Do You Even Ride?


Up for sale is this broken old bike.

If your child’s birthday is coming up you could give them this bike, ensuring that they will never injure themselves while biking – this is due mainly to the fact that the bike lacks a wheel and can achieve a top speed of zero. DIY types might be able to source another wheel and install it but have no fear, with the broken chain it still stays at low speeds, being little more than an oversized run bike. Unfortunately the one remaining brake does not work, so I can’t condone actually using the bike as transportation until that is fixed. It’s probably just a cable or two, maybe some pads and at the very most, the entire brake system that needs to be replaced.

If you don’t know any young children to give this bike to, you can always use it yourself as an exercise bike. For an extra fee I will provide some wooden blocks to go under the bike, raising it up enough to sit on and pedal. The back wheel won’t turn because of the previously mentioned broken chain so you don’t need to worry about the lack of brakes, front wheel or turning ability. Simply sit on the comfortable seat and spin the pedals like crazy. There’s no gears or difficulty selection so you’ll probably only develop one or two muscles. If anyone ever asks you to pedal a bike on the absolute lowest gear on flat ground you’ll be able to do it really well with your new pedal spinning muscles.

This bike is also perfect if you’ve ever wanted to be a unicyclist but needed a unicycle! The handy handlebars allow you to balance better than a traditional unicycle, and the lack of a functioning chain eliminates the need to go up hills. The chain currently wraps itself around the pedals every once in a while and makes a strange noise but I’m sure it’s an easy fix. Seat is not in good shape, I was lying when I said it was comfortable earlier. You may want to wear padding if you plan to sit on the seat.

Custom blue paint job mostly covers up the old red paint job and complements the rust very well. Two colours of blue contrast each other making this bike look like a sea of sky. You could pretend that the red bits that are showing through are rays of sunshine. Forks have a few small scratches but that’s to be expected because there’s no wheel. Pedals mostly match each other, one is black and one is black with paint over-spray on it. You can also pretend that it’s a camouflage paint job if you want although that obviously isn’t the truth, I’m just bad at painting.

You can buy my bike/unicycle for only ten dollars, if you want the custom wooden exercise bike blocks I can make them for an extra five dollars.


Destiny and Internal Monologue

buttonsThe man sits alone behind the rock, his camera jammed tight to his eye. He breathes quietly, ignoring the cramp in his left foot. The baby deer in his viewfinder stumbles a little closer and he steadies his already shaking hand. His pale blonde hair falls in his face, distracting him for a second. He shifts his camera and brushes his hair out of his face. He grins as he remembers the ridiculous amount of money he’s being payed to film this deer. “It’ll be the nature documentary of the century” his boss had said to him, back in their London office, “It’ll be bigger than David Attenbourough, more exciting than…than any other nature documentary.” And then he had sent George off to film deer in Wales.

Wales, George thought happily, had to be the easiest assignment he had ever gotten. He began to relax, reaching into his pocket for a granola bar. He settled into a more comfortable position and began eating, the deer didn’t seem to be going anytime soon. He kept the camera focused on the deer, it had settled down too and was watching a bush closely, as if it might be jumped any minute.

The deer itself was very content, it had no idea it was being filmed for the nature documentary of the year. It lay quietly in the grass, munching whatever it was he was supposed to munch and thinking about whatever it was deer were supposed to think about. It was eyeing the bush suspiciously but this not unusual for deer.

The bush itself sat quietly, wishing that George would leave so he could get up and start his day. He was a very important bush, known to his people as Grimbenthorne the Bush. He was leader of the Bush tribe and had meetings to attend and lesser bushes to boss around. Grimbenthorne rustled his leaves impatiently, he was rapidly becoming annoyed at the human who sat there filming a deer with a camera. He knew why George was here, he had heard him muttering to himself earlier. Nature documentary of the century, Grimbenthorne thought scathingly, more like the most boring thing in the history of infinity. He had no idea who would want to watch a deer sitting around, this one wasn’t even doing anything interesting. He wondered vaguely what would happen if he suddenly revealed himself to George, told him the truth about the Bush Tribe of Wales and the living bushes of England. That would be the nature documentary of the century, he thought.

George was getting bored, the deer wasn’t moving and he was still supposed to get another 2 hours of footage. He started to wish he’d gotten the African assignment, Paul was probably filming a wildebeest being eaten by a buffalo or an alligator fight, something more exciting that this. He was filming a deer watching a bush. He wished there was more tension in his life, some major event that would move him forward. He sighed and leaned back against the rock.

Grimbenthorne the Bush suddenly decided that he had had enough waiting around for this peasant to leave. He stood up, as much as a bush could stand up and walked away, deciding it would be best to not look back and to act as though this was a perfectly usual thing for a bush to do. The deer, who was becoming quite used to the bush doing this by now, gave a small start but continued eating grass.

George stared at the bush, which had started doing a weird shuffle away. He grabbed his camera and ran towards, yelling, for a lack of anything better to say, “Excuse me! Where are you going? You can’t just do that.” Grimbenthorne turned to George and said “I’ll have you know I can do whatever I want peasant!” George did not speak the language of the bushes and he merely stared at the bush as it spun around and rustled at him. He kept his camera on the bush, slowly realizing that this actually could be the nature documentary of the century. He had discovered some new life form, a bush that moved and rustled, not the most exciting creature to appear on film certainly but it was new and that was all people watching these films wanted to see. He wondered if he could persuade the bush to eat a penguin or something, people loved those kind of things.

George suddenly stopped, the camera that had been filming the bush slowly lowering to his side. Was this the right choice to make, he thought, was it wise to reveal a living bush to the world? Would it be like that film where the things were revealed and then bad things happened? George paused in his internal questioning to criticize his lack of knowledge about animal films. Perhaps it was Free Willy or Bambi, he wasn’t really sure. Moving back to his brain he continued to question himself, full of self doubts. Maybe, he reasoned, it was destiny, maybe he was in the right place at the right time and he was supposed to be filming this bush. Reaching an important internal decision he threw the camera down aggressively, destroying the footage of a living bush forever. With one last sweeping glance at the clearing he turned his back on the clearing and strode away. The deer opened one eye lazily and watched him go before falling back asleep.

If anyone had seen what he had done and the choice he had made they would have thought of George as a good human, but they hadn’t so in the eyes of the rest of the world he was merely a poor film-maker who had dropped a rather expensive camera.

The Book of Negroes Did Suck

I did not enjoy reading The Book of Negroes. This is my original “review” of it. Yes, I did send this in for grade 11 english. It was written in about 20 minutes so there’s lots of spelling mistakes.

miseryI hated this book.

The characters were miserable puppets, manipulated around solely for the entertainment of the very old and boring author who seems to never have felt a single emotion other than extreme boredom, for that was the only thing he conveyed in this book. His descriptions of peoples appearance was not unlike how a computer would describe a cold bowl of porridge and his description of places was much the same with the porridge perhaps being lukewarm. The main character, Aminita has as much depth as one of those little kiddy pools.

The basic plot seemed to be that she was in a village in Africa or Bayou or Guantanamo depending on the authors mood at the time he seemed to choose randomly from any semi warm place on the planet. She was then forced into slavery by men from America or Britain though from the authors writing it may well have been that she was put on a boat by flying martians. She sailed over to America and there was a bunch of fighting on the boat which was just an excuse for the author to kill everyone he had gotten bored with, which was, actually, every single person except for Aminita. As she arrived in America she was put to work on a cotton field or maybe indigo, at this point my brain was desperately trying to abort from my skull and my fingers had involuntarily torn my eyeballs from their sockets such as to spare them from dragging their cold lifeless selves across the page, taking in another miserable excuse for a word written by this Laurence person. Aminita worked at this indigo farm for a few years and then she had a kid with some other guy but the author had another brilliant flash of brilliance and sent her baby to Cuba and her boyfriend to Alaska or some such place. It was like killing them off but easier for him because he can bring them back in after he kills other people. She had her head shaved because she had nice hair or something and then she was bought by someone called Solomon Lindo which seems like a poor decision of Mr Lindos mother but he bought her anyways despite having the kind of name that would usually make a man spend his life hiding in his basement, sending his parents to do his shopping.

Aminita moved in with Solomon Linda and met some other people but truthfully at this point you could care less because you know they’re going to die and you`ve given up all hope of the story improving or indeed ever ending because you are only just at the beginning. You process that she does shopping and housework and then start to wonder rather wishfully that Aminita herself would die and the rest of the book is just some of those blank pages filled with copyright things. But she doesn’t die, she meets that guy who got sent to Alaska and I think she has another baby or maybe that’s later but she definitely has 2 but it isn’t really important because they both die. Anyways, Mr Lindo takes her to New York where she runs away with a bartender and lives in some boxes. You can tell that you`re supposed to feel sorry for her but instead you feel boredom and apathy settling in, your bones have turned to rubber and you can’t move because, even though you couldn’t care less about aminiata and her miserable life you feel depressed at the death of everyone and the miserable style of the writing.

Somewhere around the point you contemplate drowning yourself and the book she meets a British officer and becomes a midwife for all of their underage pregnant girlfriends. Eventually she gets offered a place on a ship that goes to Nova Scotia, a place that nobody knows, or cares anything about because it’s such a distant and lonely and pathetic sounding place that it may as well be called “Miserable foggy island of lonely hopes and lost dreams”. Her boyfriend and baby drown or get lost or something, you don’t really know or care. She arrives in Nova Scotia and I think she has another baby or maybe she found her first one. You’re usually hallucinating at this point about something more fun than reading this book, swimming in steak sauce with piranhas, bungee jumping with no bungee or just lying a cold moist dungeon for the rest of your life. Someone steals her baby and she deals with more racism by reading or something . She then goes to Africa and your eyeballs slowly head in the direction of their sockets wondering if perhaps she could return home and that this miserable book would stop. She does go to Africa and at this point she’s about 4 thousand years old but she walks back to her old village with some slavers which is a bad idea but she has no real perception so it makes sense.

She gets back to her village but it’s burned down or maybe she was just bored as heck at this point so she leaves. You begin to stop feeling miserable and depressed at this point and actually put the book down for a few minutes to wonder what possible point this story could have and if there is any way you could burn every copy of this book to spare future generation from reading the mindless drivel that is The Book of Negroes. At this point she sails to England and writes a book and then finds her daughter who has actually survived but then she just dies and you dissolve into a hopeless mess, confused as to what on earth happened, angry that you chose this book, of all books and depressed that not one character could just live.

This book will probably leave you hating white people for being slavers, Africa for being hot and too boring for Aminata, boats for being so slow, Nova Scotia for making you depressed, Lawrence Hill for using his pen to make misery itself come to you in small black characters that seep into your eyes searing their depressing misery into your retinas forever, but very most of all you will curse the people who gave prizes to this book. You will despise your friends who said it was interesting and made them think. You will tell them that surely they forget to mention what it made them think about, which was killing themselves to avoid having any memory of reading this book. You will wish plagues upon the man who awarded it the Pulitzer or whatever awful prize it got. You will wish for a thousand years of pain on the entire lineage of Laurence hill’s editor and publisher for letting his pathetic scribblings be put between two covers. They must surely have been drunk out of their neatherndthalic brains to allow it to be published or possibly depraved and raving mad from reading just the very introduction to Laurence Hill’s 500 page insane ramblings about nothing that made sense.

I Am a Bad Poet

An adaption I did of Diane Burns “Sure You Can Ask Me a Personal Question”


Hey, how are you?
I’m pretty good, just writing some poetry.
I don’t get this poem.
It’s like a one sided conversation.
I’d rather hear the other side of the conversation.
Does that make me a bad poet?
What if the other person’s thoughts are more interesting?
Rather than being judged and stereotyped
there would be judgement.
And stereotyping.

Would that make you think more?
Would we judge people so fast?
Or would your eyes just glaze over these words.
Reading them but not taking them in
Because you don’t care
Because I’m a bad poet.


How to Sell a Car

My friend’s car has been the unfortunate recipient of all our spraypaint, stickers, cardboard and other bad ideas. It seemed like our work and time had increased the resale value so I wrote up an ad and posted it on a couple classifieds sites. Just to clarify the NOS system is a garden hose and a blue can, the JVC sound system is off a home stereo and the racing stripes are duct tape.


This is possibly the best 1988 Dodge Shadow the world has ever seen. If you’re interested in basic details it is a fwd, 2.2L, Auto, 4 cylinder car made by Dodge in the late 80’s. The name Shadow fits the car very well, everytime I sit in it I am reminded of ninjas and Japanese B-movies with names like “The dark warrior of shadow night”.

I’ve done a lot of custom work to this car and it’s definitely become a sweet one of a kind ride. The exterior has had a lot of custom styling done, two manly racing stripes in black add to the overall speed factor of the car. These are professionally done and completely accurate and not slightly off in any way. The black shadow theme continues with my custom tail fins, these are done to look like an old Cadillac mixed with an F1 car.

By the time you buy this car I will have finished the carbon fibre / lightning bolt hood. The hood is going to be painted like carbon fibre so that you go faster and then have lightening bolt silhouettes so that you can strike down peasants like Zeus. If you had a passenger they could sit in the passenger seat and make sound effects like “Kzzark” and “Zwoosh”.

The custom painted rims are done in an attractive two tone colour, tractor green and black, symbolic of the mighty tractoresque four cylinder and the shadowy blackness of night. These rims were painted with the highest quality paint available and a paint spraying technique taught to me by a Cuban pin striping master tradesman.

This amazing car also comes with a completely legitimate NOS system. Hand installed by my own hands the NOS runs out of the blue tank, through the hose and back into the blue tank giving you double the NOS for free! I installed a mini NOS purge container into the main line, this is converted from an old fuel filter and works very well. I had multiple NOS buttons on various handy location in the car but due to the heat it has been reduced to only one button. It still works very well.

The JDM stickerbombed bumper will make people admire the car in even more detail. They marvel at the selection of stickers from quality brands which include but are not limited to: SDOR, Mongoose, Mountain Hardware, Freeride Boardshop, Giant, 661, Magnaflow, LA Sportiva, Venture Gear, Spanish warning signs, and other JDM brands. I was going to stickerbomb the gas cap but instead put a custom sparkly Hulk fabric covering on it. This turns heads like nothing else, his great green biceps sparkling in the sun like some goblin fairy combination. Plus he frightens off potential gas theives.

I ran a full custom sound system, two massive JVC speakers in the boot, these things pound like a jackhammer. They’re hooked to a custom installed 87 Ford Deck to keep the retro styled interior theme. This deck has am/fm radio, iPod input and tapes. The radio tuning is the only major thing that doesn’t work on this car, it works fine when I am at Big White but that is it. Fortunately it can still go through the presets so just find a station that’s pretty close to one of those. Or you could just go and tune it at Big White. The deck has little knobs for bass and treble, I usually turn the bass all the way and drive around rattling my windows. I get a lot of people asking for my number this way.

Further plans for this car include a disco ball, redone interior and a two tone paintjob.

I am asking $5’000 for this car which is very reasonable. Price is OBO. Please email me.

I am the Poet.

I love poetry assignments for school. This is the response I write to any poem, it has very good poetry words and sounds pretty.


This poem was very image rich, I felt as if I could see everything the author described. He had a really good way of using imagery and descriptive terms and I think it worked well in this poem. This poem seemed very average in most aspects, it was a short image rich poem but there wasn’t much that set it apart from other poetry.

I also write poems – everything I write is free verse with a bit of no capitilazation.

A tree stands in the tundra.
Alone amongst the elk.
Black against the snow.
And we will never see
this tree
because it doesn’t exist
and this poem is the best you will get.

I Refuse To Do What You Tell Me


I know what you want.

You want me to understand,

You want me to show you that I know what Hamlet’s soliloquy means.

I understand but do I really want to show you?

Is it really better to finish assignments the way I am supposed to

What if I could do it differently, in my own way and have it come out better;

Maybe you would love it and think I am a great writer;

I might get full marks and be praised for being such a creative individual.

Then again, you might hate it.

You could want me to do this the proper way, taking his poem and adapting it;

Write it as a country song or a nursery rhyme.

Is that the right thing to do – If I didn’t like it but you did;

Would I rather have good marks or good writing?

What if I failed the course, then would it be worth it?

What is it we are even afraid of;

A number, assigned to our writing and to us.

Or am I a coward, afraid to voice my true thoughts for fear of a bad mark

Are we all cowards – hiding behind false words?

Faking our responses and emotions just to get five percent more;

Isn’t that an easy way out?

Turning Shakespeare into country songs and rhymes

Rewording his play to be a gangster rap

Is that really creative writing?