Archive for the 'histrionic personality disorder' Category

30
Oct
09

Search this!

Doctor, I said on my last trip to the shrink.  My wife has histrionic personality disorder.

What makes you think that?

Last night while stoned on camel dung hash she kept repeating, How do you get this damn thing to stop blinking?  She was trying to figure out how to make her Tamagotchi have sex.

Is she American? he asked.

No, I said.  As a matter of fact, she thinks she’s Queen Elizabeth, queen of fucking everything.  My wife whips me when I disobey, too. Imagine – she has me whipped bloody!

Maybe she’s the self you have to live with, he said with a sigh.

What do you mean? I asked.

Well, he said, shifting in his seat.  Look at Charlotte Roche, author of Wetlands.  She once wrote a book about Angela Merkel naked in the sauna.  Like some landscape artist on crack in London, it was a surreal collage of naked pictures of girls with tube breasts, American females totally shaved in German saunas, pictures of zoo animals with buggy eyes copulating while making screaming granny sounds, nude klingons, photos of naked ladies and girls from Squamish, sex in wheelchair pictures, photos of spanking all over Europe, ending with helpful tips on how to make your own shank out of a toothbrush and things to alleviate cramp.

Look, I said, I couldn’t care less about Charlotte Roche’s chaotic nightmare, saunas or Angela Merkel’s butt.   I’m worried about my wife!  Just the other day she came out with: I’m so British, I shit the queen!

Perhaps you should bring your wife’s cuddly butt into the office next time, he said.

I would, I said, but it might be easier to drag her to a cave dwelling in Capadoccia or skating on canals in Holland.

Hmmm… let’s deal with your wife when the time comes.  You aren’t thinking about quitting blogging are you? he suddenly asked.

What? What gives you that idea?

You, Canadian skier Ian, may be the author of more than 300 posts ranging from chess and Hitler to Dutch canal winter skating,  but you’re starting to look like a Canadian idiot.   An EasyJet crashing into Big Ben wouldn’t make half the mess this blog is turning into.  You’ve got everything from how to make a bike look crappy and the dangers of ipods in saunas all the way to 12-year-olds buying condoms and a nude olive run video clip.

Besides, you hardly ever post lately, and when you do, it’s some take on something that happened 30 years ago.

Don’t give me any of your putrid paranoia! I said. I never set out to write the definitive answer to everything like some Greenland girls’ nude blog.  Those are just search terms that landed here!  And it’s not just text searches, either.  Most of them cough up photos via google image searches.

Really? he said, perking up.   You mean if you post photos, and stick tags on them, they will show up in searches?

Sure, I said.  Everyone knows that, even Derbyshire nude grannies, Canada’s most toxic waste dump/flute player or a jobless bum.  Besides, the less often I post, the more hits I get.  Go figure!

Well, he said with a sigh.  The hour’s up.  Same time next week?

Why not? I said.  I hope by then you’ll have done something about the reading selection in your waiting room.  Monocle Magazine is shit, and the “little red book” of Mao, 1968 is really out of date, don’t you think?  You should subscribe to magazines that answer life’s imponderables, things like what if the world stops spinning, or is nine too young to have a baby?

No way, he said.  To pass the time in a waiting room, it’s much better to read all about camel penis and skunk families in Montreal while peeking at pictures of mausi naked.  Her oldest got sprayed by a skunk, you know.

Just in case you’ve never read my sidebar, every line in this post is drawn from a search that coughed up this blog – most often as an image search.


10
Oct
07

Facebook lifehack: how to get back in touch

In the few weeks I’ve been on Facebook I have gone from grudgingly giving in to family members who’d been bugging me to sign up, to enthusiastically searching for nearly everyone who’s ever been part of my life at some point. Former classmates, distant cousins, ex-girlfriends – I’ve found many, and already contacted a few.

But I had a bit of trouble writing the first contact messages. I quickly realised that just because I had a hard time thinking of anything witty or meaningful to say after two decades or more without contact didn’t mean I could just give in, poke everybody, sit back and hope for the best. You want the recipients to open the message and feel they’ve been graced with something special.

So if there is already a heap of advice out there on everything from tying your fucking shoelaces to planning your career, I figure it’s time to post a little help on how to get in touch again.

Delete where appropriate.

The school buddy

Hey, I saw you on Facebook! / How’s it going? / Don’t you wish you had set your privacy a lot higher?

My how / time flies. / it seems only yesterday we were shoplifting at Safeway to survive. / you’ve lost a lot of hair.

It seems so long since / graduation. / that time out behind the shed after football practice. / your unfortunate lobotomy.

Remember how we hated each other’s guts after only two/ four/ six weeks as roommates?

Did you ever fulfill those dreams of / stardom? / making a lot of money? / curing your chronic halitosis?

My life has always been / one success after the other. / probably no less miserable than yours. / one step away from the gutter.

Tell me how / your life has gone. / you’ve managed to survive in the real world despite such a low IQ.

Would you like to / be my friend on Facebook? / block me? / report me to the authorities?

The former colleague

Hi! I saw you on Facebook? How’s it going?

Are you / still with Rapkapple, Birthwaite, Aftermath, Plumsteel, Spoondiddler & Prattz? / still an ass-kisser? / getting out of jail soon?

Remember how we / used to call in sick all the time and go skiing? / stabbed Taylor in the back? / amassed that fortune siphoning off client funds?

Damn, those were the /days, my friend. / happiest times of my life. /most annoying weasels I’ve ever had the misfortune of being professionally associated with.

I’ve still / got a great tan. / not spent half of it. / got another five years before I come up for parole.

The ex-girlfriend

Hi! I / saw you / stumbled upon your picture completely by accident / am stalking you / on Facebook!

How long has it been since we / were going out? /split up? / auctioned off that toddler on eBay?

You still / look good. / make my heart flutter. / have that funny wart thing on your nose. / make me want to go back on Prozac.

Since we split up, my life has been / a chaotic series of lurches from one crisis to another. / not worth living. / a happy romp through daisies.

Are you still /plagued with body odour?/ dead in bed? / going out with that loser you dumped me for?

I am / friends with Bill Clinton. / about to make my second billion. / going to move three blocks away from you under an assumed name and there’s not a hell of a lot you can do about it.

Don’t you wish we were / still together? / still together? / still together?

I’ve taken the liberty of / leaving my contact details for you. / sending your contact details to every spammer and Nigerian scam artist I’ve been able to find on Google. / telling the police where you hid all those bodies.

I Googled your name when I was bored one day. Are you aware that / your name is associated with a severe personality disorder? / your boyfriend’s wanted by Interpol? / your image is featured at several porn sites?

The distant relative

Hi! Isn’t Facebook / great? / fantastic? / an enormous waste of time?

Remember that time when we were kids at Auntie Jenny’s place and you / fell off the swings, beat the crap out of me and then drowned my kitten? / ate a bowl of lima beans, turned in my direction and threw up in my lap? /wrote FUCK in big black crayon on the bathroom wall, and when my Dad found it, you pointed at me and said I did it?

Well that was a long time ago. I / forgive you. / still only harbour a bit of a grudge. / won’t tell anyone how you really came to lose your left eye.

Will you be my friend on Facebook? Please? I only have / five, each one an alternate personality. / 27, but I had to pay 50 bucks to each of them. / a few months left to live now that the tests are in, and I’d like to get into at least double-digits.

See you on / Facebook! / Arsebook! / Crackbook!

© 2007 lettershometoyou
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13
Feb
07

Advice column debuts, world stops spinning

Dear Bruce,

You might have noticed that this space has changed somewhat since the last time you opened the envelope. I’ve added something I’ll admit is blatantly derivative but what the hell. I intend to have fun with my advice column even if I do have to invent the queries myself. The name you will of course recognise as my nickname in High School combined with a word which you as a student of German will immediately recognise, all wrapped up in a loose anagram of the name of that uptight biddy whose widely syndicated column we used to chortle over every day in the Living section of the Vancouver Sun.

She, by the way, was one of the reasons my customers on that route I took over from you often had their paper delivered a few minutes later than they might have been. On days it wasn’t pouring with rain or if I wasn’t rushing through to get home to play street hockey before nightfall and if their damn dog was tied up, I would take a break on Greenlee’s porch and read her column. Funny uncles? Our uncles were funny, but they weren’t that funny…

I still do something similar to that today. Der Spiegel lands on my desk once a week with a crashing thud, but instead of plodding through the latest ups n downs of German Political Life and the Sorry State of the World, I immediately turn to the left-hand column on the back page for the latest reader-submitted nonsense culled from various German news and advertising sources. Something like Jay Leno’s headlines thingy, and often just as hilarious. If I find a gem or two in the next little while, I’ll let you know.  Melanie, tell me about railway tracks and Pierre Elliot Trudeau.  Thank you.

Headlines I still remember from paper-boy days were: Ike Dead, Soviets invade Czechs, Man Walks on Moon, Freighter Rams Ferry in Active Pass (the ship was named after a poet!) They Did It (’72 Canada -Russia series) and Nixon Resigns, the latter two of which I found most satisfactory indeed. Do you recall the four of us visiting the press room at 2215 Granville Street Vancouver 9, BC at the invitation of the circulation manager? The Vietnam War was still raging because I recall reading wire stories on it as they rattled off the Sun’s telex printer.

You’ll also notice the page entitled En francais, s’il vous plaît. (Apologies, I can’t find the frickin’ cedille on this laptop.) Anyway, it’s something I’ll be writing occasionally as an outlet for a part of me that hasn’t had much to work on these past 10 years living on the Teutonic side of the Rhine. It is in no way to be construed as exclusionistique, mon frère. You can even contribute! I know Gordon will: Quelle heure est-il maintenant, ou pas?

love,

Ian

© 2007 lettershometoyou




The banner photograph shows the town of Britannia Beach, BC, Canada, where I grew up. It's home. But I don't live there anymore.

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