If You Like It Then You Better Put A Canklet On It

CANKLET (noun): A piece of jewelry worn on the ankle of a person with a low calf to ankle ratio.

Math Camp (say it with a lateral lisp)

It is a true fact that Mr. Bunndini failed algebra in grade 9. I would like to think that this was due to an extremely poor attendance record and an 18 year old punk boyfriend who would pick me up on his motorcycle on sunny afternoons which always coincided with algebra class but it probably has more to do with my lack of proficiency in the number department of my brain. Of course I blame my mother for this and my weak ankles. Suffice to say that I am very proud of Dr. Mavis Stapler for making it through a gruelling week of math camp at Yale. It's good to know that I have someone on my team in the apocalypse with a deep understanding of differential equations and Wnt signalling pathways (whatever those are). I can only offer up my ability to make quick decisions and endless music play lists. Hopefully we can find someone who can build us a house and slaughter wild animals for lunch.

We Are All Canucks

Last night there was a riot in my hometown (if that doesn't sound like a John Cougar Mellencamp song I don't know what does). I watched it happen it on the news and heard the helicopters and the sirens from the safety of my couch. Some people are blaming violence in hockey and others are saying it's the fault of anarchists, people from Surrey, alcohol, the mayor, consumerism, class inequality, the full moon, Tim Horton's donuts and/or the homeless.  Mr. Bunndini is both saddened and not particularly surprised (which is also sad in an isn't the world a fucked place to live kinda way) but all I can offer in consolidation is this haiku:

Cat eating pizza

Don't smash that police car up

Cause that would be wrong

The Very Last Hockey Haiku Of The Season

No one needs to see

 Those green guys kibbles and bits

Wash your leotard

If you trim your neck
Then is it a playoff beard?
Sky Train smells like barf

I don't care who wins

No I will not high five you 

Tim Horton's donut

Drive around honking

With your faces painted blue

All fucking night long

This Is What Neo Citran Dreams Are Made Of

Happy Birthday Dr. Mavis Stapler

I love you and miss you Dr. Stapler and would transport myself to Philly right now if only I had smoked less pot in the 90s and spent more time perfecting that time travel machine. You are a scholar and a gentleman and my life is immeasurably better with you in it. May your cupboards always be full of stove top stuffing and your wine glass never run dry. 

Less Talky Talky More Makey Coffee

For your information: Deep fried dill pickles with tartar sauce when eaten in extreme quantities and washed down with bourbon sours will result in a undetermined stretch of "working from home" the next day. This may also coincide with men using loud machinery repairing the pavement outside your apartment starting at 9am and continuing indefinitely. You have been warned.

Darryl And His Other Brother Darryl

The Narrow Tiki Patio Opening Day Haiku

Oh how I missed you

Your weak sangria restores

Rats in the bushes

I'm Not That Kind Of Corn Dog

Mr. Bunndini has been smitten with a consecutive string of health ailments and weird news in the past week so decided that it would be a good idea to hide from the hockey game last night at a windowless tv-less drinking establishment on Main Street with Pollyanna. Over the course of the evening I ate a rare tuna burger, fries, nachos and a veggie corn dog with spicy mustard interspersed with plentiful double bourbon sours and Jameson shots. None of the aforementioned items were welcomed in my body by the viruses that are currently inhabiting it and the resulting sleepless night was an unfortunate and uncomfortable experience. I will be spending the day on the couch. If you need me I'll be the one in the pajamas singing along with the Judge Judy theme song.