Thievery. Thieving. Theft.

Nine days ago Sir Ray talked about stealing. He told a few anecdotes of India. We all laughed.
An hour before nine days ago, I stole time from a Saskatoon tennis star.
A day after nine days ago, a kid came into my store. He left with a hat. We were left without a payment.
Four days after nine days ago, three days after a day after nine days ago, five days ago, Royal Bank called. Unusual activity, online banking. Money transferred, but not quite stolen.

Stealing is a funny thing. No it’s not? Well, it is. You get stolen from every day, without knowing it. It is when you do know that you’ve been stolen from that you think it isn’t funny. But it still is. Taxes, gas prices, banks, service charges, Indian taxi drivers, capitalists stealing your soul; you don’t think about it, but they are sucking out your savings for your dream beach vacation at (insert Spanish name here that ends in an O).

When things appear to me more than once in a week, I take it as a sign. Lately I have been seeing lots of Mizo looking Indian women, it must be a sign that I need to go back. And/or marry one of them. I have seen lots to do with stealing, it must mean that I should stop stealing what I am stealing. Or start stealing what I am not stealing. I’ll work that out and let you know how it goes…

Nine days after nine days ago, I stole your hearts. Grand theft love.

I think I’ve got pink eye. Three wives and two mothers told me so. Two of the wives were also the mothers. How many people diagnosed my pink eye? Like a riddle of the grandfather, father and son, except not riddling.

As a kid, pink eye was the worst disease of all time. When someone got it, they were shunned for weeks once they returned to school. I never actually saw what it looked like. Now I know it looks like you stayed up all night drinking, then smoked a j, then went chlorinated swimming, then poured hot sauce in it, them cried all day because of a lost girlfriend, plus some puss and goobers. I thought that if you made it past grade five without it you were in the clear, like the opposite of chicken pox, but not really.

I thought I left the horrible eye disease back in grade five along with pee crusted wind pants and midday boners. I thought I left it behind with dramatic situations, girls crying and getting mad, and people that lack self control. I thought I left pink eye behind with jealousy, bad decisions and the deadly peer pressure. I thought I left it behind with angst, money hunger and four square. But I didn’t. I didn’t leave any of these behind at all, especially the boners.

So there is really no difference between kids and adults except hygeine in some cases and tact in others. The things that make a kid a kid are still around when you’re not a kid, only less cute and magical, and more old and tiresome. What makes you an adult is not your age or how you act, it is a matter of selfishness and what you do with it. Every adult is the same, you see the differences in them when you see how much they like themselves. If I’m right, then I want to grow up to be an adult like an adult.

No, not an adult licking adults. Unless the money is good.

A man got hit by a car. The car was stronger than the man. The man survived. There was a bike in pieces on the road in front of the car. The bike did not survive. (Safety)
There was a police truck behind a car that was behind the car that hit the bike. The police truck was a regular truck painted a regular blue with flashing lights that you wouldn’t see if they weren’t flashing. (Liars)

Re: Safety
You are a harlot. You trick people into abiding by your rules and laws when you cannot guarantee anything except inconvenience and unguaranteeable semi-control of a situation. People stay at home because of you. People are useless because of you, blaming their lack of ambition and lethargic lives on the fact that you were not around. People are killed because of you, thinking that you are actually there. I will personally tell all those that I know that safety is a government controlled myth used to make you apathetic and dead and to get your wallets into their hands.

Re: Liars
Like a policeman hiding behind a dog and a indistinguishable truck, you are scaring people into lives of mistrust. Trust is a hard thing to gain, and is even harder to keep. When you spit out your lies you are hurting others and not even helping yourself, just your image. Leave your lies in bed with your Egyptian cotton sheets, nightgown and safety bags.

Good night. I love you.

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Knife in the gut. Bomb in the belly. Whatever is down there it feels like I am birthing a 12 pound child made of only air. It is not the usual loose-ness down below, but it is remedied only by venting. Things under pressure, release the valve. It is hard to vent when you have serious blockage, or no strength behind it to let it go.

If I knew what was going on in my own head that would help. There is not so much blockage from too much going on, as there is lack of anything going on up there. Materializing something from a mind of nothing is impossible.

How to vent when your only venting system is broken?

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Character is who you are when no one is looking.

A famous quote by someone not famous enough to remember. I can only hope to be that caliber of person someday. Someone who said something, one thing decent so that he wasn’t remembered but his words were. Here is my version of this famous lame quote…

Character is who you are when you are alone shopping.

You learn a lot about people who wear clothes. You learn more about people who buy clothes. First, the obvious, their personal status (single, married, dating, floozie or otherwise.) There is a difference in purchases between the mother of three and the host of three bar-hopping diseases. Both may like turtlenecks but not both love see through backless haltertops.

Their gender. Usually after watching someone shop you can determine their gender, even if you don’t see what they purchase. But not always. Some dudes love their flowery thongs.

Their consumerism position. Where they shop. What and how much they buy. If their purchases are in any way responsible or are for personal gain or hygene. (I don’t ever want to be a ‘consumer’. It sounds so dirty. I want to be a responsible user and/or a smart spender. Makes me sound like less of a vulture, swooping in for the leftovers doing none of the work, and more like a canary, using myself for something greater and considerably smarter.)

Mental diseases. A clothing store especially. There are a few types of mental issues here. There are the people (always female) that try on literally thirty tops and don’t buy any (the ADD psychopath). The person who comes in four times a day and buy four things each time (OCD drug addicts). And the people who are so awkward in the store that they can’t string together a sensical sentence when asked ” How are you today?” and sweat profusely when trying things on (me).

If you are worried that your lover/wife/crush/stalkee is a weirdo then quietly creep near them as they shop alone. You’ll learn more than you ever wanted to. Boxers or briefs? Or lacey strings?

First. Driving down Albert one evening in Riderville, we took a left turn down some road that went by Earls and on the street corner was none other than Brian Williams. I yelled out the window, ‘Brian Williams!’ He looked at me, turned away, we drove away. That was it. I’m sure it was him because he was in town that night for the Rider game, he likes Earl’s, and it was him.

Since it is so late, things seem to be clear and simple. A clarity that encourages the profound, or maybe just profanity. Either way, at this time of day, it is much more strong. Poor english? That’s part of the journey.

See paragraph four of Greatest American Dog. 

Oh the summer blog lull. The sun is warm, the grass is luscious, the booty shorts are out. Why bother sitting inside and updating your friends and family as to how your life is? Why bother taking time to read, think, plan and increase knowledge when you can go outside and play with so many different kinds of balls that it could be considered fondling?