Bloorp.

Under any other normal circumstance, I’d agree that the term “feisty turtle” is an odd pairing of words.

But I can’t agree. I’ve looked after my neighbour’s turtle Harold (Harold!) on three separate occasions now and I think that has earned me the prestigious title of Turtle-Sitter Who Can Assign Adjectives To Local Reptiles Under Her Temporary Care, along with Observer of Curious Turtle Behaviour.

One night after feeding Harold, I decided to sit and watch for a while. I’d never actually watched turtles for an extended period of time — unlike most of the general population, obviously.

For one thing: Harold yawned and let me tell you, you really haven’t lived until you’ve seen a turtle yawn.

Imagine a turtle having just been woken from his hibernation. He’s been dug out from his underground haven with fresh soil still spattered across his shell and he’s slowly turning his head side-to-side, as if trying to make sense of his surroundings in his sleepy haze.

Then picture him raising his front foot to his mouth and yawning.

But that wasn’t the end.

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There is a little bit of the scorpion king in all of us.

—

As spoken and written by my pal Jon, immortalized on the disposable table cover at the Bier Markt in Toronto. And what quote would be complete without careful illustrations?

Jim Benton, a.k.a. creator of the hilariously blunt It’s Happy Bunny, recently pointed me to the latest piece he’d posted to Twitter.

There’s not much more to say other than the look on the father’s face in the last panel just made my day.

Oh, who am I kidding? The whole thing made my day.

It brings me back to a session he hosted at a recent KidScreen Summit in which he was creating stories and drawing on the spot based on audience suggestion — improv, if you will. Robot was the first suggestion, and he asked if it should be a boy or girl.

The robot ended up being both, split right down the middle: the female half sported a single high heel and carried a purse on one arm.

“Normally I’d ask for a conflict at this point,” Jim had said. “But I’d say in this case we already have one.”

What did he name the robot? Hermy, of course.

When you said ‘Warren Buffett,’ I thought you said, ‘warm butt-fucking.’

—

I won’t reveal who said this during lunch at the Whistler Film Festival, but I will give context, even though it could be just as fun and inappropriate to leave it be as I’ve done in the past. (Or the times I probably went into far too much detail.)

A person at my table commented that the chocolate cake for dessert was quite rich, to which someone else piped up, “Rich like Warren Buffett.”

The man on my left looked up for a moment, gave his head a slight shake and said, “…I totally thought you said something else and you really don’t want me to repeat what I thought it was.”

Of course when someone says that, you do want him to repeat it. So he did.  And I thought my hearing was bad…

When I encounter a restaurant that offers a completely unrealistic eating challenge, I can’t help but wonder what deluded masochist would be so ready, willing and able to tackle ungodly amounts of food.

Then along came my cousin Mark.

Mark, he of steak and Jell-O-filled plates. He whose sky-high piled meals cause  paper plates to literally bend under the weight of the food. With his boundless energy and active lifestyle, he manages to keep a trim figure — one look and you’d never guess he could eat his weight in food.

Last month, he came pretty damn close.

It was his sister Kris’s birthday and a bunch of us gathered at RealSports Bar and Grill, where we discovered The Hail Mary on the menu:



That’s right: 67 oz steak. One pound of fries. One pound of coleslaw. One hour.

It began as a joke. He even dared to utter the phrase, “I’ve always wanted to try that.” But as the jokes progressed, they soon become, well, not jokes at all.

Then he spoke the inevitable words: “I’m gonna do it.”

We weren’t sure if he was serious, but he shut his menu with such conviction that we knew he’d made up his mind.

“DON’T DO IT!!!” cried Kris, arms outstretched.

He wouldn’t listen. It would take an hour and a half for the steak to cook, meaning he had an hour and a half to mentally prepare himself. (And you can bet there are pictures…)

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This is my friend Mark, and there’s a very good reason we’re pelting him with rice (and no, it has nothing to do with getting married.)

He’s a survivor of testicular cancer. Last month, he was known as The Guy at Home in His Underwear, having spent 25 consecutive days confined to a loft wearing nothing but his gitch and streamed live à la Truman Show (except he actually knew there were cameras on him). All in the name of raising $50,000 for the Canadian Cancer Society.

On his last day, we gathered outside the loft — unbeknownst to him — to greet him back into the real world as he donned clothes for the first time in 25 days.

This is how it went.

More than 15 years (15! 1-5!) have gone by since I’ve gone on a road trip with my parents and brother, and I thought those days were long behind me. But this past weekend, we took a whirlwind weekend trip to Cleveland, OH, where my cousin Jenny became the second in the family to get married.

The trip was more than a little surreal when I realized that my brother and I spent most of the time in the front and behind the wheel while our parents took it easy in the backseat.

We spent much of the trip making Simpsons references, from imitating Homer’s scream when he tried to sneak fruits and veggies across the border — and then driving past Bort Road shortly thereafter (!!!) — to saying “Free shower curtain!” when we arrived at the hotel and wondering whether or not Free Willy would be on TV.

We’d burst into random spurts of laughter, making our parents laugh.

After the fact, Dad would say, “What are we laughing at?”

Mom replied, “I don’t know. They have their own inside jokes, we’re just laughing at them laughing.”

We stopped at a McDonald’s for a pee break — Mom always has to go…again, weird role reversal — and Dad bought a coffee. He was confused trying to figure out the newfangled coffee lid when my brother impatiently flipped up the flap.

Dad’s eyes lit up in fascination and he exclaimed, “Amazing!”

To which Andrew dryly responded, “What a time to be alive.”

More tales from Ohio to come, including strange pictures, bananas and polka dancing. Welcome (back) to my life.

I was 10 years old when I saw this animated short for the first time and fortunately, at that age, had no real concept of procrastination. I didn’t get it.

Of course, that was then and for years now, Richard Condie’s Getting Started (1979) has essentially been the story of my life—and likely yours, too.

If you’re Canadian and haven’t seen this timeless gem, for shame. And if you’re not Canadian and haven’t seen this video, do yourself a favour and watch it. Watch it, love it and don’t hold back your chuckles because you’ll understand every moment.

Getting Started should be prerequisite viewing for everyone who’s ever done everything to avoid the one thing that needs to be done. I can only assume that most of the general population falls into this category.

Don’t try any “I’ll watch it later” smartass irony and don’t let the 12-minute length set off your short attention span. I dare you not to smile when you reach the end.

He once told me that he spent an entire summer masturbating. It was also the year he took up photography.

—

The sun was strong and the shade was plentiful for a Canada Day picnic in High Park last week. It was during a conversation at this picnic that someone brought up a guy (who shall remain nameless) from our graduating year, and my friend Joe recounted this specific memory of him.

When such a memory is shared in this manner, it’s practically a crime not to put it anywhere. And so here it shall live.

Reclined unnaturally in the dentist’s chair, I strained my jaw to keep my mouth open widely, enduring the unsettling pokes and pricks around my top incisors.

As my dentist peered into my cavernous maw, he piped up conversationally, “So, how’s that magazine going? You still writing for it?”

Unable to form proper words without full control of my mouth, I gurgled something that I hoped sounded like a yes.

“You know,” he continued in that same casual tone, still prodding and pricking. “I’ve gotta hand it to you. I don’t know how you do it. I can’t imagine writing for a living.” He pulled away momentarily and I took advantage of the interruption to rest my stiffening jaw.

“What do you mean?”

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