Archive for February, 2009

Wanted: Second Wife

Posted in Alex's Blog with tags , , , , , , on February 18, 2009 by burkegr

Maybe I’ve been watching too much “Big Love”, or maybe polygamists have been on to something for years now. Regardless, I have come to the conclusion that my boyfriend and I need to add a third member to our relationship.  It’s nothing sexual; in fact, after consultation with the other GR members, I have endearingly labelled my new significant other’s job description as “Life Hooker”… so scratch the title and think “Wanted: Life Hooker”.

For our less educated readers, polygamy is a Greek word meaning “the practice of multiple marriage” (Thanks, Wikipedia!).  Because I am a member of the fairer sex, some of you may be thinking I am leaning towards a second husband, known as “polyandry”.  You would be wrong, friend. I need a lady.

Let me clarify. This is not a lesbian booty call. I love and am attracted to my boy-friend.  Unfortunately, he would never go for another man in this relationship, so lady it must be.  The decision to add a third member isn’t the result of him being hard to handle or the indication of a waning interest.  I’m not looking for either of us to change.  We simply need someone to keep us in line. We have become so comfortable with one another that we’ve just stopped trying. A “happy anniversary/birthday/Christmas/Valentine’s Day” is about all the effort we put into occasions… if we remember at all. We don’t bother tidying up for one another or investing in our appearance.  She could save us from ourselves.  Yes, solution: third relationship member.

Let’s reflect: I get a friend who doesn’t mind being a third wheel and who the “b/f” doesn’t hate. We can be gym buddies and take pride in one another’s progress, she’ll never tire of hearing me complain about him, she’ll make sure he gets me nice presents and when I get annoyed and send him away she’ll welcome him with open arms.  She will make sure I always have an outfit ready for work and leave me little notes in the lunches she makes me (she’s the stay at home spouse). Yes.  I can be motivated through friendly competition and he can learn from a lady who didn’t throw herself at him without hesitation even though he thought wearing a visor was cool (in 2006).

For the time being, my jealousy, rage and general inability to get along with women will be abated. Worse coming to worse, I’ll de-stress for a month or so and then kill her in a jealous rage and dump the body in a ditch (I hope this never happens in an incident completely unrelated to this blog – how do you say “implicated”?).

I will be taking applications from now, until the end of the week. Applicants must be 19 years of age or older (to make my LCBO runs), have a generally sweet and patient disposition and be willing to submit to the intense psychological torture associated with a position of this nature (read: my relationship).  Applicants should not like horror fiction, Guitar Hero, sports, drinking contests, dance parties, word games or writing for underappreciated, as of yet undiscovered comedy troupes (I will not be usurped as first girlfriend!).  Must not be well travelled (in either sense of the term) and must not have previously belonged to any sort of polygamist society or group marriage cult.  Finally, a successful applicant will be grossly unattractive.

Do you have what it takes to be my life hooker?! Are you looking for an unforgettable and heart-warming adventure? Do you revel in the opportunity to share your love with two child-humans who can barely appreciate one another, let alone you!? Will you sacrifice your life and debase yourself for my happiness?!  If you answered “yes”, then apply now in the comment section!

Only serious posters will be contacted.

Ps. Happy anniversary, honey!


Blood Roses and Me

Posted in Evan's Blog with tags , , on February 16, 2009 by EAbrams

So this is the story of getting a tablet, valentines day, and the new patchwork mitten I call my right hand. It starts one thursday night, two days before valentines day. My girlfriend had a paper to write and I was going to do the dishes, clean the bathroom and make dinner, all before she was done. Sadly after putting my hand though a wonderful pyrex cup from the London Museum of Modern Art our evening took on a more hurried pace.

I tried to stop the bleeding from the pog-sized skin flap on my knuckle. Meanwhile my girlfriend, very concerned, tried to do whatever she could to help me. Thankfully this included not fainting. We resolved that we should go to the hospital and see if they knew more about these things than we did.

Courtesy of the Museum of Modern Art: London

Courtesy of the Museum of Modern Art: London

We got a ride from my old roommate who was studying for a midterm on the other side of town. He was a good sport about it. He and I had been to the hospital a while ago when I had some strange chest pains, only that time I didn’t want to bother anyone and took the bus. This time we rode in style, a Chevy S10 with bass and deer decals blaring soothing classic rock.

After the obligatory ‘are you here to see a doctor?’, which I was too much in shock to have a snappy answer to, we waited for about 3 hours before treatment. In the meantime we saw a kidney stone case who was about 27 and lived with his mom. We saw a number of pregnancy scare candidates. We saw a man hitting on the pregnancy scare candidates who had no ailments nor desire to see a doctor. I wonder if anyone told him picking up in the hospital is not such a great idea on a thursday night.

We made it in to see said doctor before the kidney stone man but after a few of the people who had no signs of trauma. Let’s call them fakers for now. The exact formula that changes your wait time may be more complex than bistro-matics. It requires time spent in waiting room, visible signs of grief, belligerence, exposure of breasts, oldness, seemliness, likelihood of lawsuit, and general empathy of the staff for variables. The outcome is usually thrown away and you can just consult your magic 8-ball.

We went from the communal room to the individual waiting room where we examined the shelves for lack of anything better to do. I remarked it would be nice is I had my NDS with me. My girlfriend reminded me I hadn’t the use of all my fingers to use it, and would likely bleed on it till I had a pink NDS. The shelves themselves contained gauze, gloves with the smallest being intuitively set at over 6 feet off the ground. What appeared to be a yogurt cup but filled with sodium chloride (table salt). And a bin of sharps. A sharp is medical speak for needle. I would later have a large gauge sharp threaded through my hand. If there is ever and (number) gauge (anything) applied to me I feel ill, be it a 12 gauge shotgun or a 16 gauge pizza.

The doctor came in after a nurse had a look and redressed my hand. It was good not to have that soggy towel around. Soggy towels are so 1980 and I needed to accessorize with thin cotton. I would later bleed through the cotton. The student doctor was pretty much the most attractive medical student i’ve seen off TV. My girlfriend now thinks I’m gay because I said what I was thinking out loud. He was a little stand offish with the wound however. The staff doctor who came after was not so timid. He got right in there after some wit that would not have been out of place at the 4077 (that’s a M*A*S*H reference if that helps).

Later on we learned some trivia about Portugal, how to do sutures as the medical student learned by doing, and the cost to pay ratio of doctors doing stitches. Turns out they make 14.73 for an under 5 cm laceration. For some reason i thought it was worth a lot more, but then I had a bit of a dire need for some. Also the witty staff doc was a Douglas Adams fan. When a patient in another room tried to break free of their restraints and let out a feral growl he was quick with a “beware of the leopard” quip which put me at ease while he drove a needle through an unfrozen part of my hand.

All in all a good night. We made it home before 2, damn hungry and with our dinner uncooked and drying out in the oven. We had some toast and I fell asleep around 3. But the story doesn’t stop here. This is like the backstory to, and at the same time a prelude to, another story. We haven’t even gotten to the New GhostRunner assets, the Interview, and the torrid Valentines day affair!

Also courtesy of the Museum of Modern Art: London

Also courtesy of the Museum of Modern Art: London

Stay tuned for more, coming soon!

I Have a Dream!

Posted in Alex's Blog with tags , , , , , on February 12, 2009 by burkegr

I have a dream! Well, I had a dream. Perhaps not a dream so profound it earns the title of “I have a dream!”, but it motivated me to write a blog (which is epic in the history of GhostRunner). I have now earned my status as favorite member of GhostRunner, bringing to an end my reign as “Favorite Member Despite Never Having Written Anything”.

As for my dream, I was working with the rest of GR and Jennie Garth at a production studio-garage. We spent our days pimping rides and our nights creating comedic history.

Meanwhile, down the street there was a rival comedy-garage headed by Guillermo Diaz (I think we were working in the comedy-garage ghetto). Side note for those of you who aren’t “Weeds” connoisseurs, Guillermo Diaz is the actor who plays Guillermo, the Mexican-American drug dealer who burns down Agrestic and pushes the underworld envelope by smuggling girls and weapons through a tunnel from Tijuana (Post-spoiler spoiler alert!).

One day the rival comedy garage challenged us to a rumble. I’m a little cloudy on the details, but I know Matt carried a pipe to the fight while Evan decided he didn’t need a weapon, which is probably how it would go in real life. Actually, Matt would run rival comedy troupes down with his car, accidentally… while trying to flee.

Needless to say, the fight began with a rap-battle-style comedy off, picture the vindicating scene in “8 Mile”. Surprisingly, GhostRunner + Jennie Garth dominated and sent Guillermo Diaz and his band of neighbourhood toughs back to their garage to stick to their day jobs of spraying flames on cars with unnecessarily large spoilers and underglow (My dreams stereotype members of the ethnic community, not me!).

On the way back to the GhostRunner garage I was being a sore winner, as I tend to be. Jennie Garth turned, yelled “What the hell did you do?!” and punched out 4 of my teeth. Then she wouldn’t let me pick them up and made me leave them in the dust. I spent the rest of the night sulking with no teeth. I’ll never look at “90210.2” the same way.

It’s important to explain I believe Jennie Garth exists in my subconscious as the metaphorical GhostRunner opinion. Therefore, I write this blog in the fear that I will soon be relegated to being the GR secretary, the social equivalent of losing four of my teeth to the punch of a middle-aged, tiny blond lady. Already I am only a “non-writer” with 0 votes out of a possible 5 (In GR culture writers get a vote, having a penis gives you a vote, writing 3 blogs gives you a vote and if you are Tim, making a rule about what gives a person a vote gives you a vote).

So there you have it: my first blog brought to you by Jennie Garth, Guillermo Diaz and the GR guys saying “You better write something, we should kick you out. You are so lucky you are the girl.” Hopefully this temporarily abates all criticism and when Jennie or Guillermo Google themselves (we all do it) this blog is somewhere in the first 1000 and they star in GR videos… for free! After all, they are my inspiration.

Ps. Be gentle with me.