So its been 16 months since this DRAGONE reared its ugly head onto your screen.  But 16 months in my writer’s world means nothing to me.  Being a fictional character means that 16 months pass like 16 minutes.  Why, I haven’t even aged a bit.  My writer, on the other hand, OY!

Since I exist only on the piece of paper you are reading …. oh wait, that was last century for you guys! … I mean only on the computer screen that you are reading … oh wait, that was last decade for you guys! … I mean only on the smartphone screen that you are reading …. um where did I want to go with this?  Speaking of smartphones, my phone is so smart that I can use it to talk to people in real time.  Can yours do that?

So while I waited patiently, as patiently as a timeless essence like myself knows how to wait, my writer decided to begin writing a real blog.   About his real life.  So apparently he has this ADD and it makes him all fucked up and shit.  But he really likes it.  Even though his marriage is going down the crapper.  Wow, I’m so glad I’m not a real person.

So the reason for this blog post is just to say “HI!  I’M STILL ALIVE!”  I haven’t forgotten about you!  Have you forgotten about me?  Please say you haven’t!  Even if it’s a lie!  Even if you haven’t read my older posts!  Even if you haven’t read this post!  Just tell me that you love me!  I get off on that.

But seriously, where has the time gone?

And now, I shall dissolve back into the infinite ether …


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Happy Anniversary

Happy Anniversary my dear blog.  As of January 1st its been one year.  An easy date to remember.  Good for me, since I am not known to have a very diligent memory.

I spent the first 6 months of 2016 churning out content viewed by a few of you.  Many posts drew houls of laughter from myself.  As I tell my virtually entirely international classes of high school students, the jokes I tell in class are mostly for myself.  If anyone else benefits then all the better.  One local student told me recently, in a gentle tone assuming that I did not realize, that “they” don’t get my jokes.  “I know”, I told her.  The jokes are just for you and me.  Two smiles and 19 blank faces.

astronaut-in-space-4k-imageI spent the second 6 months of 2016 preoccupied with applying to be a Canadian astronaut and as a result did not blog hardly at all.  I made it past the first few rounds and was mentally gearing up for the physical tests that would come next, but it was not to be.  Not that I thought I would actually make it as one of 2 astronauts hired from 4000 applicants.  But I did hope, actually expect, to be among the last hundred or so going through rigorous testing and competitions as I imagine happens on the reality TV show Survivor, even though I never watched any episodes.  I would have been good.  A wily old coyote with surprising physical stamina and an overachiever under pressure.  But maybe only in my dreams.

Happy Anniversary my dear blog, and Happy 2017.  The truth is out there.


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Walking in High Heels

I think I know what it feels like to walk in high heels.  You see, several times a day I need to walk outside of my front door.  To the car, to the garbage bins, to whatever.  But since I’m too damned lazy to bend over and put my running shoes on properly, my heel has no chance of making it inside the shoe.  And since I don’t want to ruin my running shoes by continuously stepping on the back and folding it over, I simply touch it delicately with my heel as I tip toe to the car to retrieve my phone.  Or to the garbage bin to throw out some putrid smelling compost filled with raw meat and soiled diapers.  Or out to the street to get a proper view of the storm clouds rolling in.  I can’t just sit at home all day and rely on the weather radar.  I want to see it with my own eyes.flip-flops

I suppose I could invest in some nice comfortable flip flops.


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Yay Blippi!

blippiI haven’t a clue how popular or obscure Blippi is out there beyond the walls of this house.  Not a clue.

Over here his videos are the go-to toddler intoxicant to smooth over the early morning madness of necessary bathroom time, finding clean underwear, steamrolling wrinkles out of my shirt with friction heat, preparing some sort of “lunch”, and checking the clock every time it’s within sight.  Yay Blippi!

My armpits still stink and I realize that I forgot to use soap.  Not a problem.  I’ll shower again.  Yay Blippi!

My stomach’s about to explode from last night’s chip and dip.  Better go do it fast, but no worries about my toddler climbing the table and swinging from the Christmas tree.  Yay Blippi!

Who the hell is texting me at 6:30 am?  Oh wait, that’s not a text, it’s my phone buzzing to remind me to check the sports scores.  And the highlight videos.  I don’t have time, but I make time.  Yay Blippi!

My toddler doesn’t like change.  As in, change out of his PJs, out of his diaper, sneak on his clothes, his shoes, even his coat.  All while he is mesmerized by the man called Blippi.  Yay Blippi!

Now, how to turn off Blippi and make the dash for life to the car?  I know – promise my toddler a donut with sprinkles on the way to daycare.  Yes, that does contribute to my running for the sarcastic “Father of the Year” award, but you gotta do what you gotta do.  It’s a jungle gym out there.




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Now Isn’t This Sweet?

All I was doing was using Google to look up “doughnuts” vs. “donuts”.  Is it a Canadian vs. American spelling thing?  I am a plain sort of guy so I like to use the term donut.  Just like I use the term “check” instead of “cheque”.

And now, after looking up check vs. cheque, I see that this is a Canadian vs. American thing.  Well actually a British vs. American thing, but Canadians are just British-lite.

Anyhow …

sprinkledoughnutAs I was innocently looking up the two different spellings of the word donut, so that I can tell you all about how I am beaten down every morning by my 2-year-old to buy him a donut with sprinkles as the only way to get him out of the house so that I’m not late for work …. AGAIN.  As I was looking up this cute and innocent bit of information the very first thing that Google gave me was this:


That’s right.  A little establishment in downtown Toronto called “Glory Hole Doughnuts”.  Their motto:  “What Creams Are Made Of”.

This is a real donut, I mean doughnut, shop.  Selling real donuts.  Doughnuts.  Whatever.  Surely there’s a way to incorporate “nuts” into all of this, but I’m not even going to try.


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Apparently I Was Out In Public With a Froggy Umbrella

frog umberellaDoes this look like an umbrella suitable for a grown man?  I ask you readers, in all honesty, what kind of a woman would attempt to humiliate her husband with such cruelty?

This morning I had to take Baby DRAGONE to daycare on the streetcar.  In the rain.  You see, I happen to be at a time where I am in between cars.  Some people are “in between jobs”, I am “in between cars”.  My trusty reliable Corolla got smashed up real good, as was noted a couple of blogs ago.  Thankfully, yours truly DRAGONE escaped without a scratch with only one scratch courtesy of a super powerful air bag and my ninja blocking skills.  Looks like all those years riding bumper cars paid off!

So today I ventured into the outside world beyond the confines of my house or car.  Ahhhhhhhhh Nature!  But what made this particularly challenging was that I was transporting Baby DRAGONE, in the rain, with an essential stop at Tim Horton’s, trying to figure out if the streetcar accepts Presto cards, and hoping preying that we can make this trip while “in between potties”.

I had my nondescript black umbrella tested and ready to go, but Mrs. DRAGONE insisted that I take the green umbrella.  “He really likes it” apparently.  Well little did I know that I would be coming back home, by myself, shielding my sensitive skin with a green froggy umbrella.  All by myself, with no baby in sight.  Just a grown man.  And a green froggy umbrella with giant bulging eyes.

A woman laughed at me while we were waiting for the streetcar.  “Awesome umbrella”, she giggled.  I ask you readers, do I look like a man fit to be mocked like a cartoon character?

Upon arriving back home I found my front door wide open.  This was a tricky little adventure, with lots of little things to plan.  My ADD does not do well in these situations.  How was I also supposed to remember to close the door on the way out?

Well, as my little one would say – WE DID IT!


p.s. don’t you find that cute writing style of crossing out words to show fake your thought process in a humorous way annoying?  I do.  I thought I would experiment with it but in my opinion, experiment failed.

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Is It a Horse Or a Giraffe?

giraffesThe animal in question, seen here on your right, is clearly a horse.  A spotted horse, but clearly a horse.  I present to you, on your left, an actual giraffe so that you can have a proper comparison .

You see, Baby DRAGONE loves horses.  So being the thoughtful parent that I am I stopped by our local Toys R Us to look for a horse.  And that is exactly what I found.  A cute spotted little horse.  Ask Baby DRAGONE, he knows it’s a horse.  Or rather, a “Nnnnaaaaaay”.  Or is that “Nnnneeeigh” ?  Who in their right minds pronounces the combination “eigh” as “ay”?  I’d hate to be an ESL student in this country.  Anyhow …

My point is that babies do not tell you what you want to hear.  They tell you exactly what they are thinking, or rather feeling.  So when my baby looks at said creature in question and says “Nnnnnaaaay” with a huge smile on his face, then clearly it is a horse.  Babies do not politicize, see for them all lives don’t matter, only their life matters.  Which is probably true for many adults too.  Anyhow …

Clearly what we have in this picture is one very tall giraffe, with a very long neck, as that is what giraffes are known for.  And one short little horse.  With spots.

I mean, who in their right mind makes a horse with spots?  Has anyone ever seen a horse with spots?  What kind of drugs was this mass produced stuffed animal maker on?  Anyhow ….

A horse is a horse is a horse.  Not a giraffe.  Got it people?

All animals are not made the same.  Some have long necks.  Some go “Nnnnnaaaaay”.  The spots are superficial.

I rest my case.


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Shit Happened

Hey, shit happens.  Everyone knows that,  even my toddler.  But this week, shit actually happened.  To me.  Shit.

car from accidentSo picture this.  It’s the last day of June.  School’s out!  DRAGONE is looking at 2 solid months of blogging, working out, taking naps during the day, and eating pizza and chips whenever the fuck he wants.  (No staying up late and sleeping in though, there’s still baby DRAGONE who’s schedule has not changed).  Ah, but isn’t summer a wonderful time.

And then CRASH BANG BOOM!  It looks like I was in too much of a hurry to get home on that last day of school.  My car didn’t survive the accident, but somehow I did.  I can’t say I made it out without a scratch. bruise from car accident Pictured here is the scratch I got from the airbag.  I blocked it well, my sensei would have been proud.

Unfortunately, my 2 months of loafing around has now been taken over by phone calls to the insurance company and hunting for a new car.  We appear to have settled on the Nissan Leaf, an electric car.  Why buy an electric car you ask?  Why not.

Actually, the real reason is because I hate shopping.  Since this is the only electric car that is available in auto dealerships in my area, choosing an electric car means we have finished with our decision making.

Except for choosing the colour.  I vote blue.  Every car I have ever owned has been black.  Most clothes I own are black.  When you buy things one at a time, black looks cool.  When you put all the things you own in one room, all together, and everything is black, it no longer looks cool. blue leaf It looks like you’re trying to make a statement.  So I want my next car to be bright blue.  (Mrs. DRAGONE will probably vote grey, and she will probably win).

Our house is probably not equipped to deal with charging an electric car.  Shit.  I don’t like dealing with shit.  All I want to do is watch the Blue Jays play every day, because that’s how often baseball is played.  Every day.  Because baseball is not a real sport.  But I don’t care because I’m addicted to it now.


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How **NOT** To Pick Up Women At the Gym

Borat 2As you all may have guessed by now, I have always fancied myself a rather accomplished amateur bodybuilder.  I was really into it for a while.  And let me tell you, the strict regimen is grueling to say the least.  Every day taking copious amounts of vitamins such as stanozolol, anadrol, testosterone, and so on.  Keeping track of doses.  Oh my gosh I’m getting anxious just thinking about those days now.  And then, after doing this for the better part of a year, another bodybuilder told me that I needed to supplement my vitamins with weight training.  Well that was just too much for me, so I quit.  Cold turkey.

However, I still joined a gym.  Not to weight train per se, but as a means of improving my social life.  I was growing tired of the same old comic book store scene.  I was running into the same women no matter which comic book store I went into.  So I thought maybe I could pick up women at the gym.  At first this seemed like a long shot to me, but boy was I ever wrong.  And as a service to you, my readers, DRAGONE will now reveal his most guarded secrets in picking up women at the gym.

How To Pick Up Women at the Gym

  1. As with any activity at the gym you must begin with a warm-up. Begin by staring at the woman of your choice.  But do not stare directly at her as I found this not to work so well.  The gym has mirrors.  Use them to your advantage.  However, even if you stare at a woman through one mirror, I have found that they are onto the basic geometry involved.  You must use a combination of at least 2 mirrors.  That way the direction of your stare will be sufficiently masked.  The image of your woman in the mirror will now be tiny, so you should bring a pair of small binoculars with you. You might also want to slap on an Elmer Fudd hat to put you in the proper frame of mind.
  1. If you happen to be well-endowed then, by all means, show off what you’ve got. Wear tight spandex shorts without underwear to the gym every day.  Pick a woman who is working out in a reclining position, such as the bench press, and offer to spot her.  From her position she will have no choice but to see for herself the magnitude of your masculinity.  You are sure to get lucky if you do this.
  1. You the man.  You Tarzan, she Jane.
  1. Women love a man’s sweat. It has something to do with pheromones.  So do not shower before going to the gym and wear a tank top or muscle shirt, thus exposing your underarms.   This will  allow the pheromones to follow you around like the imported flies on Sally Struthers doing a commercial for ChildFund International.
  1. Do work up a good sweat until your muscles shine like a greased up turkey. If your body does not like to sweat, supplement with Mazola Vegetable Oil (sorry about the commercial plug).  If you run into a woman who you’ve already met before, don’t be afraid to touch her with your slicked up skin.  Maybe even a hello hug.  Let her know that you’re not one of those social gym rats — you take your work outs seriously.
  1. If you’re on the treadmill program it to the lowest possible setting. Hang out there for a while, then when a pretty woman walks by ramp it up to full tilt.  She will be floored by the great shape that she thinks you’re in, and you will be training on a random hill setting without having to program it into the machine.
  1. If a woman is wearing loose fitted clothing there is only one possible reason for this.  She is ashamed of her body.  Be sensitive.  Let her know that you sympathize with her condition, and don’t be afraid to offer her some helpful advice on dieting or work out tips.  She will appreciate your honesty and helpfulness.  Maybe you can even suggest going out on a date, perhaps some “Netflix and chill”.  When doing this I find that the added touch of speaking with a Russian accent warms her up to you even more.


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Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

heart-brokenRejection.  What an ugly word.  We’ve all been there.  We’ve all had to go through the pain.  The trauma.  The tears.

Yes, I am talking about the hurt that goes with having to reject someone.  Being rejected is easy in comparison.  Heck, most of the time it’s a relief.  But the trauma of having to break someone’s heart is gut wrenching.

I think that women suffer more than men with this.  How do you break it to the unsuspecting guy?

Well, to help you out a little, DRAGONE here has compiled a few tidbits of advice.  Actually, not really advice, more like anecdotal and fragmented memories from years gone by of women breaking up with me.  That is, if you consider rejection after a first date “breaking up”.  I certainly did.

If you’re looking for some semblance of guidance in this list, or some how-to-do-this-messy-shit instruction manual, then you’re out of luck.  What you will find here instead are some personal examples, along with my post-mortem thoughts on the matter.  It is my hope that this will help somebody.  Somewhere.  Sometime.

  1. Her break-up line: “I’m really flattered that you find me so attractive, but if only you could value something other than my physical appearance. That’s really important to me.”  My thoughts: Ok, so what I believe is missing here is an understanding of the basic nature of men.  Men are visual creatures.  I tried to be honest with her when explaining this.
  2. Her break-up line: “You’re a really nice guy.  But I prefer a man who is taller than me.  And who has hair.  On his head.”  My thoughts:  See now this I understand.  It took me a month of sobbing uncontrollably and dousing my head with ancient Chinese ointments that I ordered online before I could eat solid food again.  But fair is fair.
  3. Her break-up line: “So, what’s your five year plan?”  My thoughts:  In retrospect, perhaps this was not intended to be a break-up line.  We were on a first date, and she was just thinking of questions to ask me.  I met her question with 45 seconds of awkward silence before slowly standing out of my seat, pretending to stretch, and then bolting out of there as fast as I could.
  4. Her break-up line: So, what did you say you do for a living?” My thoughts:  See item # 3 above.
  5. Her break-up line:You don’t look anything like the picture you sent me.”  My thoughts:  I’m not sure if I could technically call this a break-up, since this one sentence was the only face to face interaction that we had.  We did exchange some rather provocative emails, however.
  6. Her break-up line: “Sex with you has been really nice.  But I think you would be a better fit with someone more petite.”  My thoughts:  I don’t understand what she was trying to say here.  She was by no means overweight, so I don’t know why she was so hard on herself.
  7. Her break-up line: “That is the weirdest fucked up shit I have ever encountered in my entire life.”  My thoughts:  Obviously, this so-called worldly woman does not get around much.
  8. Her break-up line: “Please don’t talk like that.  Your imitations are really not that good.”  My thoughts:  Well excuse me for trying to be funny.  My bad.

Good luck to all of you out there.  It’s a tough world we live in.


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