My first shift log of November…so much fun…okay not really…but I have a weakened sense of all things fun…sleep would probably correct that…and more time would probably allow for more sleep…and less stuff to do would probably free up more time…maybe not doing practicum will lead to less stuff to do…not having 800 bucks worth of equipment taken by RCC staff would keep me a little more balanced…maybe having given up drinking will throw me a little too far off balance…maybe if the fire alarm goes off again today I will snap and wipe the tenth floor right out of the middle of the building…Pitman will be a 13-story building when I get through with it…but that would probably cost me my job…and probably lead to jail time…and then I won’t graduate…and then I won’t get a good job…and then I’ll be broke…and then I’ll have to move in with my parents…and then I will never see any of you again…and then I will be a 40-year-old talentless hack of a radio announcer living on my parents’ futon…and then…well let’s just say…maybe the Halloween costume was not as much of a stretch as I thought! Shift log musings…they are kinda fun!

I have come to the realization so far throughout the course of my shift that I work with some very horrible and evil people. I am nice enough to not mention any names, but if I felt mean and decided to mention names, they would be the names of my all-too-familiar co-hosts, Ben and Thea. I swear, it wasn’t my fault that the chair broke, okay! Thank you! And STOP SHOUTING “DOOR” WHEN PEOPLE NEED TO GET IN! BELIEVE IT OR NOT, I CAN SEE THEM! That is all. Thank you, and GO AWAY!

I lived as I died, completely and totally fried to a crisp. A veteran of the radio, my face was unknown to my few listeners, and so the open casket was a bit of a shock to the people who had never met me in person.

Born in the corrupt political city of Ottawa, I was doomed from the start. Being legally blind from birth never stopped me or condemned me until the day when I grabbed a Maple Leaf’s jersey and signed my life away. I continued my faithful journey through life as a humble child, surrounded by crazy people called my family. I also began to drink from an early on time, which is why much of my past is a fuzzy blur to me. That is also why aside from an astounding defeat over a snooty arts high school which shall not be name…cough…Canterbury… cough…I unfortunately can’t remember much. It was also in high school that I started my lifelong legacy of the Chicken Show. I learned the tricks of the trade, such as operating a board while drunk, and censoring a show.

In university, I began to foster a burgeoning drinking career. No bar bet was too much or too stupid. I had the world of the drink in my hands. Soon I was able to keep on the legend that has become the Chicken Show. I started by adding on a new addition to the show: my faithful co-host, Deep Fried Danny, who for some reason decided to keep me in constant inebriation, and now I whistle while I walk. Around the same time, I added in “I Like Pie” Bryan Perkins, the real brain of the operation, which really speaks to my own level of…oh, who the fuck am I kidding…what intellect? Then, added just last year, was All White Meat Chicken Nuggets, and oh what nuggets indeed, Nicole Wolfe. My show was wonderfully stupid, but came to an end as all but myself left the show at the end of last year when they graduated. The wife and I just got on a bad footing after Fruit Explosion night, and Bryan decided to stay in Pennsylvania this year.

Last year I was also lucky enough to be upgraded from desk tumour to desk staff, fulfilling a lifelong dream to hold the butt scratcher in my hands yet again. It was also at the desk that I met the love of my life, the beautiful black goddess Patricia. I fell in love with hr at first sight, and she with I, although she often resisted my subtle approaches. But alas she is no longer with us at the desk, she has gone onto greener pastures, oh Patricia, mine Irish eyes are calling to your fertile fields. But alas once my I digest.

Lastly, before I close with a simple poem to my own graces, I must say one thing, Patricia, Eric, spinny chair, waterbed, butt scratcher! Oh how I enjoyed the events of my life, Anna, Hannah, or whatever the fuck your name is, my money shall always be yours, and to my dearest Bryan, although I have moved on and met a new wife, Matt, I shall always cherish our trip out into Fruit Explosion night.

Oh yes, and Rock Band has played a large role in my life, and my lack of certain things.

Now an ode to me:

C is for the crap I said repeatedly on the radio.

H is for my half-brained ideas.

I is for my idiotic bets that typically lost me money in the $50 region.

C is for the chairs I snapped when sitting down.

K is for kissing Tara’s ass, and no, I don’t have a thing for Tara.

E is for the e-mails that weren’t replied to.

N is for nuts, as in fresh nuts found at the fruit market.

The space between the two words is for the space between my ears.

M is for the mystery caller, and the fact that I will never, ever let her go.

A is for the absence of thought in my decisions.

N is for the subtle nuances that I missed while talking to women.