The deadliest joke in the world (for me, at least...)

Well, it's a slow day at the store tonight, and even though I've got stock to put out, I've already taken care of four boxes worth, and I'm ready for a break.

Besides, I probably won't be able to type out a pre-Calgary post in the narrow window of time between the end of work tomorrow and the bus ride.

So, a few things that are on my mind...

* * *

First off, let's start off with a joke my friend told me, and I can help but tell it without a lot of malicious glee about how bad and punny it is.

Seriously, FOREMAN would kick my ass about this joke. Most of the people I've told it to have fallen between the extremes of laughing their asses off and lunging for me with various objects within reach.

Such a polarizing joke HAS to be told, doesn't it?

There's two friends from different nations: one man from England and one from France.

They've got a healthy friendship, but it's always tempered with a really big competitive streak.

Part of their rivalry deals with their pet cats, whom they love. They keep on comparing their cats to the point of obsession.

The Englishman's cat is named "One, two, three." The Frenchman's cat is named "Un, deux, trois."

The competition is so fierce, the two friends decide to settle it once and for all by pitting their cats in a swimming race across the English Channel.

Both cat owners throw their cats into the Channel. My question to you readers is:

Which cat won the race?

* * *

I swear, the entrance to the casino in my mall is SO low rent. ("How low rent is it?") It's SO low rent, it'd be Baltic Ave. in a Monopoly game. (rim shot)

I was to be picked up by D! after work on Tuesday so we could go and watch the pretaped Raw from the night before.

While waiting for him, I saw a whole bunch of native kids jump into a ratty car in the parking lot. The car didn't move. About ten minutes later, the doors open, and the smell of marijuana is so strong, it's bowling me over about twenty five feet away.

One of the native kids notices me, and comes over to talk to me.

Stoner: "Hey! Whatcha doin'?"

Me: "Waiting for a ride."

Stoner: "How long you got left to wait?"

Me: "A very short period."

Stoner: "I was wondering if you could do me a big fuckin' favour."

I say nothing.

Stoner: "I was wondering if you'd be able to buy me a forty pound-"

Me: "No."

Stoner: "Oh. Well-"

Me: "No."

After that, I move away from my position on the corner.

And realize, "Did he just ask me to buy him forty pounds of something?"

I mean, okay, a forty ounce liquor, sure. Forty ounces of pot, whatever. But forty pounds?

Sure, I was going to say "No" to whatever he said, once he began with "Could you buy me..."

Seriously. Who puts the bank deposit boxes in the lowest rent section of the Mall? I'd be willing to go to the hotel to drop it off. Anywhere other than the casino...

* * *

FINALLY got my hair cut yesterday. It's only been, oh, since March since I got my last trim. Not even a real cut so much as a trim.

Yeah, my hair's been pretty long for a while now. Made me sweat like a racehorse in the heat we'd been having.

My hairstylist, Melissa, is the most willow-like person I know. Not as in "pertaining to Willow on Buffy, who really shouldn't be playing with dark magic in Season 5." (Once her eyes turn into black orbs like the creepy guy who gave Dawn the spell to bring her mother back from the dead, you KNOW she's heading down a really bad path...) (Yeah, Canton and I are plowing through our DVD watching like there's no tomorrow...)

I'm talking willowy, as in, a slight breeze could snap her wrist like a twig.

Now, she's not quite as willowy as Mrs. Johnny W. (Hell, that's a completely different category...) But still.

Granted, since Melissa is queen of head massages before the cut, and she does a pretty good job on my hair (before I destroy it due to lack of styling), I'm willing to let it go.

Still, my head feels a lot lighter, and I can actually feel wind on my neck again.

It's sort of a catch-22, since I like having my hair sort of long. Hell, it makes for great headbanging, as evidenced on the dance floor at Foreman's wedding last weekend.

But my body tends to rebel against it, making me overheat and suffer delusions, as people who read my diary know as to Saturday morning's freakout.

So I tend to keep it as long as I can, while keeping my brain cool.

For those of you who don't see me much these days, I'm sure some of you'll see at Rob and Reag's wedding NEXT week, or at the very least, at Fringe, since EVERYONE'S coming to see Kow then. Right?

I SAID, RIGHT?

* * *

So, who won the swimming competition?

The English cat did. Alas, the "Un, deux, trois" cat sank...

And before you throw that lamp at me, I'm logging off. See you guys on Sunday, when I tell you about the Calgary trip in between bouts of moving out.