Memories, all alone in the moon light... fla fla fluh fluh fluh flooo flah... I don't know the rest of the worrrds (arm stretched out really far)

So, I was doing some 'ol closet cleaning tonight at Chez Donnie, ("Move your stuff oouuuut, I want to use that room for an offiiiiice, everything I say is whineyyyy." Suck it, Donnie.) and I found some really awesome stuff. Get ready for a...

BLAST FROM THE PAST... PAST... PAST... PAST... PAST

"Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue,
I am good looking,
and so are you."

This here is my very first love letter from a Mr Derek "I have a mushroom cut and I'm a cool guy from 2 doors down that you think is cute and you look really cool cause I'm two years older than you and I like you" Whatever his last name was.

Derek had a mushroom cut. And he was a cool guy who lived two doors down from me. I thought he was cute, and it made me look really cool that he liked me, cause he was 2 years older. Is there a fucking echo in here?



  This is Ray. Ray has been on a crash diet as you can see, and he has decided that he is just too too too thin for his own good. His friend said earlier in the day that his head to body ratio was that of an orange on a toothpick. So Ray is going to walk down the stairs and use the door at the bottom to find some food.

See Ray walk down the stairs. But oops, he looks like he might be losing his balance. 'Darn those crash diets, they have caused my head to be too heavy like one of those somersault dolls, and now I'm losing my balance down the stairs!' thought Ray.

See Ray's abnormally large head plunging toward the bottom of the stairs. 'Trying to be thin to fit into today's "norm" could have potentially ruined my life! Why does society have to decide what I should look like? Curse you, society!' thought Ray.

See Ray's giant bean connect with the stairs. 'That hurt more than the one time I got bit by a rabid squirrel and had to have that long series of rabies vaccines! Or the time my sister pulled out my leg hair!' thought Ray.

See Ray's head bustin' up those stairs like they owe 6 books and a buck fifty to the public library. 'Oh no you di-int!' thought Ray's head. Ray's brain is currently unconscious.

See Ray's dad's complete lack of regard for Ray's unconscious brain, or the fact that Ray's concrete noggin be smackin' up some stairs like them's be sleazy bitches. "The stairs!" Ray's dad yells. But what we don't realize is that he is very fatigued, for he is ailed with the same self imagine problems as Ray, and has also been crash dieting. Had he been a bit more aware, he probably would have been concerned for his son's well being. But I don't know for sure. Ray is kind of a dick.

Ode to Papa

Papa M at my sister's semi formal birthday bash

Papa Martin was born in nineteen number number in Superman's Fortress of Solitude to proud parents Grandma Sweet Lady and Grandpa Pop his dentures out at children. Born Dunnie Dunn Maria Martin, 16lbs 4oz, 147cm long, Daddio was the youngest of 5 kids, with a 17 year age gap between him and the oldest. So, in true youngest child fashion, my dad was the epitome of a little shit. If being an annoying kid was an Olympic sport, my dad would have brought home the gold. What can I say, I learned from the best.

Annoying his 3 older sisters was a game to my dad. He would do anything and everything he could think of just to chap their asses.
"Don, come help with the dishes." "Okay, but I'm only going to dry ONE fork, and ONE plate."
To this date, if he's feeling like a little shit, he'll annoy the crap right out of you. "Dad, go back a channel. I want to see that." "Oh, you mean this one?" And he goes up a channel.
"Dad, my hands are full, can you please help me carry this?"
Completely straight faced he will reply "You're interrupting my chips."
It makes my blood pressure sky rocket.

As I said before, Papa M likes to have himself a few rye and diet gingers, smoke his metal pipes and listen to blaring music until 4 o'clock in the morning. On a Tuesday. He will say to me "I'm going down memory lane, and YOU'RE coming with me." I pretend like I hate it, but going down memory lane with my dad is pretty much my favourite activity. We'll listen to RUSH and he'll tell me about how he was 17 when he first saw them on some terrible Canadian variety show/battle of the bands. He would smoke mass amounts of ganj, put on the head phones, and listen to 2112 and be taken on a musical journey. I've heard all of these stories countless times, but I'll never get tired of listening to them.


I didn't get to know my dad until I was turning 9 years old. I had a strange affliction toward torturing cats. I always thought it was kind of strange of course, until I saw him interact with a cat. Another instance of learning from the best.
If you leave my dad with your cat, chances are pretty good that he will do at least one of the following things:

• play your cat like an accordion
• make your cat look like it's running really fast
• make your cat play air drums
• make your cat play air guitar
• wrap your cat in a blanket for 45 minutes
• wear your cat as a scarf

It is ingrained in my DNA that I do the same. I just can't help myself. Like when you see a kitten and it's so cute that you just want to stick it's whole head in your mouth. What, you don't do that? Ha ha... I mean... I don't do that either. That would just be weird. Right?

I believe my dad to be one of the funniest people I have ever or will ever come into contact with. I'm a big fan of the phrases "Say whaaaaat?" and "Oh snap!" so my dad the cool guy, hip to all of the trends, looked at me one day and yelled out "Saaaaay what, su-nap!" I lizzed my pants for a solid 15 minutes. (Lizzing is laughing and wizzing combined.)

Some of the funniest moments I've had in the company of Dunnie Dunn:

In the parking lot of Dairy West, driving 8km/hr, windows down, in front of 15 or so people.
"Hey Dad, can we go to Dairy Delite?"
"No, but we can go to DAIRY WEST! WOOOOHOOOOOO!" at the top of his lungs. Of course everyone was staring at him, thinking he's some sort of handi-capable, but he just acted like nothing happened and instead looked at them like they were the stupid ones.

I had a stain on my shirt and I said "Hey Dad, can you shout this out?" And he said "Sure. GET OUT!"

I saw the movie Powder with my dad, and he thought it was sheer genius that every time someone yelled "Powder!" in the movie, he would yell out "Toooaaassst Maaaaaan!"

"Chinese isn't a real language. They just talk like that in front of us. And then when we're not around, they speak English."

Hip to new music trends, he likes to sing; "If you wanna be my lover, you've gotta be my friender." or "I'm still Jenny from the block BEEP BEEP. Used to have a little, now I have a lot BOOP BOOP."

Likes: Cartoons, video games, breakfast foods, smokin' dope, pajamas, saying "High five!" like Borat, slappin' the bass, being in a band called 'The Bumpin' Uglies' (ew), eating 2 of the 4 sticks of a KitKat bar, buying presents at the As Seen on TV store (neon pendulum clocks, giant sneaker slippers, dolphin mobiles), making a face and pointing in photos to make it look like he's saying something interesting, naming his cat Mrs Bigglesworth, and pretending to be a french rapper.

"Hmm yes, I concur."

Dislikes: When I use too much ketchup "You did that on purpose didn't you. You're trying to eat allllll the ketchup." "Yes Dad, I'm trying to eat all of your no name ketchup. You figured out my master plan.", when I don't put the lid back on the toothpaste, bananas, ugly people, Corner Gas, when people say "supposibly" or "7am in the morning", and the girl's voice on the Brantford radio station. It drives him absolutely nuts, but he still insists on listening to it. "I wish that she would just shut the hell up."
I wish that he would just change the frigging station.

These are the Daves I know I know, these are the Daves I know

Dave's head was baked in a muffin tray.





It was this photo alone that inspired me to write this ugly kid blog. To all of the people who claim that "I don't have any bad childhood photos. I was just so cute." you can suck my ass. Give me a half an hour at your mom's house and I'm sure I could prove you wrong and rustle up some sort of boy in drag photo or vagina shot. We all have them, and the sooner you embrace the fact that, you too, were probably an ugly kid, the better off we'll all be. I'll have it known that if you weren't an ugly kid, you are no longer my friend.

Let's get down to business, shall we?

From one to ten on the weird kid crapping in her pants scale, this is a hard ten. Poor Dave mistook "Alright kid, smile." for "Alright kid, void your bowels." Common mistake, we can't blame her. Just the other day someone said to me "My favourite colour is rainbow." and I punched them in the shirt because I thought they said that I had a big adams apple.

I truly believe that in the spirit of the bowl cut, Dave's mom decided to try out the muffin tray. And I have one word for it. Success! I plan to rock this style for my wedding. Not that I plan to be married anytime soon. Nor do I even have any prospects, for that matter. Hey, a girl can dream. Y'ah don't rain on my parade. You'll ruin my floats.

I am awarding 10 bonus points to Dave Penis Head for her fantastic turtle neck bought from Northern Getaway. You truly are the poster child for ugly childhood photos. And for that, I thank you. Let's give it up for PhDave.

Dave Christmas Broach
...Or is that food?

See Dave's extra chromosome.

There are so many things wrong with this photo. Despite what I may look like, I am not actually mentally handicapped. In fact, some might call me a genius. It doesn't matter who, okay, people say that. Yes it still counts if it's my dad.

Aside from the lazy eyes and hair crusted to my face in what I'm sure is probably ketchup, I think Dave Christmas Broach is pretty cute in a put me out of my misery kind of way.

"Hey mom, check out how cute I look. Don't you think I look cute?"
"No, Dave."

Dave is hungry for a Baby Ruth.




Dave is about to eat your soul.

 No, this is not the kid from the Omen. Trust me, I checked.

I don't even know where to start. Everything about this picture is absolutely terrifying. If this was my child, I would probably take him "out for ice cream" and then leave him in the woods. What? I'd leave him with a pack of wieners and a book of crossword puzzles. I'm not a complete monster, people.

I'm going to give you the back story on Dave People Eater. He was tragically struck and killed by a truck. His father, overwhelmed with grief, decided to bury little Dave Monster Face in the near by pet cemetery. Even though Father Monster Face knew that his son would come back from the dead as an evil Monster Face, he still did it anyway. Way to be, Papa MF. Little Dave's hobbies include having glowing yellow eyes, hanging out with his bestfriend Black Kitty Monster Face, stabbing people with a scalpel and freaking me the fuck out.

Seriously, are his teeth filed into points? This shits gonna give me nightmares.

Dave Laser beam

Do you think someone was jingling keys to get his attention?

Let's first take a look at the sweater. Are those Easter eggs? Or are they mountains? Whatever it is, it's a party in the part of my brain that controls colour. You know, near the back, behind and below your temples. Okay, so I copied that part from a Harvard website. Who actually knows stuff like that? But all the same, it's a kegger filled with under aged girls in my bean. And the matching turtleneck, Dave Laser beam, takes the cake.

Moving on to the hair. Looks like someone didn't go forward in time to read my blog on why sticking tweezers in a power outlet is not good for your health, nor hair. Please note, a rat tail does exist back there. But unfortunately we are not lucky enough to witness that today. I wonder if it's braided? Or is it au naturel? I have so many questions.

And of course, my personal favourite, the laser beam background. I think every single kid born before 1995 has a school picture with the laser beam background. The bookcase was a popular choice as well. They sent this picture to his grandparents with the caption "Little Dave is now attending the school of Missions Impossible. Or in outer space." And they believed it. Seriously.

Dave Skeletor

This is my only exception to the ugly kid blog post. The exception being that this is in fact one of the cutest pictures I've ever seen.

So, I said to Dave Skeletor, "Is this your third birthday? There are 3 candles on your birthday pie." and she responded with "I don't know. We could have very well not been able to afford more than 3 candles on my sixth birthday."

Being raised as a poor child definitely causes you to grow up a more interesting, well rounded individual, who values the simple things in life.
"Holy apple slices, a two dollar bill!? I can buy a box of nerds and some stale Dubble Bubble from the laundromat. I wonder what kind of a pickle Pud has gotten himself into this time."

Chapter 8: Notes from Heaven

True to the youngest child syndrome, I was the biggest 'little shit' you could have ever imagined when I was growing up. Well I can't really say 'was' or 'when I was growing up'. Being a little shit and I have a serious commitment.

Past, present, and future.

Tape player Teddy Ruxpin and I (creepiest thing... in the history of creepy things?) would have early morning brainstorming sessions on how and how badly I could piss off my sisters. And when I say early morning brainstorming sessions; I mean early. Getting up at 5am was in the job description of being a little shit. Along with playing with things identical to my sister's (she would lose her shit thinking it was hers, but it really wasn't. HA-HA! Chels, you slay me.), torturing cats (not real torture, just playing them like an accordion, draping them over my shoulders, putting them in lunch pails, etc.), stashing cod liver oil pills behind the couch (I used to "take them" every day) and listening to Wilson Phillips on my cool yellow sports walk-man. That part didn't make me a little shit, the fact that I'd yell everything I said while listening to my cool walk-man, did. And I would do all of this at 5 am.

Needless to say, I used to get on my sisters' nerves. I wish I had a better word for what I did. I was the master.
My sisters are 5 and 7 years older than me. So when they were babysitting me and hanging out with their cool friends, I would be a little shit and try to cramp their style by doing the Bart Man and attempting to tell jokes. I ended up in my room a lot. Would I sit and chill out in my room like any other normal kid? Reflect upon how I had wronged them? Chya... Right. Operation Manipulation would go into full effect. If you know me, you'll know I'm a pretty crafty, artsy fartsy, sticker collecting, glue stick loving kind of gal. I'd bust out a piece of paper and a pen and pour all of my feelings onto it. And when I say feelings, I mean 'how can I get out of my room' feelings. It would look a little like this:

This of course, isn't the real art from the year 1992 but it is a very fair representation.

So I'd fold my heartfelt art work into a neat little paper air plane (I was better at making crumpled balls) and send it down the stairs. I'd practice my sad face, and wet my eyes with spit, as I eagerly awaited the beautiful sound of "Chelsey, you can come down now." That was music to my frigging ears. And believe me when I say this worked every single time. I could practically time it. What, you thought this was a one time deal? False. When I find something that works, I place it permanently in my repertoire.

From this day forward, I will no longer answer to Chelsey, Chels, Chel, Chelper, Chelbs, Chester, Chuck, Chunk, Chunky, Chelky, Chaylo, Chols, Cholo, Chols Marinara, Heavy C, Bill, Welby, Chels face, Chelsey Buns, Choltsy OR My little chocolate chip cookie (Dad!). You may now call me 'King Little Shit'. I believe I have rightfully earned that title. Or you could call me a genius. That's all up to you.

Chapter 7: Cheating is my niche

Nikki Chapin. I like the way you inhale the leap.


I used to cheat at pogs. Alright, I used to cheat at a lot of games. Okay! You caught me. I still cheat at most things. Board games, drinking games, pogs, tests, boyfriends, mini-putt, marbles, bakugans, society, death, etc. But I have the after cheat guilt, where I will most likely tell you that I've cheated, and let you partake in a cheat to ease my conscience. I am, in fact, a cheater cheater pumpkin eater. I literally eat pumpkin for every meal.

I had the longest pog tube that money could buy. (I think, I don't know, I was like seven. And it's a well known fact that seven year olds are stupid.) I'd walk around at recess thinking I was THE SHIT. Don't mess with me and mah mad pog skills! And when I say mad pog skills, of course I mean mad cheating skills. I'd play for no less than 6 pogs at a time. For keepsies. I would set half of them upside down when you weren't looking, so when I smacked them with my slammer, they would just fall over. Would you look at that, I won 4 out of your 6 pogs. Oh snap. I was "Pog Ballin'" if you will, until that fateful day when I was hanging up my coat in the cubby area, when my tube of pogs slipped through my fingers. I think you can guess what happened next. Someone yelled "SCRAMBLE!"
I knew that was karma right there. Note to self; you shouldn't have eaten that popcorn during recess in the tube by yourself. Another note to self; get more friends. One more note to self; maybe you'd have more friends if you stopped wearing turtlenecks.

If you ever find yourself playing Monopoly with me, and I insist on being the banker; just know that I plan to cheat. Remember when you go to the bathroom, you'll probably come back with 4 properties missing. I will most likely try to sell them back to you. If you are the banker and you leave the tray on the floor, I have every intention of walking by and trying to pick up money with my feet. I'll buy you a hotel and lull you into a false sense of security. And then BAM. 6 hours later, I'll win that game of Monopoly. You won't even know what hit you. Until the inevitable happens, me confessing my endless amount of cheats. I will say you win by default.

I also lie. About very insignificant things. Sometimes I lie to be agreeable. "Yeah, this song blows chunks. Wait, this is one of my favourite songs." or "I hate butter tarts." an hour later, "I don't know why I said I hate butter tarts. I actually really like butter tarts."
When I was little, I'd make up stories to my mom to make myself sound interesting. "This kid Joey in my class, died today. He died right in class." She never led on that she didn't believe me.
"My dad's cousin is former Prime Minister Paul Martin. No I'm not lying. Seriously, who would lie about something like that?"

Trust that I am being extremely honest right now. All of the things I have written thus far, have been in complete and utter honesty. Do I mind outing my bad habits? No way! You'll still like me, right? I believe on the grand scheme of bad habits, mine aren't THAT bad. It's not like I'm dealing meth to children, or killing people. And 9 out of the 10 times I tell a lie, I'll admit it eventually.

So everyone, rest assured that at some point in our relationship, I have probably told you at least a dozen pointless lies.
"My dad has heat vision."