Balls of Rice

Author: Nic Olson

  • Forty-Hour Nic

    ‘I’ve got a plan, that involves quitting my job and leaving town. I’ve got some plans now.’ -the emerson letters
    That’s my plan. I’ve been working nearly five months now. Five months of eight hour days and, forty hour weeks. Just like the rest of the world. And I hate it. The third best part of my day is coffee break, the second best part is lunch time, and the best part is home time. I’m just really hoping that someday work won’t be this way. I’ll be doing something better than cleaning up after those who are building a parkade owned by the Queen. 
    Working lots of different awful jobs really gets you thinking as to what you really want to be doing. I’m sure that the septic tank man daily think, ‘why am I doing this? am I making a difference? is a crap free world really worth it?’ No, it isn’t worth it. 
    At the worksite I’m at, the washroom facility gets cleaned out so rarely, that it literally piles up so bad that you can’t sit down on the toilet… I guess the septic tank man is making a difference on those days…
    I’m also sick of people. You could definitely put on my resume that I’m a bonafide non-people person. I work best alone. I never say anything, I always work until my back is sore, and still no one likes me. Good thing I don’t care. How is that for a great attitude. I am allowed to have a bad attitude now, I don’t live at home. I am also allowed to walk around in my lucky reds, poo with the door open, swear aloud, and eat doritos for supper.
    If I died today, I’d be a bit upset. I’ve wasted the past five months working. I always live looking forward to something. A roadtrip weekend. A soccer game. A rock and roll concert. Right now all I’m looking forward to is leaving the country and maybe not coming back. And that is much too far away. I need something  sooner. Or I will die in vain.

  • I sold out harder than NKOTB

    As It Happens own Mary-Lou Finley or Barbara Budd, I don’t remember which one ’cause one of them died or something, told me this first. Then Jimmy texted me. New Kids on the Block reunion. Cue all girls aged 24-old to start singing Quit Playing Games With My Heart, I Want It That Way or the Oreo Song. I don’t know anything about this band except that when people listen to them, it isn’t a good time for me, and when people don’t listen to them, my ears are happier. But I personally know a good twenty girls that will go buy their new CD and dance awkwardly in their cars to the produced-to-death songs.

    Step One: Have some fun!
    But who am I to make fun of these old balls ’80s artists? (it should be OBOTB. Figure it out yourself.) I sold out too. I got a cell phone. Well, not really, it is still Kris’, but I use it to text people… I always knew I’d get a cell phone, but I held off as long as I could. What with the brain cancer, hollow friendships and hollywood-itis that they bring, what is the point. I now live out of the house, with no home phone. I am a loser enough as it is, if I don’t have a phone for people to contact me with, then I’d never leave the house, and eventually my bedroom. But the way Regina is going these days, I won’t have to leave my bedroom, because all my friends live in there. My OC collection, some cookies, and my action figures.
    Step Two: Me and You…?
    Predictions for the future as follows. Nic sells his soul to Rogers for a new Razr4, gets a Facebook account, signs with Victory Records, promotes WalMart and gets a girlfriend..
    Step Three: We can climb a tree.

  • I’m hungry all the time…

    .. but it was about time to lose some weight, so it is all for the best. Someone told me that my face is getting round. 

    Living alone, I’ve had to make some changes in my day to day life. I eat about half as much as I once did, and for supper, all I have is rice. This, however, is about the best thing ever. My surroundings are similar to those when I was thrust into in India. It smells like things you don’t want to smell, it is dirty with garbage all over the place, rice everyday, and last but not least, I am learning Hindi.
    Very few people actually know what Hindi is. They hear Hindi, they think Hindu, and they start thinking about that one religion, and likely they don’t even know anything about that either.  Hindi is a language. The first or second language most people speak in India. This means almost one billion people know this language… So I figured it wouldn’t hurt if I learned how to say, ‘I want to buy some cigarettes, do you have any money?’ or to say, ‘Maybe half a bottle. I don’t remember exactly.’ (those are straight outta the book.)
    Unlike India, the house is considerably quiet. Sharon isn’t around to proclaim wedding plans. Melissa isn’t watching Reba. There is no sizzle in the kitchen from fresh cooked Laura supper. If Wilf lived here,  it would still be as quiet as it is now. That’s why I like him. Along with his incredible skill in all things.
    I rarely leave the house, so next you see me, I’ll be fluent in two languages, and will smell like the backside of a decaying goat. Come visit my house. I’ll cook some rice.

  • Independent Woman

    The last two post titles have had to do with me being a woman.  

    I moved out. I live with Kris now, in Regina. I figured it was time for a change. I have had an off few weeks for whatever reason, and I’m hoping this jump starts me to something better. Whatever it may be.  
    Still working. Still saving money. I have less friends now. They all moved away, work out of town, are busy and/or don’t like me anymore. I’m going to start reading a lot more I guess.  
    NFL: Colts, Cowboys and the Packers? What is next? We can only hope New England. I love Strahan. Eli is alright too.  
    Send single female Russian tennis players over to my house. We can talk, Love-Love.

  • Always a Bridesman…

    …never a bride. But I guess I could be, we are in Saskatchewan. Thank you Liberal government. Check THIS out… I love them both. But I love PeeWee Herman even better.  Good morning Mr. Crabtree.

    The bubonic plague has hit me hard. I even had to ditch work early today, and I never do that. If you have the cure for it, just send me a prescription form, because I’m covered by work now.
    Ugh.

  • Photoblog. I only took two of the pictures, and only one of them today, but get over it.

    I started off today tobogganing. No, I didn’t wake up going down the hill on a toboggan, but pretty much it was the first thing I did today. Autumn, Andrew. Bloody nose, twisted ankle, respectively. This equals a good time. Coolest pre-teenaged kids I’ve ever met.

    Shortly after tobogganing was the holiday magic of the World Juniors. Not sure if anyone knows this, but back in 2005, me and some bros drove down to Grand Forks for the Gold Medal game vs. Russia. We had Crosby, Getzlaf, Bergeron, Richards, Phaneuf, among many others, they had Ovechkin and Malkin. We won 6-1. Big news. Get jealous. Anyways, this year, searching for the forth gold in a row since the year I went, they didn’t disappoint. Lots of good people over to enjoy the HD together. Another beauty, what can you say. Sorry to Wilf and the Swedes.

    Then after a double patty Iceberg hamburger (sorry, I have no pictures, but I can assure you, the burger is as big as your face, maybe even your face attached to another face.) I watched a whole lot of Friday Night Lights, the television show. Here’s an article to convince you why to watch it. 

    Today was the last day I got to hang out with Lucas before he goes down to Texas, where Friday Night Lights is based, and marries some hunky quarterback. Or maybe a cheerleader, who knows. I’m losing friends by the gallon.
    And now I’m going to sleep. Even after the great day I had, this might be the best part. To bed.

  • High Fiver

    I did communion today at church. Afterwards, highfives where shared throughout the entire congregation. No lies.

    Today is December 30th. 

    In about 37.5 hours we will all be with friends ringing in the New Year. Celebrating the end of another year, and anticipating the start of a new one. Remembering all the best things you did in 2007, you might have loud noisemakers and a give a booming cheer, throw some high fives, do the fist pump, hug some people, eat with friends, with lots of smiles in between. A celebration. A party. A git-down.
    About a month ago was the biggest party in Saskatchewan in the past twenty years. People were up and down the streets, some of them unclothed. A large group gathered at Vic and Albert, cheering, singing, hugging, dancing, but most importantly, high-fiving. Thousands and thousands of people ran into groups of strangers, threw a few high fives, and kept going. Hands were cold, frostbitten with broken blood vessels. A celebration for the ages, enhanced with the best high fives ever.
    Throughout the decades, man has celebrated in many different ways. The ’50s brought us the handshake. The ’70s, the hug. The ’80s and ’90s, the high fiver. The ’00s brought us the fist pound, but the high fiver is on it’s way up again. It could be called classic and timeless member of the celebration family.
    Lots of people think that our weekly communion is the most important part of the church service, and that if we miss it we are missing the most important part of the week and we will be troubled throughout the upcoming next week. Communion has never made much sense to me. When I was a kid and watched the ’emblems’ pass around while I sat unnourished and parched, and watched the old people nibble the cracker, take a shot of fake wine and bow their heads for a moment of silence, usually to remember the death of Jesus, I just didn’t get it. I still don’t get it.  We take what most people feel is the most important part of their week, to take a few depressing moments alone, eyes closed, take some emblems to remind us of the death of Jesus. The Death of Jesus… why that part?
    The bible says that if Christ had not risen from the dead, then our preaching is useless, and our faith is futile.  If this is the case, then we need to look at communion in a new way. Sure the death of Jesus is something we need to remember, it shows his incredible passion and love for us. But if we stop there, then we are basically denouncing our own faith. We have to remember the resurrection, or else the rest is for naught. If we remember that Jesus rose from the dead, then there is no reason to sit in depressing quiet solitude. It gives us reason to celebrate. Party. Like it is November ’07 again. We should high five friends, bring noisemakers to rattle, give a booming cheer, hug complete strangers, pump the fist, and maybe throwdown a little dance. If we remember what was intended to remember, God’s incredible passion and love for us, shown to us through his incredible power of the resurrection, then we will have no choice but to throw the giant highfiver. Because nothing beats a good high five. 

  • A Very Zombie Christmas

    The past few weeks I have really grown to love and appreciate zombie movies. For real, they get me every single time, plot or no plot. Hot girl or no hot girl. All there has to be is a very persistent species that eats people and/or is undead/infected and goes after unsuspecting regulars such as ourselves. If zombies came to rule the earth, I’d know exactly what to do, thanks to Josh Hartnett, Will Smith and a bunch of other fearless zombie killers. 

    In this spirit of zombies is Christmas. I bet zombies love Christmas. Severed legs gift wrapped neatly, roadkill dog packaged up with care. Christmas zombie socks are a staple as well. If I were a zombie, I’d be a wiseman zombie.
    It’s been a good weekend of hanging out, soccer games, boot hockey, planning for the best all time trip of all time and eating lots. (I didn’t make the 200 pound thing. After a night of eating a half of a ham and a hot pepper and some milk, with the milk coming back out after a few short minutes in my stomach, I decided to throw in the towel. The milk was still cold when it came back out, think about that.) 
    The Christmas season gets me all sentimental and fruity. People are home, love is shared, zombies are too cold to leave their zombie houses; it is a good time of year. One of the best.
    Man, I’d love to be a zombie.

  • The Biggest Winner

    Last weekend while following Means around Canada with Lucas and Eric, we hit a few gas stations on the way. Gas ranged from 104.2 to 106.9, in case you were wondering.  We drove through Moosmin a few times, on the way to and from Loser-peg, and stopped at the Esso that everyone always stops at because of it’s convenient position near Dairy Queen and the welcoming smiles of their employees.  We entered, relieved ourselves, bought some salty goods, and weighed ourselves on the weigh scale near the counter. I turned out to be about twenty pounds heaver than both of them, and about ten pounds shy of 200.  Later on in the weekend, I told them that it was my goal to hit 200 someday in my life, when Eric said I could do it in a week. Lucas didn’t believe in me, and The Biggest Winner was born. I have to gain about ten pounds by this weekend, and if I do, I win something that I don’t even remember. If I lose, I go down in the history books as the biggest pussy ever under 200 pounds.

    Gravy and chocolate bar sandwiches, butter on my Salt ‘n’ Vinegar chips, Crisco smoothies with Velveeta. This might be a good week. 
    I didn’t directly tell you my weight, because it is none of your business, and because it makes me overweight according to my BMI. But if you look close, ever so close, you might be able to solve the mathematical nightmare of a problem that is my weight. So I challenge you this holiday season, purposefully gain some weight. It is easy enough, and I heard that the Victorian Ages are ‘in’ again, which means fat is beautiful.
    Get fat.


  • I finally booked my next haircut appointment, and there is a chance that it might be with this same man.

    April 28, 2008, myself, Tyler, Eric and Bonnie will be heading over to the land of curry for a month or so and on the way home, take a short detour through Muscat, Oman to say a nice warm hello. My hair is getting out of hand, and it will be out of control by the month of May, but this man needs my business.

    Three point five more months of work, ten more soccer games, a compiled temperature of approximately -2700 degrees Celcius, and a few thousand dollars later, I’ll be back, dripping my liquid fat in the compiled temperature of approximately +1400 degrees Celcius with about 900million people that don’t sweat and love to rip off white guys. There is nothing better.