustily licked his nose hairs.
...I handed her the remote to the shock collar (he wore two collars. One can't be TOO safe) and wished them both a good time. She blandly returned the pleasantry by goobing on my Rockports.
Lovely girl.
*******
The Canadiens won and Gargy did not return until 2:00 p.m. the following day. I had no way of communicating with the young lady, so I was slightly worried that my spastic buddy would never come back, leaving rope orders unfilled. In his absence, and being left alone with me, Annie had become unsettled and her fur-vomiting became particularly acute.
When the new couple finally entered the appartment, my usually wired little friend seemed rested and vaguely blissful. His female, on the other hand, was a wreck. She had changed clothes, but otherwise was completely shabby. Her hair seemed to have been shampooed with cabinetmaker's adhesive and all visible skin was striped with claw marks and dried blood.
They kissed (which, considering the size of Gargy's nose, was quite a remarkable thing to witness) and made plans to see each other later on that night. She then waddled down the stairs, somehow looking fearful and incontinent.
...my gargoyle splayed himself on the couch and instantly fell asleep. Annie nuzzled him and farted.
Hm.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Rock Band
My gargoyle seems to have a better credit rating than I do.
I came home on Wednesday to find Gargy howling. I assumed he had, once again, caught his rather hefty grünwurst in the bathroom door. Alas, no. My farting feline favourer has now figured out how to order credit cards online (I'm guessing that his British tart of a virtual girlfriend helped him out. I'm looking forward to meeting HER) and has been using them to make impulsive purchases.
(Wanting to object and throttle him, I harkened back to our legal escapades from a few months ago. His official status with regards to my company is now as an "employee". I'm guessing therefore that he will require an income above and beyond his room and board to cover his discretionary spending. This means I could conceivably be sued, with retroactive wages being awarded to him. Labour laws have a way of sucking all the fun out of slavery, dammit).
I ran up to investigate the noise pollution and saw that Annie was licking herself on the couch and Gargy was trying to sing to Coheed & Cambria's "Welcome Home". He purchased and had delivered a video game console with an application called "Rock Band". Apparently, time-endowed individuals can emulate the lifestyle choices of "musicians" by pretending to play pre-programmed tunes on cheap plastic "instruments" (as always, quotation marks will be my contribution to the literary artform (along with the abusive use of parentheses)). My little halitosis spewer was using the microphone and the drums simultaneously in an attempt at recreating a song about a bad breakup leading to the burial of the principal's former love.
(...of course, being divorced, the subject matter is as heartwarming to my ears as a boy-band ballad declaring eternal soft puppy kissies is to a hormonal teenaged female's. Chicks are weird).
In any case, he has recently been spending more time on frivolous pursuits than on lovingly creating hemp binding apparati. Actual output has been the same (being an MBA-holder means finding productivity gains by analysing processes and stuff) and all orders are filled and shipped in record time, but still, I've got a wailing/bashing gargoyle on my hands here.
I told him that Madame Tousigny will be apoplectic (and will start randomly firing her musket again), thinking that de Gaulle's Communists are invading her beloved Vichy if she were to hear that racket.
...at that very moment, the demented, wrinkle-adorned neighbour exited my living room closet, pulling up her oversized, crotch-stained underwear over her hose (which she forgot to remove before initiating her expulsions, as can be deduced from the dangling dripping doodie between her legs). She squishily sat down next to Annie and started slapping her head in a manner one assumes Nazis would characterise as being affectionate. She then picked up the guitar and chose a Nine Inch Nails song. On "hard". And endeavored to obtain a 98% score with a perfect solo.
My most normal homebound activity is now having to scrub old-lady poop stains out of my couch.
...so I chose Bon Jovi's Wanted Dead or Alive and took over the drums. I'm just REALLY glad the game's developers decided to include such a great artist among the Pumpkins/Metallica/FNM sludge.
I came home on Wednesday to find Gargy howling. I assumed he had, once again, caught his rather hefty grünwurst in the bathroom door. Alas, no. My farting feline favourer has now figured out how to order credit cards online (I'm guessing that his British tart of a virtual girlfriend helped him out. I'm looking forward to meeting HER) and has been using them to make impulsive purchases.
(Wanting to object and throttle him, I harkened back to our legal escapades from a few months ago. His official status with regards to my company is now as an "employee". I'm guessing therefore that he will require an income above and beyond his room and board to cover his discretionary spending. This means I could conceivably be sued, with retroactive wages being awarded to him. Labour laws have a way of sucking all the fun out of slavery, dammit).
I ran up to investigate the noise pollution and saw that Annie was licking herself on the couch and Gargy was trying to sing to Coheed & Cambria's "Welcome Home". He purchased and had delivered a video game console with an application called "Rock Band". Apparently, time-endowed individuals can emulate the lifestyle choices of "musicians" by pretending to play pre-programmed tunes on cheap plastic "instruments" (as always, quotation marks will be my contribution to the literary artform (along with the abusive use of parentheses)). My little halitosis spewer was using the microphone and the drums simultaneously in an attempt at recreating a song about a bad breakup leading to the burial of the principal's former love.
(...of course, being divorced, the subject matter is as heartwarming to my ears as a boy-band ballad declaring eternal soft puppy kissies is to a hormonal teenaged female's. Chicks are weird).
In any case, he has recently been spending more time on frivolous pursuits than on lovingly creating hemp binding apparati. Actual output has been the same (being an MBA-holder means finding productivity gains by analysing processes and stuff) and all orders are filled and shipped in record time, but still, I've got a wailing/bashing gargoyle on my hands here.
I told him that Madame Tousigny will be apoplectic (and will start randomly firing her musket again), thinking that de Gaulle's Communists are invading her beloved Vichy if she were to hear that racket.
...at that very moment, the demented, wrinkle-adorned neighbour exited my living room closet, pulling up her oversized, crotch-stained underwear over her hose (which she forgot to remove before initiating her expulsions, as can be deduced from the dangling dripping doodie between her legs). She squishily sat down next to Annie and started slapping her head in a manner one assumes Nazis would characterise as being affectionate. She then picked up the guitar and chose a Nine Inch Nails song. On "hard". And endeavored to obtain a 98% score with a perfect solo.
My most normal homebound activity is now having to scrub old-lady poop stains out of my couch.
...so I chose Bon Jovi's Wanted Dead or Alive and took over the drums. I'm just REALLY glad the game's developers decided to include such a great artist among the Pumpkins/Metallica/FNM sludge.
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