The Shoe and Whore

A letter from a concerned hardware store owner to a customer

2007-08-03T20:07:00.000-04:00

Hey Stan,

It's Jack Vande from the hardware store. I know I just saw you last week and I've never written you a letter before. Sorry if this is a little weird. But I was going over your accounts for the last few months and I've got to say I'm a little concerned.

Now normally I'm not one to comment on people's purchases. Just last week Mae Summers came in here and bought a beautiful gold trim for her living room -- and then two cans of eggshell paint. I bit my tongue so hard I think I injured myself, but I didn't say a word. But Stan -- some of your purchases have me a little more worried than that.

Let's start with this month. You bought a power drill, a saw, and two claw hammers. Now that wouldn't seem that strange (even though you did ask me what was the best drill bit to put a hole in "viscous material"), except that you then asked whether paint thinner could get bloodstains out of concrete. I assumed you had cut yourself or (at worst) killed a sick pet without paying the city the put-down fee. But now that I remember you asking me what sawblade would cut "slowest," I'm starting to have my doubts.

The previous months aren't much better. You first came in here six months ago to buy a backhoe, some cement, and a bunch of wood for supports. "Great!" I said. "Making a new wine cellar?" "Something like that," you replied. Then you asked how to make a "feeding slot" and I, a little confused, directed you to our Outdoor Gourmet section (you bought a large pair of iron tongs and a barbeque fork, but no grill).

And I'm sorry Stan, but nobody buys six-foot lengths of chain to tie up a boat (which is what you said it was for). It's heavier than rope and way too short. And I couldn't figure out why in the world you asked me if the links could be "sharpened" with that bastard file you bought.

The last straws, Stan, were that chloroform you had me special order and your constant need for new gloves. Twenty-two pairs in the past six months, all of the heaviest grade leather I stock! I assumed you were working with a lot of harsh chemicals and needed the chloroform to relax from all the stress. I didn't say anything because I'm not one to comment on another man's hobbies. This letter may be the exception to that rule, though.

Just writing this now, Stan, I feel a little embarrassed. I'm not saying you're doing anything wrong, but I'd sure like to be able to set my mind at ease. How about you and I grab a coffee in a nice public place and you can tell me all about your home building projects?

Jack Vande
Vande Hardware and Building Supplies

Fatwas issued by Ahmed the baker after he was accidentally granted mufti status for a day

2007-07-20T14:00:00.000-04:00

By the Holy Qur'an: No backsies. Any person granted mufti status by accident cannot be returned to non-mufti status. If this should happen, the person will be allowed to sell his story and star in a sitcom titled "Mufti Madness" about a simple man made mufti and the hilarity that ensues. No laugh tracks shall be used, as they are offensive to the Prophet (PBUH).

By the Holy Qur'an: Every wife must submit to her wifely duties, even when her husband has just baked a lot of garlic khubz or returned from a football match caked in mud and sweat. When her impurity is flowing it is hummer week. No whining.

By the Holy Qur'an: Rock music and Hollywood movies are now halal. Especially anything with that Lindsay Lohan girl. The Prophet (PBUH) would definitely hit that.

By the Holy Qur'an: Sex and the City is still haram. In fact, 200 virgins to whoever explodes himself next to the infidel Sarah Jessica Parker. God I hate that show.

By the Holy Qur'an: Oh, illegal satellite dishes are now halal. I only know about Sarah Jessica Parker because someone told me.

By the Holy Qur'an: Saudi Arabia must begin shifting its economy away from oil export dependence. Oil has given our people much wealth, but it has also given the West too much power over and interest in our nation. Worse, it has promoted indolence and corruption among our leaders! I recommend a gradual but firm shift to a bakery-based economy, beginning with massive subsidies for bakers. Also free cars. And harems.

By the Holy Qur'an: Shias and Sunnis have to get along now. Enough's enough. I mean, for fuck's sake. God.

By the Holy Qur'an: Forty flogs per day is the punishment for being my worthless upstairs neighbour Fayiz. Take that Fayiz!

By the Holy Qur'an: Uh oh, I think someone figured out the mistake. What else do I want -- world peace! Free parking! Cleaner corn flour! Just a minute! I'll be right there insha'Allah! Minigolf is halal! Dancing is halal! Forcing your husband to take out the garbage is haram! Aaaaa! No backsies, no backsiuasdfdviovicvoizxvoc

==

Mufti Madness premieres on Riyadh TV on 30 July at 7:00 p.m.

Scandal! Parallel lines meet incognito!

2007-07-06T00:18:00.000-04:00

The math world is aghast today after an amateur geometer caught two parallel lines meeting incognito.

"I've never seen anything like it," said William Kieler, a cab driver who dabbles in angle measurement and Pythagorean theory. "I was following them along and suddenly -- BAM! They were literally getting kinky. I had to look away."

A horrified Kieler grabbed a camera from the glove compartment of his taxi and snapped a photo of the tryst. The picture was originally circulated within a small group of geometers, but was eventually leaked to Mathematical Misdeeds Monthly, a lurid broadsheet known for sensationalist coverage of math-related scandals.

The lines meeting. The picture has been censored to protect our younger readers.

The linear rendezvous is the latest in a series of scurrilous revelations to rock the geometry world. Earlier this year the hypotenuse was arrested for attempting to force itself between the vertices of a right-angled triangle. Readers will also remember the shocking leaked camphone video of a ruler and compass trisecting an angle.

"We've been guilty of a bit of naivety," said Prof. Alison Wang of the Centre for the Study of Angles, Polygons, and Sexual Behaviour. "Euclid postulated that parallel lines never meet, but never proved it. And while it may have been true that the lines kept to themselves in the past, we've seen many formerly distant entities enjoying new conjunctive freedoms with each other."

Not everyone is so sanguine about the revelation.

"God intended for certain lines to be together and for certain lines to stay apart!" said Bishop Michael Edgler, head of the Vatican's Science and Faith Advisory Committee. "Supplementary angles, fine. Acute angles, fine! But immoral unions are already destroying our nation! Is nothing straight anymore!?!"

The discovery of secret meetings between parallel lines also has far-reaching implications for practical design fields.

"Euclidean geometry is the basis of every building plan, design metric, and flight path," said Terry Yu, a Toronto architect. "I grew up believing in parallel lines. We all did. Parallel lines -- how could you do this to us?"

The lines could not be reached for comment and were last seen continuing infinitely in an undefined plane.

Briefing for a Descent into Vagina

2007-06-29T00:01:00.000-04:00

Minutes from a Meeting of the Anti-Girl Squad, 1988

3:45p - Attention Called; Roll Call begins

3:46p - Point of Order: Prv. Snot Ears interrupts Roll Call to lodge an objection to his nom-de-guerre, imparted by 15-1 vote at prior meeting

3:47p - Objection Overruled, 15-1; Roll Call completed; Impromptu motion by Chairman Martin to award Prv. Snot Ears a Medal of Distinguished Whining passed, 15-1

3:50p - Chairman Martin calls for old business

- Update on field surveillance of Jacky "Squinty" Ostrovsky: Threats by Squinty to inform her parents about the much-lauded success of Operation Enduring Acorn Salvo appear to have been exaggerated or entirely confabulated. Motion to discontinue surveillance tabled. Passed 11-5.

- Update on political prisoners: The Heroic Two remain in detention for their panty-liberation efforts in the April changeroom incident. The Squad will continue to agitate for their release and smuggle comics to them whenever Ms. Fedsik falls asleep.

- Update on possible subversion: The assembly was unanimous that Cpt. Marky's recent behaviour toward Jan Kunich has entirely absolved him of any suspicion of fraternization. The assembly was also unanimous that stealing the baby doll she insists is real and epoxying it to the school flagpole with a barbeque fork in its eyes -- thus causing Kunich to cry publicly every morning, lunch hour, recess, and final bell -- was particularly masterful.

4:15p - Chairman Martin calls for new business

- Motion by Prv. Snot Ears to compel the assembly to recognize that he has cleaned his ears since he earned his nom-de-guerre. Defeated 15-1.

- Motion by Prv. Snot Ears to compel the assembly to recognize how much they suck. Defeated 15-1.

- Motion by Sgt.-at-arms Billy to bind and gag Prv. Snot Ears to prevent him from tabling further motions. Passed 15-1 and carried out.

- Motion by Sgt.-at-arms Billy to punch Prv. Snot Ears repeatedly in the scrotum while bound. Passed 15-0 with one abstention.

- New project proposed: Operation Mammary Freedom. Mission parameters include undoing Helen Smithson's halter top the next time she wears one and pulling her bra, if any, over her head. While execution risk factor is low, post-facto risk of punishment is projected to be high. Cootie contamination risk is also considered high. A commission comprising Wally, Sean, and Brendan is struck to investigate whether the use of masks and gloves can lower these risks to an acceptable level.

4:30p - Meeting interrupted by Chairman Martin's mother delivering brownies. Prv. Snot Ears is observed and freed.

- Motion by Cpt. Marky to make Martin's mother an honourary non-girl. Defeated 9-7.

- Motion by First Pilot Randy to recognize the "awesomeness" of hypercolour t-shirts. Passed 14-2.

- Impassioned speech by Chairman Martin about the "creeping spazz hazard" faced by the Anti-Girl Squad. Phrases such as "stinky book-readers," "doll-playing weaklings," and "pasty smell-holes" are heard. Chairman Martin importunes the assembly to resist the mysterious contagion that compels older boys to abandon their values and associate with the enemy. This speech is met with much applause.

4:45p - Meeting adjourned to Chairman Martin's basement. His Wrestlemania tape where Demolition fights the Bushwhackers is watched.

==

Transcript of Unconditional Surrender of Last Holdout Member of the Anti-Girl Squad, 2007

Lt. Patrick: "You want to throw out all my old clothes and make me buy new ones? I guess so."

From the Magical Infirmary of Crazy Yahya Jammeh!!

2007-06-22T03:00:00.000-04:00

Hello! And welcome to Crazy Jammeh's Magical Infirmary!

I see you are new to Banjul -- surely you have come to be a patient at my Magical Infirmary! Why is it magical, you ask?

I am so glad you asked!

The magic is me, Crazy Jammeh! By waving my magical hands over anyone with the HIV I can magically cure them -- with magic!

I see that you are skeptical. After all, you are from the West, the land of whores and atheists who spend their days devising new ways to keep Africans from having children! I know the true reason behind your Western "con-doms" and "antiretroviral drugs" is to castrate the African man and reduce our population. That is why I tell all my patients not to use them!

I can see from your expression that you're disgusted with yourself now that I've learned the truth!

But no matter! Bring me a man with AIDS! Kla-blam! Now he is cured! Take him away!

How can you still doubt?

Where do those Western doctors learn their "cures"? From books of course! Why not go right to the source? This is a copy of Ride the Bull, Tame the Bear -- Investment Advice from Crazy Jammeh!

The Koran and an old Evian bottle are all the magic I need to cure the HIV. When the CIA created AIDS and unleashed it upon the African nations, they didn't count on Allah and Crazy Jammeh joining forces!

Even my European-trained minister of health agrees with me! Isn't that right, Mr. Minister? It would be a shame if anyone else had to die of a terrible case of Doubter's Skull.

Look at him shaking so hard in agreement! And he is a vagina doctor! We all know that the HIV is created in the treacherous vagina before launching itself forth to prey on good men, so we must trust his judgment! Could he work at the Magical Infirmary of Crazy Jammeh unless he believed in Crazy Jammeh's magical powers?

It could not be otherwise!

Some say I am merely treating internal parasites and passing off temporary weight gains as a cure. Of them I say, "Seize them and place them in the dungeon until they have learned not to doubt the mighty curatives of Allah and Crazy Jammeh!"

I wear a lot of white. I have also just been elected king of the United Nations! How can you doubt?

Aide! Where is the man I just cured? Having sex with his wife? You see! He must be cured -- men with the HIV cannot safely have sex!

Now that I have convinced you of Crazy Jammeh's magical powers we must say goodbye! There are many others with the HIV who are foolishly taking Western drugs and using con-doms. I am so happy to be making these people's lives better with the power of my book and Evian bottle!

Thank you for coming to my Magical Infirmary! Goodbye from Crazy Jammeh!

Goodbye Stanley

2007-06-09T22:00:00.000-04:00

It’s been a few days since the Ottawa Sens were thoroughly trounced by the incessant quacking of the Anaheim Ducks. The series was a short one, mostly due to the fact that, in the interim between their thrashing of Buffalo and the beginning of the Stanley Cup finals, the Sens transformed from a hard-working team of goal-scoring juggernauts to a loose assembly of cuckolded extras from the ice capades blooper reel.

In this Shoe & Whore exclusive, I present to you the transcript of the well-meaning speech by their coach that turned everything so horribly around.

=============================================

Congratulations boys! We’ve made it to the Stanley Cup finals. There are just four wins between our lips and Lord Stanley’s athletic cup! I know we’ve all been dreaming and working for this day our whole lives, so I don’t have to tell you how exciting this is.

I have confidence in you. Our opponents, the Anaheim Ducks, are a tough bunch. But they can’t stand up to our true grit! No sir!

Now, I’m sure you guys have all heard the rumours. Some of them are true, but it doesn’t matter. Sure, sure, it may be true that, before every game, every player on that team is injected with a super-soldier serum that gives them the strength of ten men and a lust for human blood that makes the desire for a goal seem laughable! But that doesn’t count for much next to hard work and determination.

And there’s no doubt that each piece of equipment the Ducks use has been sharpened and diabolically crafted to rend deeply into human flesh and the delicate organs beyond. When the time comes, I’ve no doubt that all of you will make the decision to spend the rest of your life on a dialysis machine if that’s what it takes to finish a check. That’s the incredible courage I’ve seen in this team. The courage to make great sacrifices again and again and again, just to take a man out of the play for a second or two. One hundred and ten percent, men. One hundred and ten percent.

What’s that, Danny? Yeah, that one’s true too. I don’t know how they’ve managed to load their sticks with gunpowder so that even their wrist-shots are capable of penetrating tank armour before going on to turn a grown man’s femur into a pulpy mess of splinters, but they have. But does it matter? Can’t you feel the will of an entire nation behind you, willing you to get in front of that puck? You’ll feel it when the time comes, and the knowledge that you’ve carried the dreams of millions aloft will be more solace than any quantity of morphine.

This note in my hand was delivered in the hollowed out skull of Detroit Red Wing captain Niklas Lidstrom this morning. It says that a horrible fate awaits whichever member of our team scores the most goals. But we can’t be intimidated! How many cold, dark, winter mornings did you boys spend practicing hard? If the conclusion of all that work is to be gang-raped in a dark alley, so be it! How many games have you pushed yourself so hard you could barely see? Playing hard is an instinct that burns deep within, and it’ll take more than a trail of intestines leading to the corpses of your family placed in unnatural congress to put out that fire!

We’re gonna win all right. We’re going to win because we’ve worked harder. We’re going to win because we’ve gelled as a team, like a family. We’re going to win because we’ve got more grit and gumption in our little finger than they have in their entire chemical warfare depot! So go out there, shoot the puck, keep your passes clean, avoid the sniper laser sights, and skate hard! Stanley Cup, here we come!

I’ll be in my bunker if anyone needs me.

IMDB's Goofs page for the worst movie ever made

2007-06-01T20:16:00.000-04:00

Goofs for:
The Grasshopper Lies Heavy

Continuity: The length of the salami in the conductor's hand changes size several times during the orchestra scene.

Continuity: When the possessed biplane is chasing Amelia Earhart through the shopping mall her hair changes from a bob to a body-length braid several times.

Anachronisms: When Prof. von Chumsdordler stops to calculate how many zombies are chasing him he uses a Texas Instruments TI-73 Explorer Ultra Graphing Calculator. This item was not available in 1886.

Revealing mistakes: The scenes set on Mars were obviously shot in Fresno, California, with a No. 9 red filter on the camera lens.

Revealing mistakes: During the surgery scene a crew member is clearly visible squeezing a ketchup bottle to create the blood spray that blinds Drs. Checkov and McGarnigle. When the nurse accidentally knocks the scalpel into the patient's exposed bladder, the crew member switches to a mustard bottle.

Continuity: When Laura leaves the senator's office she is wearing a black business suit with dark grey pinstripes. When she arrives at home her outfit has changed to a black lace corset and nipple tassels.

Continuity: At Laura's financial planning appointment the clock on the wall behind Harold "Jiggy" Wexler changes from 4:15 to 27 o'clock.

Factual errors: During Gandhi's "freedom" monologue he devours several of the magic hamburgers before the Justice Squad is able to subdue him. Gandhi's religion forced him to eschew beef.

Anachronisms: Despite being a Hun berserker of the 4th century, Tim wears a modern pair of jeans and an Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirt.

Plot holes: It is never explained why, in the final scene, Barbarossa is surprised by the revelation that Harold is his father after giving Harold a Father's Day card and singing "My Father is the Best" to him in the previous scene.

Revealing mistakes: During the farewell medley aboard the dirigible several cast members' flying wires are visible.

Revealing mistakes: Several of the "children" in the kindergarten scene are clearly wax statues of adult celebrities.

Plot holes: The movie ends without explaining either the immolation of all the main characters or the nameless man who screams, "This is all your fault!" at the audience repeatedly throughout the credits.

It's funny if you know dermatologists

2007-05-18T23:59:00.000-04:00

"I need some help here. I really appreciate that you agreed to see me on such short notice.

"First I have to tell you something embarrassing. You may have noticed that I haven't yet sat down. Well -- I have a fetish. It's not something easy to talk about. I like to put batteries in my anus.

"There, I said it. I feel better. I don't know why I do it. I'm sure it has something to do with the childhood connotation of inserting batteries into a toy to make it spring to life with new vigour! Also the little nipple on the positive end tickles my prostate.

"So as you might imagine, I was having a regular morning. Reading the paper, sipping coffee, and inserting some D-cells into my colon. For reasons I can't really remember I decided to have a big juicy sausage for breakfast.

"This may sound like a mundane detail, but it's actually quite unusual. I've been a vegetarian since 1995, and sausages are strictly verboten! But I was struck with a craving I couldn't ignore.

"I jumped into my car to drive to the nearest butcher's shop and purchase myself a glistening tube of animal meal. But the car wouldn't start! I popped the hood and to my surprise the gasket had shrunk to one-tenth its normal size! It took some doing before I could pry it loose, and than it sprang right into my mouth! I swallowed before I could think that a gasket might be bad for my health.

"Once I had it replaced, I motored to the butcher district and bought myself a tasty pork sausage. Mmmm, there's nothing better.

"Outside the meat shop, a young boy was crying and holding a toy electric car.

"'What's the matter?' I inquired.

"'My car won't go,' he said with infantile simplicity. Then, with startling mechanical (if not grammatical) acumen he added, 'The gasket done broke.'

"'I think I can help you,' I said, winking. I pulled down my pants, straddled the boy and began my efforts to pass the miniaturized gasket. I heard cries of what I assume was joy until the boy's mother intervened. What she said to me ought not to be repeated, but let me just say that the stories about women performing superhuman feats such as lifting cars off of their endangered children also hold true for their lung capacity while launching streams of invective.

"After they had gone, I realized the young man had dropped his car. I bent over to pick up the lost toy and instantly locked eyes with the beady orbs of a rabid weasel!

"His mad gaze played over me until it locked on the paper bag holding my sausage.

"'Not today, you glorified rat!' I said, turning to run.

"The weasel was instantly upon me. In a fury of tiny claws and teeth I went to ground, the toy car driving itself into my mouth and down my throat! I swallowed frantically and threw the weasel from me.

"'You'll never get this sausage!' I cried, holding the frankfurter aloft in my fist like some mythical sword. Before the lunatic beast could strike again, I slipped the entire slippery length of the sausage down my raw throat. Mmm, breakfast. The weasel struck again!

"It seemed as though we fought for hours, the weasel trying to pry open my lips to retrieve the meat within, and I trying to wring his little neck!

"Suddenly I felt a click within me, followed by a wrenching pain. It felt like someone was trying to wind my insides around a pipe! I quickly realized what had happened: the gasket and batteries in my intestines had somehow worked their way into the toy car, repairing and powering it! And the sausage was stuck to the car, racing its way up and down my gastrointestinal tract!

"From the look in my canny adversary's eye I could tell he had realized the same. Without a moment's hesitation he launched himself at my anus. I was too slow to stop him and he wriggled his way inside.

"So that's my problem. I have a rabid weasel inside me chasing an electric car tethered to a sausage. I think they just destroyed part of my left kidney and I'd be shocked if I have any bowel left. What do you think?"

So then the dermatologist says, "Put some aloe on it."

Grocery Shopping- The Easy Way...

2007-05-16T17:07:00.000-04:00

Hello ladies and germs! This is Matthew speaking, not because I just can't restrain myself from posting on Wednesdays, but because Meghan can't restrain herself from going to New York and not posting on Wednesdays! Fortunately she was able to send her post to me before she left. I haven't had time to read it or even look at it, so I hope it's OK. Enjoy!

==

Heya Matty,

I was wondering if you could do me a massive favour, one which I totally do not deserve because I didn't post last week (due to the untimely death of my modem, mind you). Could you post this to the S&W for Wednesday? That would be awesome and would make you only more awesome by association. It might even compel me to stop spilling water on you. Maybe.

------

Grocery Shopping- The Easy Way...

Here’s an easy way to get your shopping done quickly. Bide your time until someone has to leave their shopping cart to get something at the end of the aisle and then swipe all their groceries! A masterful plan. Sure, you may not actually need that home pregnancy test, but think of all the precious minutes you saved. The suckers who spent that time picking out Hamburger
Helper are five minutes closer to death, whereas you are gloriously alive! When possible, try to avoid stealing carts with children in them.

There are usually only three pieces of edible fruit in the entire supermarket. It will take approximately two hours to hunt them down. It is a tedious task but the alternative is scurvy. Squeeze each orange as though you are a surgeon prodding at a particularly malignant tumour, and don’t forget to sniff everything. Large-breasted women may think you are hitting on them and slap in you in the face, but you should be used to this by now. Don’t shy away from asking other customers for a second opinion, but select your helpers with care. Avoid people with weasel-like facial features, small, shifty eyes, weak chins, underdeveloped foreheads or snub noses. This type of physiognomy indicates that they will steal any ripe fruit that comes their way. Also, that they are inbred and only half-human.

Always choose the 1-8 items cash register, even when you have a full cart. You see, chances are your cashier can’t count. All she sees when you place thirty bottles of Tabasco sauce on the conveyor belt is ‘many’ or possibly, ‘a shitload’. Smile politely and drop a few cents into the Humane Society Donation Box. Congratulate yourself on having completed a delightful and thoroughly efficient shopping excursion.
----

Okay, great, thanks a million!

Huggles,

Meghan

P.S. Thanks for not telling Pat about that DP Chris and Adam gave me last week. Huggles!

P.P.S. I really hope you read this before posting it and crop out that postscript. Huggles!

The "Baby, Take Me Back" Catalogue

2007-05-14T19:29:00.000-04:00

Everyone has occasional problems with their love-life. Guys especially can be thoughtless at times, and the only action that seems to occupy more time than saying sorry to their girlfriends is finding ways to do things that require them to say sorry to their girlfriends. The sad thing is that their thoughtlessness extends even to the apologetic gift-giving. Men buy the most meaningless trinkets – flowers, chocolates, little cards. Is it any wonder that women bring up our old mistakes over and over again, or fly into tantrums at the least little thing, or menstruate? It’s because men never actually put the old grievances to rest by giving them the perfect gift!

But worry no more my friends! I’ve dug deep into my charm reserve and will now be offering my all-time greatest apology gifts for sale to you, the real victim. Once you’ve given your girl a few of these, your girlfriend will never be asking for you to say sorry again.

A Mug!

Aside from your girlfriend herself, what could be a better receptacle for your love than this sturdy clay mug? Whenever your girlfriend tenderly puts her lips to the smooth rim of this testament of your love, she’ll be reminded of how much you care. Every morning, while sipping with the mug’s patented easy-grip ‘love handle,’ your special somebody will be suffused with the warm glow that only true love and the morning’s first coffee can bring. Only $11.99.

An Xbox 360!

Relationships are only strengthened by shared experiences, whether it’s raising a child or blasting your way through a horde of homicidal aliens. What girl won’t swoon as your character saves her character from a ferocious goblin ambush? With the Xbox 360’s choice of dozens of games, you can pretend to be all kinds of dashing heroes for your princess whenever she happens to be around! A trifling $299.

A Sandwich!

It’s hard to be forgiving when hunger is rumbling your belly, and it’s hard to stay angry with mustard on your chin. Fill that hungry void in your relationship with a tower of tomatoes, pickles, and crispy bacon! When you offer your dearest this gift, she won’t be able to say no … unless her mouth is already full! Of your penis! An almost criminal $6.50

Building Materials!

These assorted pieces of lumber, nails, and metal braces is sure to put your love on a firm foundation. What woman doesn’t love to be lain down by the fireplace, especially one that’s been built to her exact specifications? As your handywoman bends her back to the task of putting together a love shack, you can be sure that she’s looking forward to lying on her back for you. A mere $5.99 per 2x4, $13.99/500 nails, etc…

A High Five!

After a hard day, everyone likes a nice backrub. Do even better by your girlfriend and give her the approval she craves in the form of a firm hand-to-hand slap. Her worries will propagate away with the sound waves, replaced by a smile of horny gratitude. Or, if you’re trying to make up for getting the maid pregnant, go for the up-top down-low combination. An inconsequential $49.99.

A 2-4 of Beer!

When your girlfriend looks at you, are you worried that she’s judging your large beer gut, cirrhotic skin, and smelly face? After this gift, you won’t have to worry anymore! By the time you’ve finished this series of matching drinks, either your worry or her judgment will have swirled away like so much toilet flotsam and one or both of you will feel momentarily better. A laughably low $31.99.

Any one of these gifts is basically a one-way trip to a land of fleshy forgiveness. Use them wisely, though, because no one wants these to become as devalued and scorned as a bottle of wine, a box of chocolate and a single stupid long-stemmed rose.

Why science fiction mysteries don't work

2007-05-11T16:37:00.000-04:00

By the time Detective Farfnügen arrived in his spore vehicle Dr. XL3K was already on the scene. He reflected that his ability to transfer his experiential stack into any of the pre-made hosts available in the multi-city's vending machines was much more efficient, if less scenic, than the detective's outmoded vat-grown way of getting around.

"What have we got?" Farfnügen said gruffly, shaking slime from his leatherite boots. It was rumoured that Farfnügen drove the oldest car in the entire platoon -- it leaked more slime than a runaway snailtrain.

"FEMALE APPROX 160 YEARS OLD. STABBED SIX TIMES IN DORSAL AND VENTRAL HEARTS," chattered Dr. XL3K.

"Cause of death?"

"UNKNOWN. TERTIARY SACRAL HEART FAILED FOR UNDETERMINED REASON. DO YOU WANT TO ORDER AN AUTOPSY Y/N?"

"Y, dammit."

Detective Farfnügen waited impatiently as Dr. XL3K released a fog of airborne nanites toward the body. Several seconds passed.

"So . . ." said Farfnügen. "How is your family?"

"MY UNCLE HAS BEEN RECLAMATED AND MY MOTHER HAS A NASTY CASE OF SERVO PATHWAY DEGENERATION."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Farfnügen, not looking at the X-class electronic semi-autonomous investigation drudge. Instead he let his eyes play over the corpse of the nubile 160-year-old on the ground. Damn, he thought. I'd give my quadrisected phantasmatron for a few minutes alone with that and a J-1 field-generating temporary decedent animator.

"AUTOPSY COMPLETE. WOULD YOU LIKE THE RESULTS--"

"Y, dammit, Y!"

"CAUSE OF DEATH IS STRANGULATION. STAB WOUNDS WERE INFLICTED POST-MORTEM."

"Good work doctor. I'm beginning to get a picture of what happened . . ."

Dr. XL3K felt a familiar rush of admiration. His limited programming precluded him from engaging in analysis or gestalt thinking -- he could only report his observations and act as a sounding board for his partner.

"This area," said Farfnügen slowly, "was the site of last month's spill of retroviral jelly. It was quite an expensive loss for the carrier."

"IN-DEED."

"Tell me doctor: you're detecting ambient duodynetic emanations, aren't you?"

Dr. XL3K ran a quick series of scans. "THAT IS INCREDIBLE."

"Not at all, my dear doctor. Simply a matter of deduction. Whenever retroviruses are accidentally released, the city's sanitation satellites set up an annular particle shell around the area to prevent contagion."

The servos in Dr. XL3K's neck fired as he nodded his head.

"Normally the shell is harmless to humans. But some persons with a particular metagenic disposition can cause feedback in the trans-axionic confinement beam."

"BUT DETECTIVE HOW CAN THIS TELL US WHO KILLED THIS WOMAN?"

"All in good time doctor," said Farfnügen. "First we must consider what we already know. The interphasic effects of the trans-axionic beam can establish a subspace harmony resonance in nearby biomemetics. I suspect you will tell me that this woman has had her voice box augmented by such a method."

"IT'S TRUE!" exclaimed Dr. XL3K, his antennae waving in excitement.

"It is beyond obvious that the subspace harmonic resonance generated in her biomemetic vocalization augmentation was ramified by the interphasic effects of the trans-axionic confinement beam actualizing an annular particle shell which quantized her pre-existing metagenic condition."

"OF COURSE! IT ALL MAKES SENSE!"

"So you see, my dear doctor, logic and deduction have led us to this inescapable conclusion: she strangled herself in a vain and panicked attempt to remove a device that had suddenly begun to resonate at the isomiatic level."

"BUT DETECTIVE, WHERE DID THE STAB WOUNDS COME FROM?"

"Very simple, doctor," said Farfnügen, waving absent-mindedly toward the corpse. "This woman obviously had several autonomous cardiac riders to prevent premature heart failure. I'm sure some cardiac condition recurred in her family."

Dr. XL3K ran a quick medical history of the woman's closest relatives and was not shocked to find that Detective Farfnügen was correct.

"Once she was dead, the riders exited her chest cavity and returned to the manufacturer. If you contact them I'm sure you'll find them waiting to be resold."

"WELL DETECTIVE YOU SEEM TO HAVE WRAPPED UP THE CASE. SHALL WE HAVE A DRINK?"

"Not tonight, my mechanical friend. I'm afraid I have plans with a different sort of partner."

Dr. XL3K watched impassively as Detective Farfnügen oozed into his spore car. The engine palpitated to life.

"No offence doctor," he said as the driver's side orifice clenched shut between them. "They may have given you the computational capacity of a billion men each with a billion brains. But they still haven't found a way to give you -- heart."

Cursed student charm of student being

2007-05-04T23:59:00.000-04:00

Or, Proposed Magical Items Submitted to Dungeons & Dragons Publisher Wizards of the Coast, Inspired by the First Week of High School as Experienced by a Socially Inept Teenager Rapidly Dropping to the Bottom of the Social Ladder

Monday - First period

Codex of New Beginnings: This Codex, designed by the academicians of the High Lyceum, allows the user to enter a world of scholastic delights. By merely turning a page of the Codex, the reader gains access to knowledge, fun, and dozens of new friends!

Tuesday - After gym class

Elysium Window: If any female NPCs disrobe or shower within 500 feet of the Elysium Window it displays the NPC with perfect clarity. Fatties may make a Will save (DC 1) to avoid being pictured.

Tuesday - During history

Trews of Misdirection: The Trews of Misdirection perfectly conceal any bulges, lumps, or protuberances within them, even if that Becky girl gives Alison a shoulder rub again.

Wednesday - During algebra

Bracer of the Steady Voice: Whenever the person wearing this bracer raises his hand above his head the bracer casts Voice of the Gods (5th level). The wearer may then answer any question put to him in a clear, booming voice that never cracks on the middle syllable of the word "quadratic." Any female NPCs nearby who titter at the wearer are immediately dealt 3d6 dam. (no save).

Wednesday - After varsity football game

Gag of Restraint: Upon donning the Gag of Restraint the character gains however much Wis he needs to prevent him from bringing up his self-painted anime model collection when a cheerleader asks him what he's doing later.

Enchanted Razz Mirror: The Enchanted Razz Mirror appears as any other pocket mirror until the user is taunted. The user may then make a Concentration check (DC 10) to reflect the taunt at the speaker. If the taunt is "doll boy" or "stiffy," or is delivered in a deliberately cracking voice, the speaker is immediately struck with Otto's Horrible Wasting (8th level, no save). The user of the Mirror also gains two inches in height and stops generating "that smell."

Thursday - Boys' change room

Cursed Underwear of the Ultimate Wedgie: These unassuming smallclothes appear normal until donned by a male character with Int 16 or above. When worn they cast the spell Nailed to the Sky (epic) and cause 3d6 dam. The wearer must make a Will Save at DC 25 or flail helplessly in front of everyone. Effect continues until the wearer speaks the command word "uncle."

Cursed Vertiginous Helm of Endless Water: The Vertiginous Helm of Endless Water creates a never ending swirl of water around the head of the unfortunate wearer, who also experiences a sensation of being held upside down and punched repeatedly in the scrotum (Reflex save DC 10 to squirm for half dam.).

Amulet of Mass Forgetting: Once/day the wearer of the Amulet of Mass Forgetting may cause himself to forget one incident. The wearer may also erase any effects of that incident, including having underwear remove themselves from wherever they may have lodged and removing skid marks from his hair.

Friday

9mm Blunderbuss of Justice: This item is kept by the PC's father in an unlocked box in the closet.

Afterlife Insurance

2007-05-02T17:01:00.000-04:00

The following is a paid public announcement. The views and products endorsed in this advertisement are those of Mortalite Limited and do not reflect on the attitudes or beliefs of this blog.

(Motivational music plays, as images of churches, synagogues, mosques and temples bathed in buttery afternoon sunlight flit across the TV screen)

"Afterlife Insurance: Choosing the Right Plan For You!"

Brought to you by Mortalite Limited
“For a sweeter hereafter, choose Mortalite!”

ANNOUNCER:
"Now presenting, our celebrity guest and valued Mortalite customer, Birk McBriggins!"

(A tanned, white-haired man in a pristine white suit stands in front of a studio backdrop of a blue sky full of mashed potato clouds. In his hand, there is a tame dove, also white and bearing a sprig of an olive tree. The man looks familiar to you somehow, probably because he plays Bear Torqueson on the afternoon TV drama, “One Hour to Live”)

BIRK:
Hi, I’m Birk McBriggins and Mortalite Limited has invited me to come here and tell you a little bit about the most important decision you’ll ever make in this life…or the next! Oh, yes, you may be sitting comfortably right now, enjoying a care-free existence as you search for pennies nestled under the cushion of the easy chair of Life. You may think that you are playing it safe, that you have secured the best possible future for yourself and your loved ones – after all, you have a life insurance policy. That’s the way to ensure your family’s security, right?

Wrong! While a life insurance policy may yield a pay-out to cover the costs of your funeral and other expenses, it completely and utterly neglects the most essential commodity you will ever call your own: your immortal soul. While your average life insurance plan may be able to assure your loved ones some financial compensation in the event of your death, imagine the spiritual security they would feel in knowing that you had gone on to a blissful afterlife. With Mortalite Limited’s wide range of Afterlife Insurance plans, you can stave off eternal damnation at low monthly premiums and even plan a family reunion in the sweet hereafter!

(Cue images of a happy family sitting on a white porch drinking lemonade. Young and old, they are all extremely attractive and yet entirely asexual. A small terrier runs up on the porch, barking joyously. The youngest girl, a pig-tailed blonde, cries, “Squeaker! You came back!” Everyone laughs. Fade back to Birk.)

BIRK:
At this point, I’ll bet you’re thinking, ‘Birk, this sounds great, but how can Mortalite guarantee all that? I mean, after all, there are so many religions nowadays. How I can make sure that I’m choosing the right option for myself and my family?” It’s a good question. Mortalite realizes that being even the most devout Catholic won’t get you very far if the ticket to heaven is five prayers a day and a pilgrimage to Mecca. That’s why they offer inclusive plans that grant you access to a variety of faiths and methods of salvation. It’s like agnosticism but without the troubling spiritual uncertainly. You sit back and enjoy your life while Mortalite’s staff of priests, monks, imams, rabbis, wise women, and shamen pray just for you!

What’s that? “But I’m an atheist,” you say? Atheism is a bad gamble for so many reasons, my friend! You may speak to me of science and logic and such, but I’m talking down-home commonsense. What does being atheist get you when you’re dead? If you’re wrong, the gods hate you. If you’re right, you’re a rotting corpse, so you don’t even get to say “I told you so!” If you want to be smarter than all your friends, choose the religion that promises the most horrible forms of damnation and then insure yourself for all the others with Mortalite! Your fellow atheists may be smug and patronizing right now, but won’t you have fun watching them writhe, squirm and plead at Hell’s daily sinner weenie roast jamboree. Mind you, you’ll be peering down from atop a cloud surrounded by all the angels and people just like you, people who chose Mortalite…

(We return to the happy family on the porch. They are having a grand old time. The camera pans over the porch to show the scenic view below: sinners roasting on barbecue spits, their appealing eyes turning upward with each rotation. There are horrible screams and maniacal cackling from various demons, hell imps, minotaurs, etc. The happy family is also laughing. Squeaker is licking the little girl’s freckled nose. There is a glorious rainbow overhead. The camera zooms in closer to show Birk walking along the arc of the rainbow.)

BIRK:
Critics of Mortalite’s After-life Insurance plans have called them “the self-indulgence of a cynical secular culture” (The New Yorker) and “an insult to human and even sub-human intelligence…positively medieval” (Variety Magazine). Mortalite prides itself on being able to refute the claims of such nay-sayers. Firstly, unlike an indulgence, Mortalite insures you for a whole spectrum of religions, allowing you appease Brahma, Allah and Yahweh all in one fell swoop! Secondly, medieval culture has yielded many great cultural innovations including the long bow, the feudal system, the Crusades, Medieval Faires and chivalry! Next time someone holds a door open for you in a gesture of decency and respect, take a moment to thank the wonderful medieval peoples. With such logic, the good people at Mortalite aren’t afraid to confront their critics head-on, because they know that their service is one that will revolutionize the way people seek out salvation!

Here is just a sampling of the many great insurance packages you’ll find through Mortalite:

The "Paradise Gained" Package – This celestial, top-of-the-line package provides insurance for all major religions (Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism) and includes fundamentalist sects! At $200/month, salvation is a steal, but not really because that would be against a Commandment! If you don’t go straight to paradise, we send you your money back, no questions asked!

The "Jesus Loves Me" Package – Ever wondered what it might feel like to join the flock? Whether you’re Hindu, Sikh, Jain or Jew, you can be a Christian too! For a mere $45/month you can fool the Almighty into thinking you’re a Christian baa sheep of any variety, including Catholic, Protestant, hell and brimstone or Arkansas snake-handlin’.

The "Tranquil Contemplation" Package – Meditation is harder than it looks, but with this $20/month plan, you’ll be ready to say OM-en to Buddhism, Taoism and Hinduism, no bonsai tree required.

The "All Sorts of Allah" Package – Islam is a trendy and exclusive religion these days, but like any hot night club, you can get in if you know the right people. Sunnis and Shiites may not get along, but we have both sects covered in this extraordinary insurance deal, just $50/month! Now you can have your virgins and eat your figs too!

The Chosen Package – Blondes don’t have more fun; it’s the Chosen People who know how to do a party right! Come to Zion and keep your foreskin, thanks to an exciting insurance plan that includes all kinds of Judaism, from Orthodox to Reform to Hollywood. Just $48/month, the Chosen Package will also help you save your shekels!

The Unexpected Circumstances Package – Life is full of surprises; so would it be very shocking if the afterlife adhered to the same topsy-turvy logic? This affordable package insures you against some of the stranger and more unexpected afterlife possibilities, including Flying Spaghetti God, angry 1970’s feminist God-Diva, and Morgan Freeman.

FOR MORE INFORMATION, CALL MORTALITE AT
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Don’t delay and don’t let your faith falter…call Mortalite today and receive 50% off your first six months of afterlife insurance! Call in the next ten minutes and we’ll even throw in Baha’i for free (a $16 value)! I’m Birk McBriggins, wishing you a good life, a better afterlife and all the salvation money can buy! Good night and God(s) bless….

Best Friend Forever

2007-04-30T23:59:00.000-04:00

I may not be the most popular guy around. I may not have a friend in every coffee shop and bar in town. But the friends I do have I select very carefully. I always make sure that I spend enough time with each and every one them. If I had too many friends, I would never know who was ahead, and I pride myself on never losing a friendship.

Like this one time, a friend of mine dropped by unexpectedly and I treated him to some of the Kraft Dinner I happened to be making. “I really needed that, I was starving,” he says. “I should have you over for dinner sometime.” He left himself wide open for even an amateur, and a master friendship winner like me could hardly miss it. “Tomorrow, 5:30?” The poor sucker made me an omelette – way better than Kraft Dinner. Swish. 1-0.

Another time I’m at a party (at someone else’s house! He shoots, he scores!) and this guy brings a whole bunch of beer. I strike up a conversation with him. We’re both enjoying it about equally, so he’s holding his own. But then, like a total sucker, this guy just offers me a beer. I’m like, “uh, ok,” trying to figure out his next move. I’m thinking this is some kind of trick. Is he going to ask for some cash? Drink something I brought – already prepared or that! You’ll get pretty thirsty drinking all the nothing I’ve got with me! Booyah! Try to handle my junk? But no, he’s just giving beer away for nothing! He’s fighting the good fight, and he just gives up! Pulls his goalie!

Some people just don’t understand what friendship is all about.

I’m one of the best friends around. I’m like Gretzky and Pele combined. My score is so high I can barely keep track. It’s something like 859-112. Exactly something like that. I’ve searched on the net to see if there’s some kind of international ranking for this kind of thing, but searching for “Best Friend” on the web just gets me a bunch of lame-o sites. The closest thing I’ve ever come across was an adult escort site, which is close but not quite it. For all I know, I could be the best friend in the world.

I’ve only ever lost a friendship once. This girl had a bracelet that said “Best Friends Forever” on it. Obviously, this is like a glove in the face for me, but it’s also intriguing. What’s with the pluralization? Does she double-team people somehow with a partner? Like, one of them will borrow a CD from one of her friends and the other one will take it to her house so they never have to give it back? Already, this girl is making my head spin and I haven’t even said hello yet.

The years that followed I was so off my game it’s embarrassing. I felt like I was playing hockey without skates. A midget trying to dunk. To this day, I don’t know how she did it, but suddenly I’m offering to pay for dinner. I’m buying her presents. She’s scoring on me at every possible opportunity, and I’ve got a goofy grin on my face like I’m enjoying it.

Sure, I was scoring in the less important sense. But the outrageous thing is that she was enjoying the sex at least as much as I was! The whole point of a relationship is to come out ahead of the other person, but that’s just not possible for a guy when the girl likes sex.

One day, I finally came to my senses and tell her it’s over. I heroically salvage some of my score by keeping the house and saddling her with the kids. She tries the all-out offence tactic of reducing both our point totals by crying a lot and yelling a lot of insults. She’s still ahead overall so it’s a smart move, but I’m back in championship form so it doesn’t bother me.

Even the best friend in the world can lose a friendship sometimes, but it’s the way he deals with it that defines him as a champion. As the girl finished single-handedly manoeuvring a couch down the stairs and into the moving van, she yelled one last thing at me: “You don’t even know what love is!”

But of course I do. It’s the score at tennis when you’re losing.

Governor-General battles fatigue for some reason

2007-04-27T23:59:00.000-04:00

Canada's ceremonial head of state Michaëlle Jean recently cancelled several public appearances following an announcement that she is somehow exhausted.

Fully styled Her Excellency the Right Honourable Michaëlle Jean, Chancellor and Principal Companion of the Order of Canada, Chancellor and Commander of the Order of Military Merit, Chancellor and Commander of the Order of Merit of the Police Forces, Governor General and Commander-in-Chief in and over Canada, Jean issued a statement on 23 April claiming she required a break from the rigours of her vice-regal responsibilities.

"The pace has been non-stop," she said, reading from a prepared statement. "People seem to think that this job is just a lot of hand-shaking. But no one stops to think of the repetitive motion injuries!"

Jean, who previously claimed that her investiture as governor-general would "mean a lot for humanity," has almost completed the first two years of her tenure, in which she handed out several hundred medals, gave 11 speeches to community college graduating classes, travelled to many countries to broker dinner plans, and welcomed over two dozen diplomats. According to Jean, she realized "the sash lay heavy on [her] shoulders" ever since the first time she found herself unable to wield the oversized Royal Scissors to cut a ribbon.

Jean was diagnosed with climbing ivy earlier this year. Her doctor prescribed occasional action.

"Michaëlle has been under a tremendous amount of physical strain lately," said Pierre Foudrault, Jean's personal bath scheduler and assistant composition manager of the vice-regal brunch. "Those trips to Europe and Asia may seem glamorous, but I happen to know that the last time she stayed at the Meurice in Paris the bellhop made her carry her own bag from the limo to the curb! She could barely stagger to the presidential suite!"

Other draining incidents abroad, said Foudrault, included a traditional Thai mud bath that left the the governor-general feeling woozy, and a meeting with a group of disabled Morrocan youths who playfully challenged Jean to a footrace that never exceeded 0.3 kilometres per hour.

"The governor-general gets several phone calls every day!" lamented Adrienne Lee, Jean's special consultant in charge of early evening wear. "Some people think the Canadian Heraldic Authority just runs itself. But it's every day with those guys. 'Can we add supporters to the arms of the lieutenant-governor of Prince Edward Island?' 'Does this blazon look better with a lion rampant or three lions recumbent?' What a bunch of assholes."

The governor-general doing something extremely relevant in the Canadian Senate.

Among Jean's apparent maladies are autograph-writer's cramp, hoarseness of her public speaking voice, a severe case of Knighters' Shoulder, and bedsores.

"Ms. Jean appears to suffer from depression stemming from feelings of worthlessness," said Dr. Avi Metzger of the Toronto Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. "The disorder is most often experienced by prison guards, business students, and people in the diamond trade. In Ms. Jean's case it is difficult to imagine how to cure the condition, short of establishing a monarchy in which the sole criteria for leadership are being black and French."

Upon being told of Jean's schedule cancellations, Prime Minister Stephen Harper said he sympathized with the executive's condition.

"I know how tough it is to run a country," he said. "I guess you could say that she does too. Sort of."

Crime and...Punishment?

2007-04-25T10:32:00.000-04:00

When I was eleven years old, I thought I would like to become one of three things: a Crown attorney, a Shakespearean actor or an international art thief. I was lounging around the cottage during my eleventh summer and like many preteens on family vacation, I spent most of my days picking at the parched grass, wading disconsolately through the murky lake and wondering what my friends were doing back in town. When I wasn’t engrossed in these activities, I would walk down the narrow beach and up a gravel road to a glorified cabin referred to as “the general store”. The general store was not really a store so much as an indoor garage sale. It accumulated more dust than profits. The feature of the place that sticks most in my memory was a stuffed owl perched on one of the bookshelves. It was not a benevolent grandfatherly sort of bird. With its hunched brown body, it reminded me of the enormous junebugs fumbling around our patio lanterns in the half-light.

Other than the grotesque taxidermy specimen, the general store offered a small rental library for the cottagers. The reading selection was limited but for the price of 50 cents you could rent a book for three days. There were some flower-festooned romances featuring women in straining bodices, whose cleft chests matched their boyfriends’ cleft chins. There were some non-descript thrillers with names like “Lightening Strikes Twice!” and “Primal Rage,” embossed on the front in shiny silver and gold lettering. There were also some grimy hardcover editions of minor British classics probably plundered from the shelves of a long-dead spinster aunt. Among these, I can remember discovering the authors Somerset Maugham and Evelyn Waugh, whom I recall now mainly because at the time I thought their names were absolutely ludicrous. I also thought Evelyn Waugh was a girl. I have since changed my mind on both the validity of their writing and Evelyn Waugh’s sex, but at eleven, I believe that I can be excused for thinking that “Brideshead Revisited” was not a place one would want to visit the first time around.
No, the only thing that I could find on these shelves to amuse me was a dog-earred paperback version of the Canadian Criminal Code, circa 1994. It had a black cover flecked with white spots where the paper had worn off. On the front of it someone had painted a bloody red handprint, probably quite aware that The Criminal Code would need the sensationalistic taint of foul murder to compete with “Primal Rage”. Eyeing the ragged paperback, I decided at once that I had to have it. I figured that this book would be helpful for a number of divergent reasons:

1) If I were to become a famous attorney like the DA on “Law and Order” who looks like the Muppet eagle, I would be well-served by having memorized the entire Canadian Criminal Code in my tender youth. I enjoyed a fleeting vision of myself as a teenage courtroom prodigy citing precedents amidst a gaggle of bewigged and bedazzled barristers. As a kid, I was always starting projects like this, such as my project to read every volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. My enthusiasm waned at ‘F’ and so while I am a fountain of knowledge concerning the ‘abacus’, ‘Bacchus’, ‘coriander’, ‘didgeridoos’ and ‘Erasmus’, I know little to nothing of ‘freedom’, ‘innocence’, ‘justice’, ‘kindness’, or ‘love’. I likely became bored and only skimmed through the entry on ‘compassion’ too. This fact alone may help explain my upcoming confession of criminal depravity.

2) If I were to become an effete criminal mastermind, the type of person who sips Chablis, swipes a Titian masterpiece and a few of the countess’ jewels, and then melts into the shadows of the Florentine night, I might want to know what laws I was breaking, if only to baffle the policia even further.

3) Certainly a Shakespearean actor could use a Criminal Code for something? Supposing I was caught dueling in the streets or carrying around a suspicious-looking bit of bodily remains that I insisted was Yorick? It might be nice to be able to cite a few statutes in a sonorous voice.

The more I thought about it, the more I knew that I needed to own the Criminal Code immediately, in the interests of my education and/or searching for loopholes. This immediate desire to own the Canadian Criminal Code put my eleven-year-old self in a quandary. How exactly would I procure this book when I was carrying no money on my person? My daily regime of loitering, lounging, moping, alternately loving nature for its beauty and loathing it for its boredom had not previously necessitated small change. I didn’t have 50 cents and getting the money would require a laborious journey back to the cottage and much soliciting of my parents. I feared that if I left the Criminal Code for even a few seconds, someone (possibly a kid who had read to “G” in the encyclopedia) might steal it away from me in the act of legitimately purchasing it. In case, you haven’t realized it yet, I’m coming up to the part where I steal a copy of the Canadian Criminal Code.

It was a surprisingly easy crime. I simply rolled the paperback into the towel I was carrying and strode off towards the beach, bits of gravel poking at the tender bottoms of my feet. The innate hypocrisy of it didn’t disturb me in the least: if I was fated to be a Crown then surely this misdemeanor would be offset by the hundreds of criminals I would bring to justice with the aid of my newly shoplifted Criminal Code! On the other hand, if I were to become a criminal, this first caper was a proving ground, the first step in my undoubtedly stylish career as enterprising rogue. And so I whiled away the last week of the summer reading the Canadian Criminal Code on the patio and trying to keep a very innocent look on my face. It was fun. As a Catholic kid, I enjoyed reading about anything mentioning prostitution or “bawdy houses”, a phrase that gave selling your ass a delightful merry olde England vibe (“Want a taste of this, sugar?” “Prithee, buxom wench, whither is the champagne room? Methinks I am lost in this strange bawdy house.”) I liked the arcane forbidding Latin terminology printed in bold-face font: “mens rea,” “mea culpa,” “habeas corpus”. More than reading the law, however, I enjoyed the delicious feeling of having received something for nothing, proving how easy it is to memorize Section 322 word for word and apply it to a bunch of hackneyed old case studies without ever actually taking it to heart. The moral of this story? Crime pays and occasionally, it might even pay one’s way through law school.

Happenis

2007-04-23T23:40:00.000-04:00

One of the largest conundrums facing economists these days is the growing disconnect between the happiness of a people and the wealth of nations. Empirical studies show that, after passing the point where people have enough money to waste on Hummel figurines, further increases in wealth bring no statistically significant increase in the frequency with which people burst into song and twirl around lamp poles.

How do people manage to dig through their piles of possessions and find only misery? Admittedly, some have half-decent excuses: “I am an insufficiently-adorable starving orphan” or “I am currently on fire,” for example. But most people aren’t so lucky.

Economists attempt to explain this phenomenon – or lack thereof – by inventing more jargon. ‘Relational goods’ are things where the absolute amount you have is irrelevant, what is important is how much you have relative to your neighbour. Penises are a good example.

Unusually, however, this is not a problem that economists can deal with by smiling smugly, poking mysteriously at a calculator, and wearing tweed. If people are somehow not made happy by increases in wealth, then the very purpose of economists is called into question. Imagine a world where economists, turned out of their offices, were forced to interact with actual homo sapiens. The thought is too terrible to contemplate for all involved.

In the interests of avoiding any chance of this possibility, I have decided to prepare a series of posts to convince people that only the stupidest idiot jerkbag loser douchebag could possibly be unhappy. After reading these, I have no doubt that you will join me in pointing and laughing and mocking and swirlying those who don’t realize how lucky they are.

People Who Have It Worse Than You

Part 1: Non-People

I can do pretty much whatever I want to any cute little bunny rabbit, and there’s never much hue and cry. Even if it were someone’s daughter’s pet, it would still only get me a fine. Because I am ennobled by my membership in the just and honourable order of humans, I can pretty much sodomize any mammal, reptile, bird or amphibian that hops into my path without worrying about the consequences. If I were to sodomize you, however, that gets me at least five years. And if a bear were to think that fair is fair and sodomize me for all the horrors I have inflicted on its furry kin, it would be mercilessly hunted down. Though I flatter myself that it would die with a smile on its lips.

I’m pointing out this hypocritical double standard to show that it’s better to be human than most other species. I could expand this argument to cover situations other than sodomy, but I think that they are rare enough to be ignored for now.

If you’re still not convinced, stay tuned for my next installment discussing why you should be happy: You are not yet quite dead!

Mail call!

2007-04-20T23:59:00.000-04:00

Here's a look at some more of the correspondence we've received during our shoe-&-whiatus.

were did u go

-bObbyluvsSum41~~~

Great question B! The Whore was temporarily taken off the air after our Win All the Rocky Road Ice Cream You Can Eat trivia contest was won by a stewardess with an encyclopedic memory and an eating disorder called hyperphagia.

Now that we've cleaned her gizzards out of every corner of the Whore posting room we're ready to get back to business!

I have noticed that of all your many writers, none are women! For shame!

-A Feminist

Sharp observation, AF! It's true that 100 per cent of the Whore's writers have traditionally been blessed with penises, abstract reasoning ability, and emotional constancy. But all that is about to change!

Meghan, a genuine girl, will soon be added to the roster of devout Whores. The marketing guys tell us she'll draw in a whole new demographic with her posts about shopping and knitting. And a little celebrity gossip never hurt anyone! Want to know who's wearing the hottest -- and nottest -- fashions in Hollywood? Well we've got a girl!

What's the deal with Dolph? Didn't making fun of B-list actors stop being funny three years ago?

-You Suck

Yes, YS, but that's what makes it so funny. This is metametahumour that gets laughs by transgressing traditional modal notions of what is funny and ironic. Also I forgot CSS so I can't remove the "Dolph sez" box.

Is the UN just a talk shop with no legitimacy because it has no enforcement mechanisms?

-Concerned For The Future

Well what the fuck do you want, CFTF? A pan-national military force answering to a bunch of unelected ambassadors? Neoconservative academics giving orders to nominative national governments? Global trade policy being set by a mewling clutch of economics majors while the ink on their University of Chicago master's degrees is still drying on the fucking vellum? What the hell is your problem?

I broke my entire house key off inside the lock. Now I'm trapped outside! Please help! I'm cold!

-Feeling Blue

You're fortunate, FB, that the entire length of the key is already inside the lock. The teeth (the bumpy part on the top of the key) are already holding the pin tumblers up along the shear line. The cylinder is ready to turn -- you just have to get a hold of it! One option is to feed something long and flat into the lock beside the key and try to turn it. If you have time before you freeze to death you can glue
something to the outside of the cylinder and then turn it when the glue dries. Be careful not to glue the cylinder in place! You'll be back inside in no time.

Are you making fun of Dan Savage in this post?

-I Like Savage Love

If I was, ILSL, I wouldn't be giving any advice, I'd be bitching about gay marriage reform.

OK, now you're making fun of Dan Savage.

Maybe a little.

What does the future hold for the Whore? I ask because my stockbroker is recommending an aggressive Whore-heavy portfolio and I want to know if he's right.

-Wanting Whorey Riches

There's never been a better time to invest heavily in the Shoe & Whore! For our new demographic appeal, see my response to A Feminist above. Whore scientists have also developed and disseminated an airborne crystalline agent we call Dolphlungrafloxacin which re-sequences recipients' DNA so that they can't get enough of animated gifs, testicle jokes, and page upon page of shitty lists. It has a slightly necrotic side effect that putrefies human flesh into a gelatinous organic mucilage -- this will further increase our traffic since once readers sit down in front of the Whore they will find they literally cannot tear themselves away! The crystals were released from a secret Whore location on 2 April, and are now dusting populated areas along Eastern and Central North America. Tell your stockbroker, if he's still able, to buy buy buy!

Whore Reloaded - The Second Cumming

2007-04-18T14:35:00.000-04:00

DOMINUS! DOMINUS! In excelsis Dio!
Please cue the bureaucratic queues of flagellants scourging themselves, the seven-headed beasts frolicking gleefully in kiddie pools of human blood, the moon hitting your eye like a big pizza pie (that’s amore?)…

That’s right, ladies and germs, the Whore of Babylon is back and more venereal than ever, rising from the ashes of the flaming brothel inferno like a phoenix in fishnets. Wherefore hast the harlot returned to torment thee? Mainly because it is the will of Dolph, but it may also have a little something to do with Matt’s insufferable sniveling after his contract with the International Tourism Board of Thailand (Slogan: “We rove you rooonnnnggg time!”) fell through. It may also be a result of Paddy’s petulant cries for attention after his stint as a Bollywood entertainment reporter ended in tears and charred effigies. Writing an article entitled “Shilpa Shetty Makes My Panties Wetty” probably wasn’t the best idea he ever had or well, the best idea he ever stole from me.

As the only S&W writer who is neither a simpering sell-out nor a wholly creatively bankrupt hack, I am proud to reprint a bunch of old S&W correspondence accompanied by hastily penned responses and clumsy product placements. Now it’s probably about time to get back to my wholesome schedule of baking apple pies, writing Sanjaya- Ryan Seacrest erotic fan fiction and doing publicity for the North Korean Terrorism Tourism Board. Please enjoy the touching words of the cancer kids, convicts and social pariahs that make up our target demographic:

Dear Shew and Hore,
My name is Timmie O’Toole and I am 7 yers old. I am riting to you from Sic Keds Hospetal becuz I am verry sic. Also I would like to no wat “cunnilingus” is. Why are u not riting stuf anymore? If I had one wish, I wold wish for u to rite abut shews. I like shews alot, probly becuz I do not have ane legz.
Thanks alot.
Timmie.

THE WHORE sez:
Hello, Timmie,
Doesn’t the Make a Wish Foundation teach kids any grammar these days? Also, your letter formation needs some serious improvement. I’ve seen better ‘A’s written in feces on bathroom walls in meth dens. A prosthetic arm is absolutely no excuse for poor penmanship, young man. I’m the voice of experience here. However, in light of your request, we will try to include more shrews and shrew-related material into the Shoe and Whore.

Hey sexy lady,
What do u look like? I am a 6’1”, 48-year-old stud, fit and cut, with brown eyes and hair. I think you sound real sweet and would like to meet up with a classy lady like urself. Do you think you could take my 10” cock in your mouth? I was recently set free from a 15-year prison sentence and found your site online. Your posts made my mouth water and now I’m hoping to see more. MUCH MORE. I am a gentelman and I already love you for your erotic mind. Now I would like very much to love your hot body. How big are your tits? Would you like me to rub them and bite the niples? I have been in prison for a long time, but I still remember what it feels like to do a woman in the ass.
Best regards,
Joe Jeremiah Jonson
Tallaona Springs Half-way House
Houston, Texas
BigJ6969@hotmail.com
P.S. I noticed you have a pic of a blond guy on your page. Is he your pimp or what? If so, are you looking for someone new?
P.S. #2: I am completely innosent.

THE WHORE sez:
Joe, reading this letter was like a 15-word prison sentence. I think you may be my dream date. Meet me at 4:30 PM next Saturday in the fourth stall of the gentelman’s (sic) room of the Right Up My Alley Bowlerama, 230 Duber Street, Oshawa, Ontario. I’ll be wearing an electric blue jumpsuit, a Lynyrd Skynyrd ’76 bandanna, CK boxer briefs, purple eyeshadow and a handlebar moustache. You bring the banana cream pies and I’ll bring the low-voltage cattle prods.
Until then, kisses!

To Whom It May Concern:
On behalf of NIKE Corporation and its affiliates, the partners of Meyer, Thrice and Bernstein wish to inform you that your site name has impinged on the brand copyright of its latest footwear line for girls ages 7-12, Shoe Whore. Please cease and desist from using this brand name and other material licensed by NIKE Co. or we shall be forced to pursue legal action against you and contributors to your site.

Sincerely,
Brick Vanderburgh-Thrice, Associate

THE WHORE sez:

Dear Brick,

I think you sound real sweet and would like to meet up with a classy lady like urself. Do you think you could take my 10” cock in your mouth? On the behalf of the associates of The Shoe and Whore Incorporated, I would like to inform that you have a real purty mouth. I have been in prison for a long time, but I still remember what it feels like to do a woman in the ass.
If this sounds like fun to you, please meet me at 4:00 PM next Saturday in the third stall of men’s restroom in the Right Up My Alley Bowlerama, 230 Duber Street, Oshawa, Ontario. I’ll be wearing a polka dot housedress, a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron, a lime-green G-string and a five o’clock shadow. You bring the Mad-Libs and I’ll bring the weapons-grade plutonium. Toodle-oo, lover!

Editor’s Note: Timmie O’Toole died on the morning of March 17. His last words were “Ouch! Ouch! Owww…it hurts. Oucheeeeee.” It would have been far more touching if he’d said something about The Shoe and Whore. This article is dedicated to his memory.
R.I.P., TIMMIE O’TOOLE, 1999-2007

The Making of the Zombie Whore

2007-04-16T23:59:00.000-04:00

Here is the correspondence that led to the resurrection of the S&W.

===

Title: S&W.com

Hey, I’ve been thinking – why don’t we restart the Shoe and Whore?

Huggles,
Matthew

==

Title: You son of a bitch

I’d love to. One rather large problem though: I want a piece of the action. You’ve been reaping in royalties under the table for long enough. I know you’ve got an advertising contract and I want in. It’s like I’ve always said – It’s better to not write than to not make money from your blog.

Pat

==

Title: Re:You son of a bitch

a) I don’t know what you’re talking about.
b) You never said that.

Matt

==

Title: I did so

Oh don’t play all innocent. Just look at some of your previous articles excerpts and tell me you weren’t whoring yourself out to some multinational.

A good massacre has its place sir. But don't forget that a single head on a stake next to high visibility corporate signage has proved just as effective in marketing tests in Tanzania. Especially when it’s bought from Aylmer’s Staked Heads. If it’s not Aylmer, it’s just mean.

Or this one.

Since I have no medical training I had to effect the implantation with nothing but a butcher knife, a meat skewer, a plastic bendy straw, and a teaspoon of paprika (for sedative). Unfortunately, I also have no knowledge of biomicrocircuitry, so the chip I used was just an old cornflake I'd found when I cleaned the area between my fridge and countertop. It would have worked, if I had only known about the Wilkinson Scalpel, the knife that makes anyone a surgeon! (Wilkinson Sword accepts no liability for events stemming from this advertisement.)

Or this one.

I thought I had found my answer: Thai brides! The very obviousness of the idea left me breathless. How could I have missed it for so long!?

I’ve gotten a feel for the market by seeing what kind of coin I can make by advertising in my emails, so I can extrapolate that your ads on a high-traffic site like the Whore would haul in a couple million yen a week.

But that’s cool. It’s cool. Just give me a percentage that lets me afford the Double Super Fun Happy Time Spinning Robo-Castle Playset – on sale now! – and we’ll call it even.

Make the Deal!
Pat

==

Title: The ten minute delay trick, eh?

You haven’t gotten back to me yet. A shrewd bit of haggling.

I’ll settle for animation rights of any characters or spin-offs originating with the Shoe. And a slurpee.

Final offer,
Pat

==

Title: No slurpees.

…
…
Deal.
Can we move on with this?

Please,
Matthew

==

Title: Sounds like fun!

Hey Paddy,

I heard that we’re thinking of starting up the Shoe again. I think that’d be great. I’ve already got a few ideas for posts -- making fun of creationists, some kind of astrology thing, fake holidays, it’ll be a blast.

Huggles,
Meghan

==

Title: For the children...

Alright. I’ll do it. And it’s not about the money. No, I do this work because it’s honourable. I do this work because it resonates deep in my soul. I do this work because I just couldn’t do anything else.

Even though we just started, I’ve already got a few ideas for posts -- making fun of creationists, some kind of astrology thing, fake holidays.

It’s gonna be a blast.
Pat

A Modest Development Proposal

2006-11-21T08:35:00.000-05:00

Despite decades of expensive aid projects (EAPs), large sections of the world’s population remain in a sad state of poverty and helplessness. Poverty is always heart-breaking (HB), but it is especially wrenching when the victims are children. Only by helping the most vulnerable (MV) can we hope to improve the state of the world (W).

However, a legacy of failed projects (LFP) proves that compassion alone is not sustainable. Development agencies have learned that the most long-term way of helping people is to help them help themselves (DAHLTTMLTWOHPISTHTHT).

Objectives

This project proposes to provide children with two of the essential components of a healthy life: freedom and productive capacity.

Freedom

Studies consistently show that children are among the least influential members of their community. Social restrictions – which often take the form of explicit laws – bar them from activities that are freely allowed to other community groups. Blatant ageism keeps many of the resources children need most – such as high-energy foods – perpetually out of their reach.

Even within their own household, children are denied the ability to affect meaningful change in their lives. As the lowest member of the familial hierarchy, children frequently have their natural entrepreneurial instincts blocked before they can so much as cross the street. Compared to other family members, children are consistently given less say in family affairs. Whether at the polling booth or the dinner table, the voice of the children is consistently shushed.

Freeing children from this oppressive environment and granting them the freedom to reach their potential is the first objective of this project.

Empowerment

The project’s second objective begins with the recognition that empowerment depends on productive capacity. This requires child participation. Years of handouts to children have been dribbled away, with nothing to show for it but a stain on the collective conscience of the development community. In the worst cases, aid is literally vomited onto the shoes of donors. There can be no excuse for the fact that, despite billions of aid dollars spent in this manner, the vast majority of children earn less than a dollar a day.

These statistics make it clear that programs that simply spoon-feed aid to recipients are ineffective. Such interventions fail to address the root cause of childish poverty – lack of productive capacity. Unless children are empowered to become active participants in mainstream economic life, they are doomed to remain a marginalized and oppressed group, smaller than s in every way.

Providing children with the means to bring about their own emancipation is the second objective of this project.

Methodology

The first stage of the program involves building linkages between children and established market enterprises. We anticipated that this would be the most difficult stage of the program, as ageist cartels have conspired to keep the infant employment rate at an indefensible 0%. However, our pilot study found that the business community is quite eager to work with children. A number of businesses have already volunteered to provide on-the-job training for the children, and some companies with a strong sense of corporate social responsibility – notably coal mining and chimney sweeping organizations – have waived much of the cost and agreed to accept children for mere pennies per day.

By moving to supercede the atmosphere of alienation with a socio-economic framework composed of enhanced tendencies towards productivity, this project supports the empowerment of the beneficiary to holistically broaden his or her own phenomenological opportunity matrix. Our refusal to not be dissuaded from the subparadigmatic discourses of financial independence enables the beneficial post-capitalistic consequences emanating from project activities to cascade in a positive loop characterized by ‘virtuous cycle’-type outcomes. A razor-sharp focus on the totality of inhibitory structuralities that serve to act as the sourcitude of oppositional influences to the inherently self-actualizing naturalness of pre-adolescental capacitators is the living, beating heart that drives this project.

Conclusion

Our pilot study initially showed disappointing results. However, within fifteen years, an astounding 100% of surviving program participants were no longer being subjected to the restrictions and discrimination faced by children. Indeed, the transformation was so complete that none of the program participants still identified themselves as children. Their emancipation was complete.

With your financial assistance, we can replicate our successes around the world. Together, we can change the life of millions of helpless children.

==

Case Study

Not long ago, Jimmy McTavish was always being told to go to bed. No one can do that anymore, because now Mr. McTavish is an independent worker at Brighton Coal Mine, where there are no beds to be seen. Not much can be seen in these underground tunnels, which suits little Jimmy just fine.

“Please, go away. If the boss sees me talking, he’ll whip me good.”

Watching Jimmy fearfully shovel coal onto a conveyor belt, it’s hard to imagine that he used to be just another mouth to feed. Before receiving his work training, the only thing Jimmy knew how to do was play cops ‘n robbers. But weeks of patient instruction have taught him a whole new set of valuable life-skills.

“If I breathe through my nose, the coal dust doesn’t choke me so much.”

While his family never treated him as a full member, at Brighton Coal Mine he is a valued employee. The fine workers here love their smallest employee, and they wouldn’t trade him for anything.

“Jimmy? Is that his name? He didn’t try and escape again did he?”

Yes, things have really turned around for Jimmy. His one small wish would be to see his family again, and show them all he has accomplished since being freed of them.

“Find my parents. Tell them I’m here. Tell them to come! Please!”

Haha! What a character! We congratulate you, Jimmy! We’re sure that if you were still capable of straightening your back, you’d be walking proud!

What, no Pension Plan?

2006-11-12T08:29:00.000-05:00

My time here at the Shoe and Whore has made me crotchety and aged before my time. My skin, once dewy and radiant, has acquired the texture of 3-week-old steak. I sit in a rocking chair hour after hour, muttering “Pupfish,” to myself and waiting for Bob Barker to appear in reruns of “The Price is Right”. I don’t actually rock in said chair because rocking out, in or in any other direction would probably make me vomit and then wet myself. Apple sauce is my only friend.

Yes, everyone, it is time for me to retire. I have thoroughly enjoyed my tenure as your indentured blog servant, butt of misogynist jokes and junkie-whore-in-residence, but as I have said to myself many times while sitting on the shitter, all things must pass.Thanks for everything, guys.It’s been a lot of fun even though I’m not getting a gold watch and I never actually received the 10 acres and a mule that Paddy promised me. Now I hope that you grandkids will humour me while I ramble my gratitude gratuitously.

Dr. Kirby and Mrs. Kirby – Thanks for all your hospitality, hilarious jokes, the delicious cooking and the Christmas cheer. I hope that The Table continues to be scratch, dent and streak-free – this is a sure sign that all is right with the world.

Matt – Thanks for the funny, funny and sometimes relentlessly esoteric conversation. Thanks for liking Ayn Rand, thus reminding me why I would gladly put her in front of a Bolivian firing squad. Thank you for being the voice of reason.

Sean – Thanks for always finding something valuable to say. Keep up the fancy footwork. When you’re on the cover of Fortune Magazine and unofficial salsa king of the universe, I will probably brag about having met you.

Chris – Thanks for walking at incredible speeds, cooking tons of food and generally just being really amusing. I think you’re going to be the best doctor since Dr. Who and Doc Halliday.

I’d also like to send major shout-outs to Brooke, Norman, Amy, Adam, Liz, Laura, Jamie the girl who Sean kisses,Jamie the guy who Sean only kisses once in a very long while (mainly when he's been hitting the sauce) and all of Norman's smelly, ugly dogs (special love to Chum, who was always my favourite). I’m so glad to have had the opportunity to get to know you and I hope that you are all happy and healthy. Know that Dolph Lundgren loves you, whatever you do and wherever you may roam. On the other had, I just like you and think you’re all pretty cool, so don’t go getting big-headed or anything.

Last but most certainly not least…

Paddy – Thanks for everything.

So, if I was Porky Pig, this is the part where I’d say “Th-th-th-th-that’s all, folks!” It’s been a great run and you’ve all contributed to two of the best years of my life. Thanks a million. As a parting gift, I can only hope that I’ve left you with some good memories too.

Untouchable!

2006-10-31T03:11:00.000-05:00

Cast(e) of characters

Subramanyam the Brahmin
Ravi the untouchable
Massage Parlour s (3)
Brahmin 1
Brahmin 2
Brahmin 3

==

Subramanyam and Ravi are walking down a road in downtown Delhi.

Ravi: Hey, check it out Subramanyam! I found some bread in the street. High five!

Subramanyam: You know that I must leave you hanging. If I were to touch your corpse-handling body, I would have to cleanse myself in a scented bubble bath for many hours.

Ravi: Does that mean you don’t want any?

Subramanyam: Ravi! You know that I cannot eat with you! That would require me to cleanse myself for three weeks at a luxurious mineral spa. Still, I appreciate your asking, if only for the purpose of exposition.

Ravi: Oh well, more for my tapeworm and me. (He chews.) Why do you even hang out with me anyway, Subramanyam, if all you’re going to do is try to avoid me, even my shadow?

Subramanyam: It is to show that I am above such things.

Ravi: Well everyone is above my shadow!

Laugh track. Subramanyam and Ravi look directly into the camera and shrug.

Ravi: You just hang out with me so I give you discounts on burying all the people your prayers are supposed to heal.

Subramanyam: That’s not true! Our holy texts say we must love all creatures, and so I love you.

Ravi: So do it then. Love me.

Subramanyam: Even if that weren’t against the law …

Ravi: No you idiot, just give me a hug! What will happen?

Subramanyam: Most likely, I will explode into horrible boils. My skin will slither off my body in oily strips. My spiritual purity will be compromised, and the gods – and my customers – will shun me from their sight. It will transform my life into desolation and poverty on a scale you cannot imagine.

Ravi: What was that, sorry? A gigantic blood-boil just exploded in my one remaining ear.

Subramanyam: It would be horrible Ravi. Please do not touch me, I don’t want to deal with the monstrous consequences. The only massage parlour that could rub such corruption off me is across town, and I don’t have any bus tickets.

Ravi: You know what I think would happen? Nothing.

Subramanyam: What are you doing Ravi?!

In a 45-minute Bollywood dance scene, Ravi, arms wide open, dances after Subramanyam, who dances away, rhythmically darting behind trees and other obstacles. Lines of chorus dancers prance in the background. Eventually, Ravi hugs Subramanyam, who shrieks and collapses into the dirt.

Ravi: See! Nothing.

Subramanyam is still shrieking, rolling in the dirt and clawing at himself.

Ravi: Um…

Subramanyam (shrieking): Hail me a rickshaw! I am unclean! Ravi you bastard, get me some nubile young Brahmin to rub scented sandalwood soap all over me! Quickly, or I will surely miss lunch! And for Shiva’s sake don’t touch me again.

Ravi hails a rickshaw and herds Subramanyam into it. He directs the driver and they drive off.

==

Scene 2: Ravi is sitting on his heels, just outside the entrance of a building emanating a fog of white steam. Inside the fog, Subramanyam is reclining in a pool of hot water, getting rubbed down with warm water and oil by a trio of young ladies.

Subramanyam: Oh that’s nice. It feels so good to be reunited with the gods. Could you cleanse a little to the left? Oh that’s a holy spot…. Do you see now, Ravi, why we cannot ever touch, even in legal ways? I must love you in a completely theoretical way. It is sad, because my heart cries to hug your disease-ridden body, to lend you money at a reasonable interest rate, to take care of you. But my gods forbid it. I am cursed to live apart, far from the open sewers and open sores of the people I love so dearly. Woe is me. A little higher sweetheart…

Ravi: Yes, I see that now. Sorry to have put you through such suffering. Touching an untouchable must be like fire to you.

Subramanyam: Oooooh, that’s the spot. More oil. Yes, your touch burns with the fire of an angry demon. The fingers of any untouchable are like filthy knives, cutting at my very soul. It is a pain I am happy you will never know, Ravi. It is even worse than the pain of being hit by a car.

Ravi: Even your car? Because that hurt a lot. So you’re sure the pain is not only in your head?

Subramanyam: No, it is through my entire body, and beyond. Wait, wait. Of course it is not in my head! Are you implying that I was faking it?

Ravi: …

Subramanyam: Because I assure you, if it wasn’t for the careful cleansing of these lovely young ladies, I might be dead by now. The disfavour of the gods is a horrible thing.

Ravi: Sure. But maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if you didn’t know I was untouchable.

Subramanyam: No Ravi. You will never know what it is to live on a spiritual plane, exquisitely sensitive to the merest flutter of the gods’ disfavour. I assure you, if an untouchable touches me, even if I do not feel it through my silk and velour robes, I can feel the gods’ disgust immediately.

Ravi: Of course you are right Subramanyam. You always are. I hope you are feeling better, but I have to go work or I will starve to death.

Subramanyam: Heehee, not the toes, woman! I’m ticklish! Yes, yes. Goodbye Ravi. Go in peace. Leave me to my divine rubdown.

Ravi: About that … They wouldn’t let me into the Brahmin holy bathhouse, so I had to improvise…

Subramanyam: What? (sitting up and peering through the steam) Where am I Ravi?!

Ravi: Don’t worry. My friends and I raised enough money to get you a private steam-room. It’s a good thing some people don’t mind being touched by our kind, or we never would have been able to make enough money in time.

Subramanyam: A private steam-room? That will do. Barely. (He splashes his weight back down in the warm water.)

Ravi: Yes. We could afford the room, but we couldn’t afford any holy masseuses.

Subramanyam: So they did it for free? For the honour of it. How nice.

Ravi: Uh, yeah, they did it for free. But now they have to come with me back home. Girls!

The three girls step out of the steam. Between the three of them, there are four lazy eyes, seven teeth, and five arms.

Girls: Coming brother!

Subramanyam: Brother?! But that means?! And they touched…?! Nooooooooooooo!

(commercial break)

==

Scene 3: Subramanyam is naked and blubbering in a pool of hot water. Ravi stands by the door, rubbing his calloused hands anxiously.

Subramanayam: You have ruined my life! Your filthy untouchable sisters have rubbed their anti-god juices all over me!

Ravi: Well, I’m sorry. They weren’t filthy though, I specifically asked them to clean up before they … hold on, anti-god juices? What the hell are you talking about?

Subramanyam: Their deity repellent! The odourless colourless aroma that makes gods wrinkle their noses!

Ravi: I haven’t read about any of those things in the Ramayana or the Mahabharata. Admittedly there are some passages from the Upanishads I’ve only skimmed…

Subramanyam: The what? Look, I don’t know how it works. The gods work in mysterious ways.

Ravi: Mysterious ways?! Listen to yourself Subramanyam! You sound like a Christian!

Subramanyam: All I know is your filthy harlot sisters have destroyed my pristine spiritual elevation!

Ravi: Hey! Don’t talk like that! They were nice to you! You should be ashamed of yourself!

Subramanyam: An untouchable lecturing me!? More like unlistenable!

Subramanyam looks directly into the camera and shrugs.

Ravi: No Subramanyam. Those days are over.

He tosses an electronic box with wires coming out of it into the water

Subramanyam: The laugh track! You bastard! I’ll kill you!

Subramanyam awkwardly flounces out of the tub and charges, butt-naked, towards Ravi, who stands absolutely still. Just before Subramanyam crashes into Ravi, he slips on the wet floor.

Subramanyam: Gyar!

Ravi remains stone still. The two remain motionless for a long moment.

Subramanyam (rubbing his head where an ugly bruise is developing): Oh Ravi, what have I done? The only hurt I am suffering has come from my own stupidity. And look at you, so firm in your principles and the protection of the gods that you didn’t even try to avoid me.

Ravi (weakly): No. That’s not it. I wanted to run as fast as I could. But when I tried to turn, my calcium-deficient hip snapped like an eggshell. Ooh, egg. I am so hungry. As well as in indescribable pain. Please take me to a hospital.

Subramanyam (lost in introspection): So is everything I’ve ever believed wrong? Has my every waking moment been filled with lies? It’s a good thing I took so many naps…

Ravi: Blacking… out…

Subramanyam: But if so, what is my purpose here? I want so much to help people, yet I can no longer trust the only way I know! You must admit, Ravi, it is an impossible problem.

Ravi: Hospital … need … doctor …

Subramanyam: I must find a new way to help others. But I cannot start from scratch! I will go back to my Brahmin college and figure out where it all went wrong. And the best part is, you’re coming with me! We’ll play the same joke on them as you played on me!

Ravi: No joke … dying…

Ravi starts to collapse. Subramanyam, turning his face away and closing his eyes, reaches his arms out and catches him.

==

Scene 4: Ravi and Subramanyam are walking down a street. Subramanyam has a gigantic bandage wrapped around the bruise on his head. Ravi’s hip is covered with a sort of papier-mâché cast made of old newspapers. He is enthusiastically gesticulating despite a severe limp. Subramanyam is having trouble keeping up.

Ravi: … and then the nurse fainted! I guess she’d never seen so many maggots in someone’s chest cavity. And they called me Mr. Ravi! And then they gave me a full meal! And when I finished it they gave me more! Break my legs Subramanyam, I want to go back!

Subramanyam: I am happy you liked the hospital. I told the doctor that you were a Brahmin so he wouldn’t have any problem touching you during the operation. I’m so sorry about your hip.

Ravi: Oh don’t worry about it. Part of me is always broken. The people at this hospital are so nice. I used to scrounge through their garbage. Even when they knew I was untouchable they tried to help. Of course, they couldn’t touch me, so they tried their best to help me by throwing their tools and medical fluids at me. Nice people…

They round a corner. In front of them stands a gigantic temple. Every inch of the massive roof and the many columns is covered with painted carvings of gods.

Ravi: Shiva! You studied here? This is the home of gods!

Subramanyam: Yes. This is it. Come on in.

Ravi: No, I am not worthy. Let me prepare myself. Can you help me with my prayers?

Subramanyam: Certainly! Subramanyam’s Divine Consulting Services Incorporated can meet the holiness needs of any customer! Whether you need a simple blessing, prophetic babbling in an undecipherable language, or the direct intervention of a god, Subramanyam Consulting is your one-stop shop! For 5000 rupees I can arrange for a petition not exceeding 15 words to float to the celestial sphere. For an additional 3000 I can burn incense and perform a series of chants that will make your words pleasing to the ears of the gods. For 20000 I will make sacrifices that will guarantee the attention of at least one god – and sometimes as many as three! So my friend, what will it be?

Ravi: What can I get for, uh, three rupees?

Subramanyam: Three rupees?

Ravi: I had four, but I gave one to the maggots.

Subramanyam: How do you expect to pray for only three rupees?

Ravi: I didn’t know it cost so much. I’ve been doing it for free for years.

Subramanyam: Well no wonder the gods have been ignoring you. Look, here’s a hundred rupees. Don’t spend it all in one place.

Ravi (taking the bill with shaking hands): How could I possibly spend this much money in one place?

Ravi walks off the right side of the screen. The next moment, he walks in from the left side of the screen with an armful of packages. The two enter the temple and find a small shrine to Ganesh, the Elephant god. Ravi starts opening his packages.

Ravi: I sacrifice these items to you, oh wise Ganesh. Apparently you need them more than I do.

He places a few eggs, bananas, and antibiotics in the basket.

Subramanyam: What did you pray for?

Ravi: I prayed that Ganesh protect me from malnutrition and infection. Also that our crazy plan works.

They enter the temple.

==

Scene 5: A gigantic statue of the four-faced, all-knowing god Brahman dominates a large room. A few flickering torches cast a yellowish light over a trio of orange-robed men standing at the base of the statue next to a pile of offerings. They are absorbed in discussion.

Subramanyam: Hello my Brahmin friends, I …

Ravi (interrupting and awkwardly slapping Brahmin 1 on the back): Yes, we are all Brahmin here! Heh.

Subramanyam: Indeed. This is Sri Ramakrishnashivavishnu, a Brahmin from …

Brahmin 1 (dismissively): Yes yes. His coming was foretold. Where have you been all day Subi?

Subramanyam: Oh, it’s been a long day. I took a rickshaw to within sight of the untouchable district and I actually had brunch there. I had to spend the rest of the day recovering on the beach.

Brahmin 2: You should not tax yourself so, Subi. Why do you put your purity at such risk?

Subramanyam: I don’t know. I guess I feel bad for all the untouchables.

Brahmin 2: Bad? For them? But they are filth! After all the things they have done, they do not deserve your concern.

Ravi: What did we … uh … what did … (his face contorts, then becomes comically sly) They. Yes. They.

Brahmin 1: What the hell are you talking about?

Ravi: Oh. Sorry. What did … they do to deserve becoming untouchable?

Brahmin 2: Well, obviously they accumulated bad karma in their past life. If they had lived unimpeachable lives of uttermost purity and self-denial as we did, they would be reborn as Brahmin.

Ravi: Yes. Brahmin. Like me, and you. (he pokes Brahmin 2 in the chest) Uh, and you. (his finger reaches for Brahmin 3.)

Brahmin 3 (stepping out of reach): According to dreams the gods have been sending me lately, in a past life I was a Hindu emperor with a large harem.

Brahmin 2: Indeed? I recently discovered that some low-caste people had been spending the night under my balcony. My first instinct was to let them stay –

Brahmin 1 and 3 together: No!

Brahmin 2: -- but then I remembered that in their past lives they were cruel people who never would have helped anyone. You know how I hate unhelpful people. So I threw manure at them until they ran away, and kept throwing until I couldn’t see them through the monsoon rains.

Brahmin 3: As Rama shot arrows to dispel the demons, so flung you the dung. That reminds me, I must say my prayers. I’ll see you all later.

Subramanyam is jerking his head towards the as-yet untouched Brahmin 3. Ravi smiles benevolently at him and then, noticing his gesture, tries to give him a neck massage.

Subramanyam: No you idiot! Him! (He points at Brahmin 3)

Ravi turns, wobbles with indecision for a moment, then tackles Brahmin 3.

Brahmin 3: Hey! What’s going on?

Subramanyam: Oh nothing, uh uh, he thought he saw an untouchable behind you.

Brahmin 3: An untouchable? In here? What nonsense! Our god Brahman watches over us with his eight eyes, and he would never let anything so offensive into his temple. What is the meaning of all this foolishness!?

Ravi: Nothing. Nothing. I am sorry. I will go. I am unworthy.

Subramanyam: NO! It is the time for the truth. This man’s name is not actually Shivaramavishnukrishna …

Brahmin 2: Right. It’s Ramakrishnashivavishnu. You said so yourself.

Subramanyam: No! Damn it. The point is, his name is Ravi, and he is an untouchable.

Brahmin 1 (trying to reach the part of his back where he was slapped): But … but … he touched me. I will have to demand many more donations to become clean. You inconsiderate scoundrel! My houses are already filled with offerings, where will I put the overflow?

Brahmin 2 (rubbing his chest where he was poked): I will have to spend many evenings in opium-communion with the gods. There will be none left for my mistress, and I will hear about it! Curse your name!

They all turn to Brahmin 3. He is laughing.

Brahmin 3: Don’t you see? He cannot be untouchable! He walks under the sight of Brahman, and we three – all 10th level Brahmin at least – are oblivious to his cursed nature? It is inconceivable. It is all a clever joke, isn’t it Subramanyam?

Subramanyam: No! Ravi here (he looks around for a moment before pulling Ravi out of his hiding place under a table) Ravi here is no Brahmin! He is a member of the lowest, most degraded, unmistakably tainted, profoundly debased caste of all. His everyday companions are vermin and filth, and the meager sustenance he consumes to prolong his horrible life makes vomit look like a feast fit for a king.

Ravi gives a sheepish smile, revealing indescribable things between his teeth.

Brahmin 3 (looking a bit uncertain): Well … I have it! The wicked untouchables kidnapped an innocent Brahmin boy and brainwashed him by raising him as one of their own. They probably treated him like their very own son!

Brahmin 2: The monsters!

Brahmin 3: Yes! But now he is back among the fold. All along, you were doing the bidding of the gods by bringing him to us. Ah Subramanyam, how we envy you your role as the tool of the gods. But we can still do our part! Come my brothers, let us complete our god’s work this day and hunt down the foul kidnappers!

From somewhere under their robes, the three Brahmin pull out an assortment of wicked-looking knives and tommy-guns.

Ravi: My parents? What are you going to do to my parents?

Brahmin 3: They were never your parents, Ravi. We are your family now.

Ravi: I don’t want to be in your family! You people are parasites! No, you are worse than parasites! When they’ve all been fed, they leave the rest for me. But not you! No, the more you eat, the hungrier you become!

Brahmin 2: Hey Subi, you say this guy is an untouchable, but I think he’s more of an unlisten…

Subramanyam places his hand on his shoulder and shakes his head.

Ravi (continuing): And Tapewormji never looks down on me. You say I’m untouchable, but he can’t stop attaching himself to me! And when I haven’t eaten for a few weeks, my lice and gnats and fleas and I, we all suffer as one. We’re all down in the filth together. But you people haul us down into the mud and then despise us for being dirty! No. I do not want to be a Brahmin. I would rather be host than parasite.

The three Brahmin stare at Ravi for a long moment.

Brahmin 3: If ever this man was a Brahmin, he has long since turned from the right path. We must make an example of this despoiler! We must teach him his place.

Brahmin 2 fetches a large barrel from off-screen.

Brahmin 3: Let this man’s untouchability be enforced! Anyone touching him will be marked, and their shame will be known to all!

Brahmin 2 tilts the barrel over Ravi. Thick black sludge pours out, completely covering Ravi, who collapses under the torrent. Brahmin 1 holds Subramanyam back.

Brahmin 3: Your flesh is now stained as dark as your soul. Anyone who touches you will be held in utter contempt! No Brahmin will have anything to do with anyone who breaks this taboo!

A sudden breeze from outside rattles the windows and blows out the torches. The room is thrown into complete darkness. Some scuffling noises are heard. After a few moments, Brahmin 2 lights another torch. Ravi is still prostate on the floor. Subramanyam is sitting on the barrel. Brahmin 1 and 3 are fumbling with other torches.

Brahmin 3: Let’s get going already! These untouchables aren’t going to oppress themselves!

Brahmin 2: Look!

He is pointing at the statue of Brahman. As more torches are lit, the source of his distress becomes clear. The fingers of the statue are dripping with the same black sludge covering Ravi.

Brahmin 1: But… it can’t be…

Subramanyam helps Ravi up, hastily using his hands to wipe away the worst of the grime from Ravi’s face. He holds up his blackened hands.

Subramanyam: I for one am proud to do the same as Brahman.

With much hesitation, the Brahmin all touch Ravi.

Brahmin 1: This changes everything! If the gods want us to touch untouchables, then we must completely rewrite the rules of caste. Yes! Untouchables will now be Huggables, and everyone will have to hug them whenever they see them or we will curse them from the sight of the gods!

Brahmin 2: Yes! And since the gods love them so much, we will use them in our rituals. We can rub our statues on them before we pray!

Brahmin 1: For luck! We will surround ourselves with untouch…, I mean huggables!

Brahmin 2: Collect them all!

They surround Ravi and start cleaning him off.

Ravi (still dripping with goo): I am touched by your concern, heh…

He smiles expectantly, but they simply continue wiping him, oblivious.

Ravi: … but couldn’t we just forget all about this whole caste business? Can’t we just treat people nicely? Everyone the same?

Brahmin 3: But then what will we Brahmin do? Caste is all we know.

==

Scene 6: Later

Close up of Brahmin 2. He is on a marble balcony, tossing a bucket of excrement at a target underneath. “I’ll teach you!” he yells.

The camera pans out. Beneath the balcony a group of ill-kempt people in well-made, over-sized clothes are tending a garden. Brahmin 2 yells down to them. “You’ve got to spread it out to help the plants grow! That’s it! You guys are quick learners!”

The camera pans out further. The house is stuffed and surrounded with huge numbers of smiling, skinny people. Brahmin 3 and other fatter men are wandering among them handing out packages. Subramanyam is seen laughing as he pulls Brahmin 1 away from an attractive young untouchable girl he was hugging.

The camera swoops over to Ravi, who is scraping half of the food on his plate onto the ground for a mass of insects. He eats the rest. The camera follows the food into his mouth and down his throat. A gigantic tapeworm comes into view. It gobbles down some of the food. Still chewing, it looks straight at the camera and gives a huge CGI smile and wink.

The End

Gone Efficient

2006-10-09T09:42:00.000-04:00

Alright everyone! Everyone settle into your chairs now. Quiet please. Yeah, get comfortable. You’ve all no doubt noticed how comfortable your seats are. Let me tell you something about those chairs. They are what today’s seminar is all about! They are the embodiment of what I have to say to you! The difference between the metal folding chairs and the La-Z-Boys you’re in now – that’s the difference in your life before and after this seminar. Already, I can tell that you can tell the difference. It’s nice, isn’t it? Your heartbeat is as much as 32% slower. Your muscles are at least 12% more slack. Maybe a bit of drool is dribbling down your chin, like that guy. Look at him, he’s already asleep! No, no! Don’t wake him up. He doesn’t need to listen to me. He’s already an expert.

We are here to learn about efficiency. About productivity! Because you and I, my friends, we are the kind of people who want to make our mark on the world. And that mark is a pair of ovals on a couch. That mark is a collection of Cheetos powder thumbprints all over a game controller.

But it’s never easy, is it? There’s always something in the way! You can’t roll over without flopping onto someone hassling you. Something that needs to be done. And it always has to be done now, doesn’t it? What the hell is wrong with later? That’s what I want to know! The world really has it in for those of us who know what’s important in this life. It seems as soon as we sit down, someone’s got to pick us back up.

But we’re not the kind to give up on giving up, are we? No! That’s why you’re all here. We’re the type of people who will slink off no matter who is depending on us. We will show up late for the best job in the world, and damn the consequences! I’m not here to tell you who you are. No. I’m here to do what the world won’t. I’m here to tell you how to be the best that you can possibly be! I’m here to tell you how to reach your dreams! It’s simple. Go to sleep.

You guys aren’t idiots. When you came to this seminar, you made damn sure there were no good shows on. If you were lucky or smart, you even managed to get out of work and you’re getting paid to listen to me! And I know damn well none of you walked here! We’ve all got better things to do than put one foot in front of the other. I was watching when all of you pulled up here. I swear, I’ve never seen more double-parked rust-buckets in my life! And I smiled when I saw it, because I was thinking, “These guys get it. They really get it.”

No. You guys aren’t idiots. But I’ve devoted my life to the cause of not devoting my life to anything, and I’ve picked up a few tricks on the way. And now I’m going to make them yours. They’re all here in my book – well, more of a pamphlet really – “The 7 Hide-outs of Highly Evasive People.” Every chapter is packed with tips on how to maximize your achievements in the field of leisure-nomics. It starts in chapter one by describing how most people are misdirected by their ambition and don’t reach their leisure-nomic potential. And then it’s all brought together in the last chapter – called “losing the saw” – on the techniques for preventing what I like to call “time-stealers” from preventing you from reaching a state of “luxuriance” – which is exactly the same as luxury but I get a dollar whenever someone uses it.

For example, I’m sure you guys all watch TV. Heck, you’re probably pretty good at it. But there’s so much you can be doing at the same time. You could be drinking beer. You could be eating cheese. You could have two TVs, each showing a separate show so that you can direct your attention from one to the other during commercial breaks and slow bits without having to move.

I know one guy who is so capable of this multi-tasking that he can watch TV and sleep at the same time. He gets an additional eight hours of leisure every day because he never even has to go bed. Which is just as well, since his wife won’t let him. Genius is never appreciated in its own time.

So let’s talk about the wife. Oh, no one wants to hear that! No one person is more responsible for all the chores and drudgery in the house. No one person is so associated in the luxuriant man’s thoughts with ‘long suffering’ as the wife! You get nagged and nagged about how you have to do the yard work until you finally give in and throw a tarp over it. But that’s never enough, is it?! No! I tell you, I don’t think there are enough tarps in the world to stop a wife from nagging. Doing what she asks is not the solution. Giving in to nagging is what I call “anti-luxuriant thinking.”

This kind of thinking is everywhere, but especially at work. The very idea of work is anti-luxuriant! But an energetic man can turn every deadline into naptime. The tips in chapter 4 can make that man you! Chapter 5 uncovers – mostly through easy-to-understand pictures – your boss’s psychology, and teaches you how to straddle the hammock-line between being incompetent enough that no one trusts you with anything important, and not being so incompetent that you’re fired.

I tell you, this book has everything! Chapter 6 talks about the technology that can make your life easier, but catheters aren’t cheap – Chapter 7 reveals how to … but listen to me, droning on. Chapter 12 discusses how to behave at boring events so that no one stops you from leaving, and I don’t want anyone to feel a need for that.

No doubt, you’re all feeling a powerful need to just get home and sweat after all this, and no one wants to fall asleep on the can more than me. But take a copy of my book with you. For a very reasonable price, you’ll be into the sack of man you’ve always wanted to be. No, don’t get up! I’ll bring it to you.

My Annual Thanksgiving List - The Death Match between Thankful and Not Thankful

2006-10-04T16:31:00.000-04:00

What I Am Thankful For...

1.I am thankful that at least beauty pageant contestants still opt for world peace over nuclear proliferation and kick-ass fighter jets.

2. I am pleased to report that in the past year I have not been eviscerated, hit by a car, had any body parts amputated, spent any significant amount of time in a medieval torture chamber, screamed in agony while jack-booted fascists trod upon my face, been boiled in a vat of burning oil, been savaged by wild beasts, had to take a cyanide capsule to avoid revealing state secrets, etc., etc., etc.

3.I am ever so appreciative that Thanksgiving involves stuff that is pleasant to eat. As opposed to Arbour Day feasts, which always leave splinters in my mouth. And it’s probably best not to talk too much about what my family eats to celebrate Labour Day.

4. I am thankful that my parents saw fit to endow my name with an appropriate number of vowels and consonants, unlike their prototype child, Mghn Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

5. I am thankful that thus far I have successfully avoided stepping through a hole in the space-time continuum. I don’t really want to socialize with my future self, her future lay-about husband or her future precocious kids. I hate that bitch already.

6. I am gratified by the fact that my computer is still marginally stupider than me.

7. I am thankful that, every few decades, people from many nations manage to get together, hold hands and sing about how much they like Coke. Seriously, who needs the UN when we have soft drinks?

What Not To Be Thankful For…

1. Gourds, the untouchables of the pumpkin family.

2. People who give kids boxes of raisins on Halloween (Really, if you feel the overwhelming urge to be a bastard, at least hand out apples and let the cherubs have fun searching for concealed razor blades.)

3. Every Thanksgiving you creep one day closer to death. Think about it. Let it sink in.

4. Democracy, which really means “Rule of the people who would rather read 'People' ” In the next election, polls predict that 30% of voters will bid in favour of Team Aniston over ‘that guy with the hair’ and ‘the other guy without any hair’.

5. Pilgrims bearing thoughtful gifts … like smallpox and blankets also infected with smallpox.

6. The cornucopia, which is perhaps the most useless object ever invented.

7. Gratitude – what did an abstract concept ever do for you?

Winner: The two were pretty even but I think I'm going to have to be thankful by default because Matt has started posting again and Paddy hasn't gone batshit crazy from the malaria pills yet. Of course, Patrick, if you grow a moustache, my unthankfulness may resurrect all the charred turkey corpses in the universe. Be mindful of this always.

Ronery

2006-09-29T20:36:00.000-04:00

It's been several months since Meghan and Pat fucked their last and let the silly issue of 20,000 or so kilometres get between them (only 13,000 as the happy old crow flies! i.e., right through mantle and magma). And in that time, I've done some thinking. I've had a lot of women, sure -- most on the rebound, their red hair shimmering while I stroke their gigantic fur hats or idly page through their teachers' editions as they implore me not to tell our mutual friends. Or asiatic and weirdly Christian, inexplicably obsessed with blogging their quotidian, self-contradictory lives for the receipt of eprops. Here or there I may have accidentally picked up a "girlfriend" -- I don't know what they tell themselves after I'm done with them and change my phone number.

But the longer I think about it, the clearer the problem becomes: Western women just expect too much! If a little thing like skepticism about her all-consuming philosophy of life or a mere planet can get in the way, what hope do we have for forging classical, man-on-top relationships? (You know, like the ones in the old movies -- everyone was happy! Go watch them, you'll see!)

Stricken by my revelation, I turned to the sweet misogyny of the internet. Here would be no foul suffragettes, no demanding harpies with their "Let's have dinner out tonight" or "Stop that, it hurts." There was only one place to turn: Google, you ever-receptive, ever-subordinate entity, if only you had a vagina! Yes I am feeling lucky!

women +submission +relationship +kinky

Once I weeded through several million sites with women who were likely not interested in long term relationships, I thought I had found my answer: Thai brides! The very obviousness of the idea left me breathless. How could I have missed it for so long!?

Unfortunately, I fear I must lack some invisible element of character -- some nobility of spirit -- that these women find attractive. How else could I explain the rogue's gallery of serial killers and creepy old men that such women seem to favour?

Hello Sweet Singles, Hope you still remember me. In January 2002, I went to Thailand and joined your services for serveral introductions and met up with
Kittyaporn Somlid who is now with me in England.

And blimey, she sure knows how to rub a man's knickers! It was her name that first drew me to 'er, but she's so much more to me now than kiddy porn! That's right 'on, keep it up and pretty soon you'll make me a brand new little girl . . .

A Norwegian Gentleman and Our Sweet Singles Thai lady are married now.
The lady has relocated to OSLO, NORWAY.

You can tell by the capitalization that they're desperate for you to believe them. "Of course she hasn't been brutally murdered by a sick Viking with a gaff hook and a penchant for buggery! SHE IS IN OSLO, NORWAY."

Thank you to Sweet Singles & Amazing Thai for bringing a lovely Thai wife to my life. Aom is a nice Thai lady who is caring, loving, generous and has good hospitality.

I think that means she takes it in the butt. Also, if you look to the right of that picture you can see what's going to be her grave in about 40 minutes.

*** We are sorry that the first lady decided not to marry Aage so he came to Thailand for the second trip and found another lovely sweet single to marry with. Aage has sent their pictures together to replace his previous pictures.

I'm not sure why this story merits three asterisks. But don't let that distract you from how pathetic this guy is: he couldn't keep his mail order bride interested.

He also looks more like a serial killer than even the swamp guy did. I'm sure his name is John Earl Pike or Gary Blane Stark or something creepy like that.

Hi, We are brothers from Denmark.
We live in the same house, we joined Sweet Singles at the same day and the same plan,
we came to Thailand at the same day, same month, same year and the same flight TG951.

Too bad the Danish brothers who live together couldn't find Thai mail order brides who were sisters, because then they would have been THE CREEPIEST FUCKING THING EVER.

In my day I've seen a lot of pornography, political family shots, and fraternity house photos. And I've never seen a girl look so much like a hunting trophy as in this picture.

At last, you think. A normal couple. But look at the guy for a while. He's thin. He's clean. He seems friendly. And yet -- he has a Thai mail order bride.

He's the creepiest one of all. What's your hidden horrible flaw?

==

And so ended my foray into finding zero-demand women in the yellower parts of the world. I fear I may end up in my dotage all alone, pondering the mysteries of a gender that can't do math or set a clock and yet expects to be treated as human. On the other hand, I don't have to fly all the way to Thailand for trim as long as my friends keep breaking up with hotties.

Brahmin and Untouchable, part deux: HILARIOUS SUBTITLE

2006-09-22T01:01:00.000-04:00

Patrick came down from the mountaintop when I was worshipping the golden calf and praying to Lord Baal. But instead of stabbing my heathen heart and passing out some rules engraved on stone tablets, he e-mailed me this story and told me to post it. At first, I was tempted to claim it as my own since Paddy has screwed me over several times, 'forgetting' to give me credit at the moment when my writing skillz had reached the peak of their glory (a sort of literary apotheosis, if you will). But no, I won't colonize poor third-world Paddy's writing. That would just be downright British.

---------

Scene 3:

Subramanyam is naked and blubbering in a pool of hot water. Ravi stands by the door, rubbing his calloused hands anxiously.

Subramanayam: You have ruined my life! Your filthy untouchable sisters have rubbed their anti-god juices all over me!

Ravi: Well, I’m sorry. They weren’t filthy though, I specifically asked them to clean up before they … hold on, anti-god juices? What the hell are you talking about?

Subramanyam: Their deity repellent! The odourless colourless aroma that makes gods wrinkle their noses!

Ravi: I haven’t read about any of those things in the Ramayana, the Mahabharata. Admittedly there are some passages from the Upanishads I’ve only skimmed…

Subramanyam: The what? Look, I don’t know how it works. The gods work in mysterious ways.

Ravi: Mysterious ways?! Listen to yourself Subramanyam! You sound like a Christian!

Subramanyam: All I know is your filthy harlot sisters have destroyed my pristine spiritual elevation!

Ravi: Hey! Don’t talk like that! They were nice to you! You should be ashamed of yourself!

Subramanyam: An untouchable lecturing me!? More like unlistenable!

Subramanyam looks directly into the camera and shrugs.

Ravi: No Subramanyam. Those days are over.

He tosses an electronic box with wires coming out of it into the water

Subramanyam: The laugh track! You bastard! I’ll kill you!

Subramanyam awkwardly flounces out of the tub and charges, butt-naked, towards Ravi , who stands absolutely still. Just before Subramanyam crashes into Ravi , he slips on the wet floor.

Subramanyam: Gyar!

Ravi remains stone still. The two remain motionless for a long moment.

Subramanyam (rubbing his head where an ugly bruise is developing): Oh Ravi, what have I done? The only hurt I am suffering has come from my own stupidity. And look at you, so firm in your principles and the protection of the gods that you didn’t even try to avoid me.

Ravi (weakly): No. That’s not it. I wanted to run as fast as I could. But when I tried to turn, my calcium-deficient hip snapped like an eggshell. Ooh, egg. I am so hungry. As well as in indescribable pain. Please take me to a hospital.

Subramanyam: So is everything I’ve ever believed wrong? Has my every waking moment been filled with lies? It’s a good thing I took so many naps…

Ravi: Blacking… out…

Subramanyam: But if so, what is my purpose here? I want so much to help people, yet I can no longer trust the only way I know! You must admit, Ravi, it is an impossible problem.

Ravi: Hospital … need … doctor …

Subramanyam: I must find a new way to help others. But I cannot start from scratch! I will go back to my Brahmin college and figure out where it all went wrong. And the best part is, you’re coming with me! We’ll play the same joke on them as you played on me!

Ravi: No joke … dying…

Ravi starts to collapse. Subramanyam, turning his face away and closing his eyes, reaches his arms out and catches him.

==

Scene 3

Ravi and Subramanyam are walking down a street. Subramanyam has a gigantic bandage wrapped around the bruise on his head. Ravi ’s hip is covered with a sort of papier-mâché cast made of old newspapers. He is enthusiastically gesticulating despite a severe limp. Subramanyam is still having trouble keeping up.

Ravi: … and then the nurse fainted! I guess she’d never seen so many maggots in someone’s chest cavity. And they called me Mr. Ravi! And then they gave me a full meal! And when I finished it they gave me more! Break my legs, Subramanyam, I want to go back!

Subramanyam: I am happy you liked the hospital. I told the doctor that you were a Brahmin so he wouldn’t have any problem touching you during the operation. I’m so sorry about your hip.

Ravi: Oh don’t worry about it. Part of me is always broken. The people at this hospital are so nice. I used to scrounge through their garbage. Even when they knew I was untouchable they tried to help. Of course, they couldn’t touch me, so they tried their best to help me by throwing their tools and medical fluids at me. Nice people…

They round a corner. In front of them stands a gigantic temple. Every inch of the massive roof and the many columns is covered with painted carvings of gods.

Ravi: Shiva! You studied here? This is the home of gods!

Subramanyam: Yes. This is it. Come on in.

Ravi: No, I am not worthy. Let me prepare myself. Can you help me with my prayers?

Subramanyam: Certainly! Subramanyam’s Divine Consulting Services Incorporated can meet the holiness needs of any customer! Whether you need a simple blessing, prophetic babbling in an undecipherable language, or the direct intervention of a god, Subramanyam Consulting is your one-stop shop! For 5000 rupees I can arrange for a petition not exceeding 15 words to float to the celestial sphere. For an additional 3000 I can burn incense and perform a series of chants that will make your words pleasing to the ears of the gods. For 20000 I will make sacrifices that will guarantee the attention of at least one god – and sometimes as many as three! So my friend, what will it be?

Ravi: What can I get for, uh, three rupees?

Subramanyam: Three rupees?

Ravi: I had four, but I gave one to the maggots.

Subramanyam: How do you expect to pray for only three rupees?

Ravi: I didn’t know it cost so much. I’ve been doing it for free for years.

Subramanyam: Well no wonder the gods have been ignoring you. Look, here’s a hundred rupees. Don’t spend it all in one place.

Ravi (taking the bill with shaking hands): How could I possibly spend this much money in one place?

Ravi walks off the right side of the screen. The next moment, he walks in from the left side of the screen with an armful of packages. The two enter the temple and find a small shrine to Ganesh, the Elephant god. Ravi starts opening his packages.

Ravi : I sacrifice these items to you, oh wise Ganesh. Apparently you need them more than I do.

He places a few eggs, bananas, and antibiotics in the basket.

Subramanyam: What did you pray for?

Ravi : I prayed that Ganesh protect me from malnutrition and infection. Also that our crazy plan works.

They enter the Brahmin living area of the temple.

Lyrical Psychoanalysis: Freud gets funky with the '80s

2006-09-17T16:34:00.000-04:00

“If I Was Your Mother,” by Jon Bon Jovi

This song revolves around Jon Bon Jovi’s self-castration yearnings, most particularly his desire to become his lover’s mother - a twist on the more typical Oedipal urge to become his mother’s lover. Particularly telling are lyrics like, “Tell me there's no mother/To who (sic) you're telling your secrets/ And would you tell me/ 'Bout all the boys you been bringing home to meet me?” in which Mr. Bon Jovi details the gender confusion that quite likely prompted him to get his bangs feathered. His jealousy stems not from the hypothetical boyfriends the girl is bring home, but from the idea that she might confide secrets about her trysts to someone other than himself. This voyeuristic fascination demonstrates that Bon Jovi is unready to be a full participant in a relationship and must confine himself to the marginal role of mother/eunuch. Grammar is far too phallic an enterprise for this frightened young man. The singer’s fantasies about tucking his partner/child into bed at night and kissing her “sweet goodnight” suggest that he is a neurotic who, in repressing his adult desires, subliminates these urges into childhood memories.

Diagnosis: Jon Bon Jovi is a man-child who, in trying to return to the latency phase, can only fixate on his hair.

“Hungry Like the Wolf” by Duran Duran

It’s obvious even from their band name that Duran Duran suffer from repetition compulsion. “Hungry Like the Wolf” is a particularly apt example of this psychological quandary. The titular simile comparing the singer’s wish for physical gratification to that of a lupine creature recurs more than twelve times in the song, as if Duran and Duran need to continually reaffirm their own existence. The humanoid wolf’s endless pursuit of an unknown fugitive seems to signify the hopeless quest for meaning in a random universe.

Diagnosis: Duran Duran are Syphillis – I mean, Sisyphus, pushing ‘80s rock music uphill for all eternity.

“Physical,” by Olivia Newton-John

From the beginning, this pop song centers around Ms. Newton-John’s desire to take on the phallic role in a sexual relationship. The lyrics “It’s getting hard, this holding back/ If you know what I mean,” seem to imply that the female singer imagines herself to possess a stiffening phallus. Yet, in spite of her wish to play the male role in a relationship, Newton-John is ill-equipped to “get into physical”. Recognizing that she cannot engage in genital penetration, the singer resigns herself to the role of ear/orifice as she sings, “Let me hear your body talk”.

Diagnosis: Olivia Newton-John demonstrates a typical resolution of the confusion and anger experienced by young girls in the throes of penis envy.

How To Do Anything Better: Writing a Romance Novel

2006-09-11T22:45:00.000-04:00

Writing a good romance novel is difficult because, by definition, romance novels suck. If I had a vacuum cleaner that sucked as thoroughly and efficiently as most romance novels, I would not at this moment have a carpet bedecked with bits of lint and cookie crumble. They are crimes against humanity in paperback form. They are appalling trite, eye-jabbingly melodramatic, and perhaps worst of all, the sex scenes are full of so many euphemisms that Lord Dirk and his bosomy scullery maid, Bettina (she’s actually the Earl of Northopshire’s illegimate daughter!), could be practicing calligraphy together for all we know. I can’t count the number of times I’ve found a book on my mother’s nightstand with a title such as “Love’s Forbidden Passions,” and cracked open the flower-festooned cover only to discover that it was 250 pages of Bettina swooning while Lord Dirk converses with the stable boys about stag-hunting and rides bare-back, gripping the stallion with his muscular thighs. Like, what the fuck are you doing, Dirk? If you want to write a romance novel that doesn’t make people want to volunteer for a lobotomy, you need to up the sex factor. After all, this is reason women have chosen to buy your book instead of War and Peace.

After you’ve added in a couple trysts between Bettina and Countess Goodfeather, you might want to think about making something explode. This is good way to get rid of expendable characters that you created solely for the purpose of facilitating sex scenes. After the first fifty pages, all the manor’s unattractive menials should die in a fire, be sent to a penal colony or spontaneously combust. Otherwise, those lumpen deformities will just be clutter, getting in the way of the steamy action occurring between the sexy characters. Kill those toads quick before they pollute your narrative with their homespun homilies and icky poverty. An explosion is also a reliable way to get your main characters to have more sex, which is the sole purpose of your entire plot. After all, in the rubble of the once pristine manor, Countess Goodfeather will need some comforting and Dirk, I think you’re just the man to do it. Or, if not, I guess we’ll just have to settle for Gus the swarthy stable boy.

Finally, a romance novel needs a fantastic ending. As a general rule, a good ending should not feature any marriage proposals, weddings, sunsets, sunrises, steeds rearing back on their hind-legs or small, blond and no doubt, precocious, children who have been reared to stand upon their hind-legs. A romance novel should end in a way that demonstrates what true love and lasting bliss are really all about. In case, there is any doubt about this, I will now leave you with an example of an exceptional romance novel ending. It may, indeed, be the most perfect romance novel ending of ALL TIME:

Lord Dirk slowly lifted his head from Countess Goodfeather’s well-formed crotch. His tongue was swollen with love. “I coub gib you orl sx ab day!” quoth he.
“Pardon me, my plum?” Countess Goodfeather said, raising her head from the pillow to gaze into his azure eyes.
Her lord took a moment to compose himself before replying. “I said, my sweet sugar cube, that you are the most enchanting woman I have ever known and that it would be my pleasure to give you oral sex all day!”
Countess Goodfeather laughed, “Why, my darling, you already have. Would you like another slice of pizza? Maybe one slathered in barbecue sauce with some large, greasy strips of bacon on it?”
“Yes, please,” her dearest Dirkling replied. “And you could grab me another beer from the fridge?”
“Lakeport Honey Brown or Guinness?”
“How about one of each, you stingy bitch?” Dirk said, kissing her ivory hand.
Countess smiled. “I’ll get you two of each, you greedy fucker!”

And she did just that.
THE END

*Sob* It’s so beeyooootifullll!!!!1111

Guidelines of a good Conservative party

2006-09-04T01:11:00.000-04:00

Contained herein are the guidelines and strictures to which every happening shindig must adhere. Deviation from the Party Line will not be tolerated, be it a congo line, line-dancing, or one-liners. Conservatives believe that a good party can rock hard, provided it does so in a manner consistent with tradition.

But now is not the time for filibuster. On to the regulations!

Neighbourly Conduct

Previous party-goers have damaged relations with the neighbours based on their loud music, gay make-out sessions and drunken ranting. Conservatives abhor this state of affairs, especially considering the quantity of guns the neighbours own. While partying, it is important to remember that when the sun comes up and the party is over, your neighbours are still there. Therefore, we believe in keeping the noise down as much as possible and even inviting the neighbours by for a cocktail from time to time.

Of course, restraint is always in order. Under no conditions should you invite the neighbours over for a drunken night of Irish tunes. No one will come to your parties for years.

Drinks Policy

A good Conservative Party is BYOB. We have enough respect for our party-goers to not force them into an inefficient centrally-managed drink procurement network. They will select beverages based on their own preferences and budgets. So don’t touch our booze.

If people wish to consume carbonated drinks – or even just dump them all over the place, that is totally fine with us. If it should get hot in here and the funk levels rise to dangerous heights, we will take full responsibility. Such eventualities are natural consequence of a well-run party, and crackpot scientific theories to the contrary should be discounted.

If you drink excessively, we have no problem with you paying a doctor for a speedy bout of stomach-pumping. We will not stand in your way as you stumble about. You will receive a bill for anything you break or vomit on a more convenient time. We have that much respect for the sanctity of your horrible decisions.

Party Size

In our opinion, a good party is a big party. Every effort should be made to have your friends and relatives join the party. We welcome members of all colours and creeds, No but seriously, just be white like Jesus, okay? While minorities are fine, they’ll just make you hungry for more in an hour.

One good Conservative idea of late has been to start organizing more parties in Quebec. Their alcohol is taxed less heavily, which is nice both in principle and in practice. Be sure to try and take some notes on their mysterious language, if you get the chance. Our best people are still trying to decipher its secret.

Conservative parties don’t accept anyone below the legal drinking age. If you happen to have children at home but you want to come to the party, just duct-tape them to the wall or something. They’ll be fine. And if they’re not, you can just buy more, right? How are babies manufactured anyway?

Lastly, it would be nice to have some more women join the party. While in most cases there is no such thing as too much meat, here it is unacceptable. If any women do happen to drop by, be sure to serve them the good stuff from the liquor cabinet.

Permissible Party Games

No games featuring drugs or male-female contact are permitted. Also, we do not endorse potentially homosexual games, so male-male contact and female-female contact is also forbidden. We believe that touching children should be punishable by seventeen million death penalties, so playing any games with anyone less than 16 is also forbidden. Throwing balls in or around the house is similarly forbidden. In fact, if you feel the urge to play a game, it probably means you should go get a job. Put down the hackey sack and get a haircut you goddamn hippy.

War games are also encouraged. If, while playing one, you drink too much and wake up next to an opium field in some dusty country, it means you lost.

Permissible Party Music

A good party should not be taxing. That is why the best music is nicely melodic and soothing on the nerves. Anything rhythmic is to be avoided, as the wallets of Conservative partiers will cause massive toonie-sized welts on their hips.

We don’t care if the music is Canadian or not.

Personae Non Grata

Under no circumstances is Jack Layton to be allowed admission into Conservative parties. His drunken offers of ‘moustache rides’ to women of decorum are an embarrassment, and are best restricted to his own poorly-attended parties.

On the other hand, Michael Ignatieff is welcome to drop by at any point. He’s dreamy.

Final Notes

With these suggestions in hand, you’re ready to get a couple hundred friends together and rock the nation. Follow the rules and keep a tidy appearance and you will be running the coolest party around in no time!

But remember, parties aren’t about having fun. They’re about networking and getting a group of people together to get things done. A good party is really an institution for deflecting responsibility and blame away from the individual. So, if you wake up the next morning with a hazy memory of having done things you really shouldn’t have, you can always just blame it on the party!

Enter the Reaper...

2006-09-04T00:46:00.000-04:00

I’m sad to report that there has been a death in the family. On Aug. 29th, at 6:05 PM, my computer belched forth its last page of Internet porn and died.

Oh dolorous day!

Ever since that moment, I have worn sackcloth and rubbed ash into my hair instead of Herbal Essences. Nowadays, when I bother to eat, I only have one ice cream sundae instead of two and I just wind up nibbling at the rainbow sprinkles because I am very melancholy and blue. No laptop shall ever fill the computer-shaped void in my heart that my Dell has left, not even my new Toshiba Satellite Pro A110 that has ever so much more RAM and looks so sleek and aerodynamic that I bet it could fly to the moon.

I shall now relate to you the touching scene, the final moments between myself and my dear friend, Dell. Even now, I find myself wiping errant tears from my eyes.

(INTERIOR, Meghan’s basement apartment. Meghan gazes into the screen of her Dell laptop, her eyes brimming with affection. The Dell stares back at her, radiating love and potentially cancer-causing radiation.)

MEGHAN: Oh, Dell, I’m so happy. I hope that we can stay like this forever, you and I, writing offensive, self-indulgent articles for the Shoe and Whore, researching inane facts on Wikipedia, finding new and exciting ways to contract horrible computer viruses…I can see us growing old together, watching the little MP3s at play, and walking into the sunset, hand in hand.

DELL: BZZZZZZZZSHHHGGGGGBZZZZZZZZAAAAGGGGG

MEGHAN: You’re so sweet! Give me a kiss!

DELL: BRRRRZZZZZZZZZGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG *click* *wheeze*

MEGHAN: Dell, what’s wrong? You’re deleting all my files. What mischance has set our sweet love asunder?

DELL: BRRZZZZAGGGHBRRRRRZZZZZZ *blip*

MEGHAN: Fuck you, too, you insufferable cad!

DELL: BRTTTTTTTTTIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTZZZZZZZITTTTTT *death rattle*

MEGHAN: Gah! GAHHHH! GAHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGG! I’ve killed him! Must burn evidence… but first, a lullaby, my dearest darling, to carry you to your eternal rest on the sweet wings of Poesy. Oh, Dell, I can remember the first day we met, the day when, Dude, I got you. Why, we were only children then and I didn’t even know what craigslist was. You taught me. You taught me about what it meant to really live and perhaps that is why you had to die. Know that on this day, my soul dies with you, oh my Dell. Goodnight, sweet prince. When I look to the majesty of the night sky, I know that you will be looking down on me and sending me your infinite bitmap blessings. I know that you will be talking to me from your place in the heavens and as purple clouds lour upon the horizon and crystalline stars unfurl across the sky, you will tell me - “Simba, remmmmember!” Now I shall close your eyelids and take you to a secret place where neither time nor the vagaries of Internet Explorer shall touch you. And, from this day forward, I declare that Aug 29th will be a day of commemoration, a time of remembrance and reflection, otherwise known as My Crappy Dell Day. Upon this sacred day, all laptop users will observe a moment of silence and give thanks for the poor Dell souls that fought in the trenches and died in the mud for all of us. Can you hear the bells tolling, darling Dell? They toll for thee. For THEE!

Stephen Harper Loves Us All From a Safe Distance

2006-08-25T20:07:00.000-04:00

The news media are raising a big stink, a hullabaloo if you will, about the fact that Stephen Harper didn’t attend the recent International AIDS Conference in Toronto. They claim that our prime minister’s decision to bypass the event signals a failure in leadership and an astonishing lack of concern for the hundreds of millions of people who are struggling to win the fight against AIDS. Yet, amidst the media sturm-und-drang, I think we’re forgetting that Stephen Harper is a person with feelings and weird plastic hair and even hobbies, a person who likes to go curling, who likes to restore Louis Quinze cabinets, and occasionally, to ignore the fact that many, many people are dying, so that he can go and visit the Arctic Circle where people don’t die so much as freeze and thaw again in 600 years.

Now, I think all the world’s children can agree that AIDS is bad, humanitarian aid is good and Kool-aid is even better. But does that mean that Stephen Harper should have to sacrifice precious hours of his life learning about the human suffering caused by HIV and AIDS? I mean, we are talking about a deadly, incurable virus ravaging already impoverished countries and leaving innumerable child orphans – it’s enough to make the Middle East look like a country jamboree. Downers like the AIDS conference are the reason God invented bureaucrats. Stephen Harper may not have actually gone to the event but he was kind enough to send a man who has very likely stood within five to ten meters of his august presence. Some impudent babblers may call this man a mere minister but he has Stephen-Dust on his cheeks and Harper-Love in his heart - what more can anyone ask for? And yes, it is entirely unfair to expect Harper to make a convincing cardboard cut-out of himself. For shame, Canada, for shame!

Admittedly, it’s important to avoid stirring up bad blood (Haha, you get it? Canadian Blood Services, holla back!) between the prime minister and the international community, but at some point, we need to realize that prime ministers are much like Cyndi Lauper. They just want to have fun. And what exactly is more fun than the International AIDS Conference? One could cite, for example, boning hookers with leaky condoms. What else is more fun? Prying a fishhook out of one’s upper lip. It’s also fun to not have AIDs and to not think about dying people. At this very moment, Stephen Harper is probably experiencing much more glee than you could ever imagine and you only have your basic humanity to blame.

Brahmin and Untouchable: the original odd couple!

2006-08-21T08:01:00.000-04:00

India is divided along many lines: gender, class, language, headgear preference, and ability to carry a tune. But more divisive than any of these is caste, which gives everyone a role to play in society. There are four main castes, with the Brahmins as the tops and the Shudras as the bottoms. Because of the elaborate rules concerning cleanliness and sexual deviance there are two other castes that have to come between, but they are not important for the purpose of this bit of ridiculousness. The Brahmins are the knowers – they perform elaborate pujas (prayers, offerings, and rituals) to gain the favour of the gods and get out of having a real job. The Shudras are the labourers, they are consigned to a life of labour so intense they never have time to notice they’re the only ones working. The lowest of the Shudras are the so-called untouchables. Their main duties are corpse disposal, toilet cleaning, and hosting diseases. Traditionally, Brahmins stay far away from untouchables to maintain their elaborate cleanliness and ensure the purity of their rituals. The only time the two generally interact is when the untouchables dump the Brahmins’ fat bodies into their wormy graves.

It is common these days to see the segregation and oppression of untouchables as somehow objectionable, so campaigns to better their lot are fairly common. Recently I’ve come across a direct-to-TV movie script designed to improve the public’s perception of untouchables. Here are the first two scenes:

==

Untouchable!

Cast(e) of characters

Subramanyam the Brahmin
Ravi the untouchable
Massage Parlour Girls

==

Subramanyam and Ravi are walking down a road in downtown Delhi.

Ravi: Hey, check it out Subramanyam! I found some bread in the street. High five!

Subramanyam: You know that I must leave you hanging. If I were to touch your corpse-handling body, I would have to cleanse myself in a scented bubble bath for many hours.

Ravi: Does that mean you don’t want any?

Subramanyam: Ravi! You know that I cannot eat with you! That would require me to cleanse myself for three weeks at a luxurious mineral spa. Still, I appreciate your asking, if only for the purpose of exposition.

Ravi: Oh well, more for my tapeworm and me. (He chews.) Why do you even hang out with me anyway, Subramanyam, if all you’re going to do is try to avoid me, even my shadow?

Subramanyam: It is to show that I am above such things.

Ravi: Well everyone is above my shadow!

Laugh track. Subramanyam and Ravi look directly into the camera and shrug.

Ravi: You just hang out with me so I give you discounts on burying all the people your prayers are supposed to heal.

Subramanyam: That’s not true! Our holy texts say we must love all creatures, and so I love you.

Ravi: So do it then. Love me.

Subramanyam: Even if that weren’t against the law …

Ravi: No you idiot, just give me a hug! What will happen?

Subramanyam: Most likely, I will explode into horrible boils. My skin will slither off my body in oily strips. My spiritual purity will be compromised, and the gods – and my customers – will shun me from their sight. It will transform my life into desolation and poverty of a scale you cannot imagine.

Ravi: What was that, sorry? A gigantic blood-boil just exploded in my one remaining ear.

Subramanyam: It would be horrible Ravi. Please do not touch me, I don’t want to deal with the monstrous consequences. The only massage parlour that could rub such corruption off me is across town, and I don’t have any bus tickets.

Ravi: You know what I think would happen? Nothing.

Subramanyam: What are you doing Ravi!

In a 45-minute Bollywood dance scene, Ravi, arms wide open, dances after Subramanyam, who dances away, rhythmically darting behind trees and other obstacles. Lines of chorus dancers prance in the background. Eventually, Ravi hugs Subramanyam, who shrieks and collapses into the dirt.

Ravi: See! Nothing.

Subramanyam is still shrieking, rolling in the dirt and clawing at himself.

Ravi: Um…

Subramanyam (shrieking): Hail me a rickshaw! I am unclean! Ravi you bastard, get me some nubile young Brahmins to rub scented sandalwood all over me! Quickly, or I will surely miss lunch! And for Shiva’s sake don’t touch me again.

Ravi hails a rickshaw and herds Subramanyam into it. He directs the driver and off they go.

==

Scene 2: Ravi is sitting on his heels, just outside the entrance of a building emanating a fog of white steam. Inside the fog, Subramanyam is reclining in a pool of hot water, getting rubbed down with warm water and oil by a trio of young ladies.

Subramanyam: Oh that’s nice. It feels so good to be reunited with the gods. Could you cleanse a little to the left? Oh that’s a holy spot…. Do you see now, Ravi, why we cannot ever touch, even in legal ways? I must love you in a completely theoretical way. It is sad, because my heart cries to hug your disease-ridden body, to lend you money at a reasonable interest rate, to take care of you. But my gods forbid it. I am cursed to live apart, far from the open sewers and open sores of the people I love so dearly. Woe is me. A little higher sweetheart…

Ravi: Yes, I see that now. Sorry to have put you through such suffering. Touching an untouchable must be like fire to you.

Subramanyam: Oooooh, that’s the spot. More oil. Yes, your touch burns with the fire of an angry demon. The fingers of any untouchable are like filthy knives, cutting at my very soul. It is a pain I am happy you will never know, Ravi. It is even worse than the pain of being hit by a car.

Ravi: Even your car? Because that hurt a lot. So you’re sure the pain is not only in your head?

Subramanyam: No, it is through my entire body, and beyond. Wait, wait. Of course it is not in my head! Are you implying that I was faking it?

Ravi: …

Subramanyam: Because I assure you, if it wasn’t for the careful cleansing of these lovely young ladies, I might be dead by now. The disfavour of the gods is a horrible thing.

Ravi: Sure. But maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if you didn’t know I was untouchable.

Subramanyam: No Ravi. You will never know what it is to live on a spiritual plane, exquisitely sensitive to the merest flutter of the gods’ disfavour. I assure you, if an untouchable touches me, even if I do not feel it through my silk and velour robes, I can feel the gods’ disgust immediately.

Ravi: Of course you are right Subramanyam. You always are. I hope you are feeling better, but I have to go work or I will starve to death.

Subramanyam: Heehee, not the toes, woman! I’m ticklish! Yes, yes. Goodbye Ravi. Go in peace. Leave me to my divine rubdown.

Ravi: About that … They wouldn’t let me into the Brahmin holy bathhouse, so I had to improvise…

Subramanyam: What? (sitting up and peering through the steam) Where am I Ravi?!

Ravi: Don’t worry. My friends and I raised enough money to get you a private steam-room. It’s a good thing some people don’t mind being touched by our kind, or we never would have been able to make enough money in time.

Subramanyam: A private steam-room? That will do. Barely. (He splashes his weight back down in the warm water.)

Ravi: Yes. We could afford the room, but we couldn’t afford any holy masseuses.

Subramanyam: So they did it for free? For the honour of it. How nice.

Ravi: Uh, yeah, they did it for free. But now they have to come with me back home. Girls!

The three girls step out of the steam. Between the three of them, there are four lazy eyes, seven teeth, and five arms.

Girls: Coming brother!

Subramanyam: Brother?! But that means?! And they touched…?! Nooooooooooooo!

(intermission)

==

What a cliffhanger, eh? Stand by for part 2!

Your Complete Guide to Doing Anything Better: Fun with Funerals

2006-08-07T13:08:00.000-04:00

If you are reading this, you are going to die. You may die as you hurtle through space strapped to a nuclear missile or you may die from a brain tumor caused by overexposure to Internet blogs. You might expire at relatively youthful age or perhaps you will persist in living until your internal organs succeed in murdering you. However, unless you bathe in the blood of Romanian virgins during every new moon, life will eventually hand you a cease and desist order. You will be deceased and stop existing.

Dying is a drag, but your funeral need not be funereal. Just think – this is the only bad cocktail party that you will never have to attend and it’s being held in honour of your crack-bloated corpse. Feel free to dedicate your virtual death-day party to making everyone as miserable as possible – after all, if you have to die you might as well make everyone else just wish they had cast off their mortal coils. Welcome to your complete guide to having fun with your funeral. Although this text is brief (we don’t want you wasting precious hours of breathing-time learning how to die properly) it is an essential introduction to a better class of funeral or as we like to call it, the Funner-al.

First of all, having a Funner-al doesn’t have to be expensive, although there’s no good reason why it shouldn’t be, you stingy sack of pig feces. However, if you decide to economize so that your ingrate children will have the opportunity to play out their trivial sibling rivalries squabbling over the scraps of your misspent life, there are some key ways to keep your soiree low-budget. For example, old Halloween decorations are a cheap and efficient way to give your Funner-al that extra spooky touch. Remember the automated zombie doll you propped up in the garage to scare kids during Halloween? Consider arranging to have it placed close to your casket, partially obscured by a particularly extravagant bouquet of calla lilies.

If you can’t afford a suckling pig for your funeral feast, old Halloween treats won’t use up your welfare check. In addition to decades-old Rockets and those awesome Popeye candy cigarettes, it’s relatively easy to mix up a killer fruit punch spiked with whiskey and embalming fluid. Add some peeled grape “eyeballs” and plenty of gummy worms to remind people of the various creepy crawlies that will in all probability devour your soulless, rotting heap of flesh. Would you like a funeral cake with tombstone candles on top? Problem solved – a crematorium can double as your very own Easy Bake oven! If you really hate your mourners, also be sure to give them mayo-sodden baloney sandwiches cut into equilateral triangles and a veggie platter with rancid ranch dip containing flecks of something green and possibly bacterial. Bad funeral food is a great cost-effective ‘fuck you’ to the living, many of whom may be homeless and are only attending your funeral for free saltine crackers rather than the sublime pleasure of seeing you dead. Bon appetit, breathers!

Entertainment is another important aspect of the Funner-al experience. Your eulogist, for instance, should be a friend, family member or hated nemesis with a debilitating speech impairment. While Julius Caesar’s funeral oration was delivered by that dullard Mark Anthony, your seven widows will harken to the age-old insights of L-l-l-l-itha Thiverthtein *choking on own spittle* *cough* *cough* *hack* *gasp**biting own tongue* *screaming in unholy torment as she is seized by the Holy Spirit and begins to writhe and yowl in Aramaic*. Extra points will be allotted if you employ a mariachi band or a wedding DJ for musical accompaniment. Extra double-super-plus-good points go to the wedding DJ if he plays the “Chicken Dance,” at a key moment during the grieving process.

Of course, at most funerals, your dead body will be the biggest attraction in the room, the veritable IMAX of the funeral parlor. Most people make the fatal error of allowing a mortician to make them look attractive in their caskets. They get news-anchor hair, pristine make-up application and prosthetic body parts to hide the fact that they have recently been savaged by a bear or bludgeoned with a candlestick in the library, courtesy of that fucking Colonel Mustard. While this route may appeal to natural human vanity, do you really want your mourners to gather around your dead body and murmur things like “It looks as though he’s sleeping. Goodnight, sweet prince,” and “I never noticed before but she bears an uncanny resemblance to Cokie Roberts”? Do you want your friends and family members to believe that at long last they have successfully buried you alive? What you’re really looking for in an open-casket is a high gross-out factor, your mangled body becoming a sort of memento mori and indicating to your loved ones that absolutely no one looks good and shiny after plummeting from the sixteenth storey and getting run over by a municipal sanitation truck. If you’re unfortunate enough to die peacefully in your bed at the age of 106, this may require some dissembling but really, that’s why Heinz invented ketchup.

Finally, every good Funner-al should involve party favours, small tokens of appreciation for the patience, tenacity and physical endurance of your mourners. There are a range of party favour options you can choose and your selection will invariably depend on the tone of your Funner-al and the size of your budget. Cyanide capsules are considerate gifts but if you’re working with financial constraints, nooses will do just as nicely. This is also a good time to return certain items you have borrowed from your mourners – for example, your ex-wife would probably be pleased to regain the steak knife she left planted in your right ventricle.

If you have some embezzled money just lying around, you might consider choosing the Mercedes-Benz of Funner-al party favours – the personalized tombstone. Be sure to inscribe each attendees’ name, an inspirational quote and a rough estimate as to their life expectancy. Making a good death estimate is a delicate art but you can hone your skill with practice. When you’re thinking of a potential mourner decide when ideally you would like them to die. If the person you’re thinking of is nice and friendly with sparkling teeth and a lolling pink tongue, they will probably die before your ideal death time (dogs generally live 12-15 years). Subtract. But say the person in question is bitchy, a genocidal dictator or the owner of money you would like to inherit so that you can fund your Funner-al – this person will probably live forever, like some kind of resentment-sucking vampire. Add 50 years to your ideal death time and then multiply by ten. Chances are high that these are the people who will be doing the Chicken Dance at your Funner-al. Thankfully you won’t have to socialize with any of them!

Now that you know all the essentials of death-day party planning, feel free to expire at any time. You’re certain to have eternal buckets of fun, fun, fun staring out hatefully from the abyss at your Funner-al festivities.

Life Lessons from my Grandpa, Dagnabbit!

2006-07-24T09:54:00.000-04:00

1. “You kids these days with your shoes and your whores and your whores wearing shoes. After the Great War, we let our hussies run around barefoot and if that was good enough for us it should be good enough for you.”

2. “When you stop chewing solids, you have more time for complaining.”

3. “I invented socks and they’re supposed to keep your knees warm. Do you want to catch yourself a whooping cough?”

4. “Shuffleboard is like smoking opium. I’m not sure why.”

5. “Sombreros are the new suspenders, excepting that they don’t keep your pants up. So when your pants fall down, you just got to make it look like it was intentional.”

6. “Education is just another word for the hickory switch.”

7. “Buying a Honda is like dropping a bomb on Pearl Harbour.”

8. “Voting ain’t better than getting fucked, but it’s a sure sight better than getting fucked over. Anyways, that Diefenbaker character seems like an upstanding young man with a lot of potential.”

9. “You can speak any danged language if you believe in yourself. Just gibber a couple words and do a little gesticulating.”

10. “Where am I? Who am I? What’s in my pants? Asking these questions don’t mean you’re philosophizing. It means you’re confused and you probably don't have much bladder control neither."

My Date with Dolph

2006-07-23T23:37:00.000-04:00

I admit, I was lonely and sometimes lonely people do crazy things. You see, recently Patrick stumbled into a wardrobe that magically transported him to the land of India, where apparently he's supposed to help people or something. (I'm certain you'll receive periodic e-mails from him in which he'll rhapsodize about his bowel movements and enumerate the number of mosquito bites on his left testicle.) This turn of events left me feeling a trifle melancholy. Even after an amicable break-up, a girl may plunge into deep introspection, asking the really tough questions such as "How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?" and "Why does Aslan keep ruining my love life?" I was down and I was out.

Some people cope with negative feelings by sniffing superglue; others get through by chugging nail polish remover and masturbating in public places. And then there are people who just aren't that well-adjusted. Keeping this in mind, I will now recount for you a story that time only wishes it forgot, a tale of two mixed-up crazy kids looking for love in all the wrong places. Gather 'round, children, and I will tell you the story of my one and only date with Dolph.

The star of films such as "The Minion," "Bridge of Dragons," and "Direct Action," showed up at my door over forty minutes late. Black, viscous blood trickled from a wound on his scalp. Having dated a Kirby brother, this did not strike me as being particularly unusual. In one ham-hock fist, Dolph clutched a striking arrangement of orchids interspersed with shards of glass. Apparently, on his way to my house, he'd been waylaid by a pack of evil motor-cross enthusiasts intent on doing distracting stunts and blowing exhaust in his world-weary face. In the inevitable process of riddling them with bullets, Dolph claimed he had accidentally shot the crystal vase, causing it to explode into a million fragments. What a liar, I thought as we stepped into Dolph's camouflage jeep.

After gunning down some terrorists and stealing their stash of plutonium, we used the jeep's nuclear-powered GPS system to locate the nearest bubble-tea shop. Along the way, Dolph discussed his deathly fear of white, a phobia that prevented him from leaving a tiny red block on an internet web page to pursue his promising movie career. According to Dolph, the ghastly spectres of alabaster, ivory, and egg-shell run rampant on B-movie sets, occasionally devouring crew members' souls.

When we arrived at Tina's Bubble Tea for You, Dolph started looking nervous.

"I smell something," Dolph muttered. "It smells like death." Despite all his sterling qualities, Dolph still has some trouble with small talk.

We sat down at a table and a waitress took our orders. When the waitress walked back to the kitchen, Dolph leaned forward and whispered, "Do you think she's actually man? She bears an uncanny resemblance to a KGB agent I used to know. He was rejected from the Bolshoi ballet and he's been out to get his revenge on the world ever since."

"Oh," I said. "That's too bad."

"That lump under her apron — it looks like ingeniously disguised small artillery."

"She's pregnant, Dolph."

"She's what? Pregnant? What's that supposed to mean?"

I spent the next half hour explaining to a skeptical Dolph where babies come from. He was always under the impression he had been constructed from boot leather and scrap iron by a laboratory of Dutch scientists.

"So, what do you like to do in your spare time?" I asked. "You know, when you manage to overcome your paralytic terror of white things…"

Dolph folded the blue paper napkin into an origami crane and began fluttering its delicate wings with his thumb and forefinger. "I'm very fond of guns. As I always say, a day without a semi-automatic is like a day without sunshine."

"Do you like museums? Art galleries?"

"I do, but whenever I enter a place containing priceless artifacts a maniac walks in with a bomb strapped to his chest and I have to start shooting at a very low level of accuracy. It really impedes my ability to appreciate culture. Actually, I'm surprised that no one has kidnapped you yet, Meghan, because that's usually what happens to people who spend more than five minutes in my company."

At this point, I was frantically scanning the room for someone who might consider abducting me. If I was feeling skittish, Dolph was even more miserable. Every time someone ordered milk, he shuddered and made low whimpering noises similar to a small child who is very impatient to use the washroom.

The waitress returned to our table with a black coffee for me and a mango-banana flavoured bubble tea for Dolph, which he sipped through the spiral straw he keep in his jacket pocket next to his favourite gun. "You always have to be prepared," said Dolph. "Always."

A shriek issued from inside the restaurant's kitchen, followed by the screech of a smoke detector. Black smoke billowed from inside the kitchen, obscuring what was happening beyond the saloon-style doors in an ominous haze. After a moment of disbelief, the restaurant patrons scrambled to get their coats and stampeded out the doors. The waitresses quickly followed suit with notepads and trays in hand. Suddenly, a stocky Asian man burst forth from the kitchen, a comet's tail of flames scorching his back.

"Agrrrhhggaahgaaaaaaghhhaaaaaaaaaa…" said the burning man. He collapsed on to the floor, but having stopped and dropped he was not particularly successful at rolling, thus managing to transfer flames from his clothing to the carpet in the most efficient and productive way possible

"I think we should get outside," I told Dolph.

"But I'm not finished my drink."

"There's a fire in the restaurant!"

"That's what they want you to think," he replied. His voice betrayed a hint of ennui.

This was simply too much for me.

"I'm going home, Dolph Lundgren! Don't call me!"

"It's probably for the best. My phone is wire-tapped."

A blast from the kitchen obliterated the saloon doors and sparks flew over us, singeing our hair, clothes and skin.

"If you stay in here, you're going to die!" I screamed, the heat of the blaze searing my face.

"Well, you only have one death to die, baby," said Dolph. "And only one life to live. And I'm gonna live it. Hard."

The last time I saw Dolph, he stood silhouetted against light of the inferno with a swirly straw in his hand. That was moment I realized I was in love with him and that our love could never be.

Fin.

Indian Driving Lessons

2006-07-17T13:16:00.000-04:00

Indian traffic can be bewildering and frightening. To help adjust, I've compiled a list of tips that should help people navigate in this high-speed metal death-trap:

- Learn to relax and have faith in the autorickshaw's one and only safety feature: its inability to go faster than 20km/h.
- When riding your bike in the wrong direction down a high-speed freeway, remember to jingle your little bell from time to time
- Please sound horn.
- Always wear your seatbelt. ... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh mercy.
- If -- at any point! -- you think you have reached the carrying capacity of your vehicle, you are wrong.
- Many rickshaw drivers believe that if they die nobly in traffic, they will be reborn as bus drivers. This is why they drive the way they do.
- Make Cold War theories of mutually assured destruction work for you! Carry propane tanks on your bike and earn the respect on the road that you deserve.
- Forget blind spots -- deaf spots are the danger.
- For health reasons, don't stop and eat anything you find on the road.
- While extremely slow and culturally insensitive, riding a cow is the safest way to get around.

Jane Austen in Space

2006-06-10T23:23:00.000-04:00

Meghan continues with her life support of the Shoe. This one just might net her an full author account alongside Matt and I. Will she manage to fight through the seven trials of Gargamoth on the planet Slazibar and win her prize? Read on...

==

Men are sad, inexplicable creatures. They grow hair in unlikely places, they have a propensity for stink and most tragically, the vast majority of them loathe Jane Austen. Sure, they can fight in the trenches and maintain pervasive patriarchal brain-washing despite all the women’s studies classes in existence, but for some reason, guys can’t withstand 30 pages of Mansfield Park. What is it, boys? Are you not man enough to handle Janey’s sparkling prose? Is her witty and incisive understanding of human social relations too tough for you to get a grip on? Many men are extremely hesitant to read books written from a female perspective, literature that usually deviates from ‘masculine’ interests such as adventure, warfare, bullfighting and zombies. This prejudice against alleged “women’s literature” has prevented men from enjoying classic works by authors such as George Elliot, the Bronte sisters, Alice Munro, Jean Rhys, Virginia Woolf and of course, everyone’s favourite literary whipping-girl, Jane Austen.

Unfortunately, I have it on good authority (or at least, I heard it from a therapist on Dr. Phil) that you can’t change a man – he has to want to change himself. This basically requires women and effete gay lovers to manipulate average Star Wars novelization-reading grunts into wanting, nay, demanding, to read Jane Austen et al. With this in mind, I present to you the Black Hole series, a plethora of classic novels in adaptation. Cleverly disguised under the name Dragonorc Weis-Hickman Crichton, the greatest female authors of yesteryear yield up a treasure trove of insight in the action-packed, low gravity setting of outer space! The first in the series marries the style and substance of Jane Austen with some plot-driven rocket boosters and blasts her writing into the cosmos! As editor of the Black Hole series, I am pleased to present an excerpt from Jane Austen, erm, Dragonorc Weis-Hickman Crichton’s novel, Dowry or Die in Galaxy Sector Alpha.

==

Chapter 3 – A Disagreeable Acquaintance on Valdwar

The ball on Valdwar 5 had promised a delightful evening but as soon as Snorgabin saw Mr. Darviky’s sneering yet handsomely blue face amidst the crowd of electro-dancers, she could feel nothing but humiliation and despair. She deemed it an impropriety - indeed a personal insult - that such a man as Darviky would appear in society after having thrown the shadow of scandal upon her blameless sister. He was an irredeemably callous man to teleport into the ballroom with his clone in tow, casting scornful looks at any wolf-girl or mutant vampire debutante who tried to flirt with him.

Well, he shall certainly never have a place on my dance microchip, Snorgabin thought. In spite of her loathing, however, she could not help but think that Darviky looked remarkably well in his steel-reinforced catatonia chamber. Indeed, his brain was the most delicate shade of pink and looked particularly enticing encased in glass and floating in formaldehyde. She took considerable comfort in the fact that his clone was wretchedly ill favoured.

“Tut, tut!” said Reverend Wwwreeekneet, breaking into Snorgabin’s revery. “I do believe it is about time for a pretty Valdwarian girl like you, Snorgabin, to consider her prospects for marriage. Why, if I could afford a time machine, I might pursue you myself!” The reverend’s third eye swivelled from side to side as he stuffed blanc mange into his cavernous mouth. Snorgabin had always found the minister’s collection of eyes most discomfiting, especially as they were always prone to straying towards a young lady’s exposed ankle or a Venusian Yorkshire pudding.

“Oh, Reverend!” the girl cried, turning both her heads to appeal to Mrs. Androbot BR-57 and her unshakable decorum.

“Non…Sense,” the dowager intoned. Sparks shot out of her enormous metallic bonnet. “Non…Sense….”

The reverend chortled. He always spoke of Mrs. Androbot BR-57 with an air of supreme indulgence, perhaps because she fired lasers at his enemies on command. “Why, the good lady has suffered a dreadful system malfunction. She has been saying that all through afternoon tea and this evening too. Still, I daresay, it has improved her conversation.”

As Snorgabin danced with her next partner, shocking him with a cattle prod and delighting in his rhythmic convulsions, she pondered whom she might marry. She was positive she would never condescend to Mr. Darviky, even though he was absurdly handsome, preposterously rich and had fantastic chemistry with her as a result of his extreme sweatiness, an hormonal imbalance and midichlorians. She had sworn never to consider such a proud, rude man. Perhaps she would find true bliss with the unsavoury rapscallion Captain UweUweUwe, whose good looks and charm were only deterred by the fact he was virtually penniless and appeared to be a giant telepathic crayfish. Indeed, Snorgabin thought, it was insufferably tedious to be an orphaned two-headed girl with no dowry or estate to call one’s own.

==

Gripping! Tantalizing! In space! I barely even realized I was reading literature. Meghan, you are the lime in my tequila. Stay tuned for next week's instalment: The Brothers Karamazov battle the ice-spider of Splachek VI!

My IMAX Rant

2006-06-07T23:15:00.000-04:00

Meghan has struck again! I suggested we go watch an IMAX movie and wham-o! Right in the kisser. Then she yelled the following at me while I whimpered at her feet.

==

I dislike IMAX. I don’t loathe it with the unmitigated venom I reserve for golden raisins, Scientology and small children, but it certainly invokes a low-grade simmer of aversion. I have never understood “the IMAX experience,” as ticket vendors are so fond of calling it. Now I suppose virtually anything can be an “experience” but one would never venture to describe activities such as “the bowling experience,” “the mini golf experience” or “the making a peanut butter sandwich experience”. Yet, IMAX freaks (such as a certain shame-faced Shoe and Whore scribe named Patrick, who will remain anonymous for his own Pat- I mean, protection) seem to be under the impression that watching an IMAX movie is a major rite of passage meriting fanfare, a parade of elephants, Highland dancers and the Seventh Angel of the Apocalypse.

Now for the burning question, that one that has been searing through your pants like a radioactive boner … what is it that makes IMAX so goddamn special?
It’s on a really, really big screen. Like, pretty colossal.

That’s all that separates IMAX from watching PBS on a Sunday night. IMAX is the faux intellectual equivalent of watching a monster truck rally.
“You want to see some Amelie penguins?” The IMAX pimps holler. “I’ll fucking show you some AMELIE PENGUINS!”
Undoubtedly, Morgan Freeman will intone his lines with a mien of dignity and restraint, but I can assure you that you won’t learn anything because you’ll be totally preoccupied with HUGE PENGUINS. Occasionally the cinematographer will pan the cinema around the South Pole in a masturbatory manner, showing enormous glaciers falling into a black expanse of sea, because in case you’ve forgotten that this is the IMAX experience and surely everything big and picturesque magnified on a gigantic screen will blow your tiny mind to pieces.

Aesthetically, how is this any different from Wrestlemania or Michael Bay movies? Indeed, IMAX is more insidious than either of the aforementioned evils, convincing eighth-grade classes that they are learning about the world, when in fact they are simply discovering how impressive various shit looks on a super big-screen TV. Of course, IMAX is still preferable to golden raisins, because while it is ludicrously large and vaguely pretentious, it does not bear even the slightest resemblance to desiccated snot.

==

My girl is not impressed by mere bigness. No, I understand her well. She wants only the most gigantic, distended movie experience. That is why I am turning the province of Manitoba into a movie screen. There. Now you'll stop hitting me.

Ow!

Preparing for India

2006-05-16T13:56:00.000-04:00

I am preparing for a wondrous journey to mysterious India. They call it mysterious, but I think I’ve got it all figured out. I’ve been researching and preparing as fast a six-armed God! Ha! That’s an Indian joke. You probably won’t get it unless you’ve lived in India for a couple years.

The one thing I’m having some difficulty with is cricket. Apparently it’s more than a loud bug to them, it’s a whole game that can go on for days. I don’t know how it works exactly, but a bunch of people will run around throwing balls and swinging bats, all hoping to crush a little bug. If you play your position perfectly, the next game you get promoted to a better position. And I guess there’s an element of tag to it as well, because some of the players are called untouchables.

India has a whole pile of languages, but even I can’t learn them all before I go. Most travellers seem to do well just speaking English, but I really want to experience the culture and get to know the people in a way that’s impossible unless you speak their language. People seem to respond so well if you do just a tiny little bit of research and make the effort. That’s the idea anyway, but let me tell you, Ojibway is not an easy language! Apparently, I’m supposed to have a special Indian name too, and I think that “White Elephant” does the trick nicely. It captures who I am as well as having a bit of Indian character.

Health preparation is something I’ve been spending a lot of time on. Most Westerners in India complain about something they call ‘Deli Belly’. As far as I can make out, it must be severe constipation brought on by eating so much smoked meat. I’m determined to avoid it, so I’m taking precautions. I’m packing several cans of prune juice. I don’t want to carry around too much stuff, so the juice I bought is from concentrate. Just by mixing a little of that with the water, my problems will be solved before they begin!

I’ll be doing serious work as well. I’ve decided to do some charity work. I’ve put some thought into India’s many problems, and have decided to open a small fertility clinic. For some reason, this is an under-served part of India’s medical establishment, and I hope I can be some help for the extremely small minority that is having difficulty pumping out children.

I must be off! My plane is leaving soon, and I have to be right on time. I’ve discovered a short-cut that all the travel agencies have overlooked. I can save myself hundreds of kilometers of travel if I land in Islamabad and then make my way into India from there.

So wish me luck! Though, honestly, I don’t think I’ll need it.

The Book Parade

2006-05-03T21:52:00.000-04:00

A literary extravaganza by Gregory M. Pompadou
(reprinted courtesy of The Hoagtown Herald)

There are few sensations in life that leave your faithful reviewer as utterly ecstatic as when he receives a glorious new book. Invariably, the first thing one must do on this auspicious occasion is sniff its pages, inhaling the sweet aroma of primeval forests and the delicate traces of printer’s ink. Once I have savoured the materials of a tome, allowing its qualities to impress themselves on my mind as a fine Bordeaux lingers on one’s palate, I read the novel in question and frequently discover that many a mighty oak and slender elm has died to no avail. Yet, do not become disheartened, dear reader, for a book has come to rid us of the ennui that stalks the literary world like a bloody-eyed Cerberus. I present to you a tale that leaves one astonished at the range of emotion one ink-tipped quill can express when wielded in the hand of a master. I present for your fictional delectation, John Grisham’s latest offering, “The Affidavit.”
In weaving the story of Matthew O’Lennick, a young lawyer who joins the sinister law firm, Kirby, Kirby, Kirby and Associates and unveils a treacherous secret, Grisham creates an everyman hero for the ages. Mr.Grisham’s effervescent prose floats above other writers’ humdrum ramblings like an iridescent bubble blown by a jubilant, laughing child on a Sunday afternoon. A small yet exquisite sampling from this smorgasbord of literary aperitifs will suffice:

“Two months ago he had been offered cocaine at a law school party. He said no and left when everyone began snorting. He drank an occasional beer, but drinking was expensive and he had no money. He owed close to $23,000 in student loans. He was hungry”.

There is only one word sufficient to describe this passage and that word is enchantment. Or to be more specific, it is utter enchantment undiluted by the plebeian concerns of the everyday, soft as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings against the petals of a newly opened rose. His phrasing is plaintive and sweet as a mewling infant Messiah sucking at the Virgin Mary’s supple teat.

I would venture to say that Grisham’s sinuous sentences surpass the piffling efforts of all his contemporaries, with the notable exception of “The Silver Faun,” an as-yet unpublished novella penned by astonishing newcomer G.M. Pompadou. However, while “The Affidavit” busies itself with the hackneyed Miltonian theme of lost innocence, “The Silver Faun” delves into the clandestine back alleys of the human heart. Reading “The Silver Faun” is like wandering the mist-shrouded streets of Venice - one pauses in rapture to gaze at the glorious gold-tipped spire of a cathedral and at that moment, the temporal world removes its mask to reveal the face of beauty, the visage of Art sculpted by an unflinching hand and an unwavering heart.

Despite Grisham’s abundant talent, he is unable to rise to the celestial heights of true artistry. Although his dialogue sparkles like a princess-cut diamond on the hand of one’s best beloved, he seems incapable of entirely prodding the reader past the brink of reality and enveloping him in the gauzy web of the fantastic. While Greg Malthus Pompadou’s sadly neglected memoir, “Apotheosis,” soars unfettered on the wings of Jupiter’s lofty eagle legions, Grisham’s novel wallows in the mere mire of human existence. In this critic’s opinion, it is a most dolorous day when prolix word pushers such as Tom Wolfe and Nicholson Baker manage to achieve the status of ‘published authors’ while true innovators such as Pompadou are left to accumulate dust on the world’s collective bookshelf. A hearty “Bravo!” to Mr. Grisham for giving us a delightful read, but a scornful look tossed to the preening literary cliques that so persistently neglect and even disparage(!) the works of genius. The laurel crown is oft a crown of thorns. Book pimps such as Random House and Harlequin Superromance shall never comprehend the quiet splendour of the written word nor the imprint such may leave upon the sensitive soul. Let us contemplate a society in which masterpieces like “The Silver Faun,” and “Apotheosis,” may be read by the casual visitor to Chapters, with each sentence, each page igniting the fires that burn in human hearts.

Gregory M. Pompadou is a bi-monthly book reviewer for the Hoagtown Herald (“Your hometown Hoagtown paper”). A high school English teacher, he is also an avid birdwatcher and cricket enthusiast. Pompadou can often be sighted racing around town on his Honda motor scooter or “basking in the Apollonian radiance of the literary art” over a cup of Celestial Seasonings Lemon Zinger tea. Presently, he is hard at work on his third novel, “A Dog Named Squeaker.”

NewsMedia Report

2006-04-28T00:56:00.000-04:00

Recent reader surveys of NewsMedia have shown that people find our stories very sensationalistic. We are committed to meeting and exceeding your expectations.

==

Wolves Bad, Good

Informal counts of wolves in the Haffersham—Wyngfordshireton area have revealed that the locally endangered species has made a surprising comeback. Environmentalists are pleased, but some ranchers liked things the way they were.

“I liked things the way they was,” agreed Edward Mudbottum. “Now we’s got wolves eating things that are rightly people food. Like my son. Has anyone seen my delicious son?” With the recent increase in lost children, cattle, and meat-flavoured key chains, some locals believe the increase in the wolf population is the worst thing to happen to Haffersham—Wyngfordshireton since the visit by Princess Di’s zombie.

As recently as yesterday afternoon, a NewsMedia article quoted environmentalist Sunshine Granola as saying “the wolves will be extinct soon due to careless deforestation and the resulting habitat loss. If these wolves disappear, it will knock the local ecosystem so out of balance that all kinds of horrible things could appear. Maybe even Princess Di zombies.”

Either way, NewsMedia will be there to report what to be terrified of.

==

Plagued by New Problems

It certainly is a relief to see our innumerable heaving bubos finally reduced from their once unimaginable size. I for one absolutely love being able to lower my arms into my armpits without squeezing the gigantic pustules of festering corruption that once laired there. But as I look around at all the people recovering and going about their daily business, I am struck by the sheer number of smiles I see.

There are still too many people for my liking.

Real estate prices are still way up, wages are down, and just this morning I tripped over an entire pack of filthy urchins, all free of the least sign of the plague. If the plague had only been manly enough to withstand the merest lancing and persevere for a few more days, then all our problems would be solved once and for all and I would stop my carping. But it didn’t, so look for my column next week: “It’s so hard to bribe policemen and judges these days.”

==

New Sandwich Too Delicious

This reviewer has long criticized local food as being almost unbearably tasteless, but the new Triple-Bacon Boy by Sandwich Shack may go too far in being delicious.

With as much bacon as local bylaws permit, tzatziki sauce, and an oversized collection of garden-fresh vegetables, the Triple Bacon Boy certainly is the most delicious thing this reviewer has stuffed into his voracious, drooling maw in years. But could it be too delicious?

Local restaurants, bland and horrific though they undeniably are, give jobs to many of our townsfolk. They are a part of the fabric of our boring community. If the Bacon Boy is allowed to stay, they will all be driven out of business. Who would eat a Cardboard Wrap when they can fill their eager, salivating mouth-hole with three huge goddamn servings of crunchy delicious bacon? No one, that’s who. And that is why we must gather our pitchforks and torches and march upon the Sandwich Shack at dusk.

==

Correction: Yesterday’s edition’s headline noted that “There are too many changes.” In reality, there are not enough. We apologize for the error.

Christmas Miracles

2006-04-10T17:17:00.000-04:00

Because you demanded it -- and also because I don't have anything else ready -- here are the presents I got my family instead of actually buying them things for Christmas. Initially I figured these little articles would be for them only, but then I remembered that they're all jerks. So, enjoy!

==

A Christmas Miracle
For Sean

After a wonderfully restful sleep – 5 whole hours! – Sean awoke and stretched. His movement jiggled his computer’s mouse, and it awoke as well. “Good morning, Sean” said an Asian. “It certainly is!” he exclaimed. “It’s Christmas! But enough small talk, we’ve got to get this project finished before the deadline!” With visions of logistics dancing in their heads, Sean and the Asian hunched over their computers. As they worked, the computers smiled at them with their egg-nog glow.

Suddenly, an Asian entered the room. “Bad news guys,” he said. “The project’s been cancelled!” “Oh no!” said another Asian. “Christmas is ruined!”

“How did this happen?” asked Sean, whose gentle heart had really gone into whatever it is that he does.

“Our customer said she just didn’t want it anymore,” answered an Asian. “Apparently our project’s budget was given as a present to orphans!”

“That’s terrible!” said everyone.

“Well I’m not going to just sit here and let Christmas be ruined!” said Sean. “I’m going to march over there like a toy soldier and sell this project all over again!”

“But that’s against our corporate policy of horizontal task networking!” said one Asian. “You’ll miss the lunch ‘n learn!” said another. “But you haven’t read the Toastmaster’s issue on salesmanship!” said a third.

Sean stood up, and his fervor made him seem taller than everyone else in the room. “I don’t care! I’m going to save Christmas, even if I have to interact with non-Asians!”

The Asians gasped.

So Sean ran as fast as he could to the customer’s office. He leapt over snow banks, slid across roads, and splashed through the slush. His groin aching, he made it to his destination. The customer was locking up and getting ready to go home. He had made it just in time.

“Nulogy logistics!” he gasped. “Best! They are best.” Selling was harder than he had expected.

“What? Oh you guys again,” said the customer. “I told you I wasn’t interested. It’s all just too boring. I mean, our company is looking for something a little sexier to keep our warehousing costs down, and I’m just not convinced any of you guys can keep up with the fast-paced rhythm of our operations. So thank you for participating in the contract process but …”

Sean interrupted her. “Did you just say we couldn’t keep up … with your rhythm.” He started to sway side to side, his feet moving under him like amorous snakes. The customer looked at him, her mouth a perfect O. He spun closer to her, and grabbed her waist, making sure to maintain the beat that was the only thing between what he was doing and sexual assault.

“Oh my …” she said.

He danced. “Our products are flexible and modular to accommodate your logistics efforts whether they are focused on distribution, third-party logistics, or retail.” He dipped her, and his lips brushed hers.

“Have you had too much profit lately?” He punctuated his laugh with a hip thrust. She gasped. “Didn’t think so. Profit performance starts here.” He took her hand and placed it over his heart.

She collapsed into his arms. “Oh Sean! Manage me! Minimize my costs! I’ll sign anything.”

And it was a Christmas miracle.

A Christmas Miracle
For Dad

Dad awoke to a wonderful smell. His eyes opened to see his 3 children, all impeccably coifed and dressed, standing around him. Each was holding a tray, one filled with fruit, one with warm cereals and bacon, and a third stacked high with pancakes.

“Good morning sir,” they said in unison. Strange that he had never noticed their slight English accent before. “As a small token of our great esteem for our beloved father, we have prepared you this morning repast. Pray enjoy it!”

He laughed. “Esteem for your father? Well, why don’t you bring him the breakfast then? Ha!”

The three boys looked slightly uncomfortable. “Oh dear father. Please don’t say such things. It impugns on the honour of our dearest mother. And it saddens us to think of all the children who do not know the joy of having been sired by you. Can we get you anything to facilitate your utmost relaxation? We are, as always, at your merest beck and call.”

“Uh, no. This is good. Thanks.”

“Oh please father!” they all cried. “Let us serve you!” In his eagerness to appear eager, one of the boys farted. Dad chuckled quietly, but the other two boys turned on the other. “You have fouled father’s air! How could you bother him so?” The two leapt on the third and ripped his heart out while he screamed ‘sorry sir’ over and over.

The two boys turned to dad, their pajamas sodden with coagulate gore. “We are so sorry that occurred sir. We will get incense and air freshener to make your surroundings comfortable again. Oh my, is there something wrong with the bacon?”

Dad was staring at his two bloody children with a piece of bacon held in one immobile hand between his mouth and the breakfast tray.

“No!” exclaimed one of the boys. “He is not enjoying the bacon!”

“Our shame is eternal!” said the other.

“It was I who prepared the offending bacon,” said the first.

“Then you know what you must do.”

The boy nodded and tore out his own heart.

“I’m sorry that this breakfast has not been a millionth of what you deserve, kind sir. I hope that you will not think ill of me if I wash your feet with warm oils.”

Twitching out his reverie, dad pushed away from his last surviving child. In doing so, his big toe nail slashed the boy’s carotid artery.

“Well … aimed … sir,” said the boy before dropping heavily to the floor.

In horror, dad fell unconscious. Some time later, he opened his eyes. His vision was blocked by something. He squinted. It farted.

The ass moved, and dad could see his three boys, all farting on his supine body and laughing like retarded hyenas gorged on beanalope.

“Hey dad, we didn’t get you anything for Christmas!” they cackled.

He sighed in relief, almost dying from the stink. It had all been a dream. What a Christmas miracle.

A Christmas Miracle
For Mom

It was like the wreck of the Hesperus in here. Boot prints covered the hardwood, someone had touched the window with his greasy fingers, and the air stank of plain baked chips. Santa Claus, his coat filthy with soot, had tracked all kinds of filth into the house. And now he had made the mess even worse by bleeding over everything.

She hadn’t meant to kill him. He did come with presents after all, but he came with dirt and untidiness too! And that was the ultimate anti-gift. She had meant to just push him outside, but he had stumbled against her pristine table – imperceptibly scratching it! – and she just lost control and kept biting his neck until he bled out.

“Alright Susan, you can do this,” she said. “You’ve cleaned worse messes before. Remember when Chris shat all over himself when he had all those STDs? Or when Sean came home drunk off anti-freeze and vomited enough dog hair to clothe a yeti? Or when Paddy didn’t make his bed? Yeah, you can do this.”

She started to scrub. But then – tragedy! – the Windex ran out. It took all her willpower to stop herself from kicking Santa’s dead body. That would only spatter more blood. Despair nearly overcame her, but she had an idea. “Maybe some lucky child is getting cleaning supplies for Christmas!” she thought. She started rummaging through Santa’s bag. Within moments, she had found Windex.

“What luck! Maybe there are some industrial acids in here I can use to get rid of Santa’s body!” She reached in, and there they were.

Now mom may be a trophy wife, but she can be pretty sharp when she’s had her eight hours. “This is a magic bag! Why, I can do more than clean up Santa’s corpse with this, I can make Christmas perfect for everyone!”

Mom stuffed Santa into the magical bag, noting with wonderment that it got no heavier. She flew up the chimney and into the open air. With a speed defying comprehension, she visited every non-heathen house in the world.

The next morning opened with a crisp clean light. Children scampered out of bed and ran to their presents, tearing them open. The first was a plaque that read:

MAKE YOUR BED

The chastened children returned to their rooms to make their beds, and then resumed their scampering around the tree. With eager little hands they opened their next present: a mop!

Mom sat in her pristine house, sipping rum and eggnog. She wasn’t sure if it was the liquor or the sound of crying children all around the world, but she already felt a little drunk.

But here and there, amongst their weeping siblings, some children smiled when they got their mops, their detergents, and their vacuum cleaners. Making airplane noises, they ran around the house on their little legs, cleaning almost as if they enjoyed it.

And it was a Christmas miracle.

A Christmas Miracle
For Chris

Doctor Chris smiled as he worked. Sure, it was Christmas day and he was surrounded by people screaming in horrendous agony, but this was exactly where he wanted to be. Stapling a leper back together was far more in the Christmas spirit than all the consumerism and useless ornamentation that was usually the norm.

He removed the Rolex and the gold rings from his hands and washed them. Running his well-manicured hand through his thick head of hair, he walked into the OR.

“What have we got here?” he asked the nurse on duty.

“This man drank almost a liter of pesticide,” she answered. “His wife mixed it with eggnog. He knew it was poison, but who can resist the ‘nog?”

“I tried once. It almost killed me. What kind of pesticide was it?”

“Here’s the bottle. He’s in good hands though. Didn’t you do your Master’s on pesticides?”

“Kind of. I never actually finished it. Let’s go ahead and pump this guy’s stomach.”

He pulled his sleeves back and put his hand out for the stomach pump. It didn’t come.

“Nurse?”

She was trembling. “You didn’t finish your Master’s degree? I can’t believe I slept with you! In the ass!”

“What’s the big deal, bizzle?” he asked, but she had already fled. Before he could get out of his scrubs, the room was filled with reporters and all of his medical colleagues.

The babble of their voices assaulted him. “You don’t have your Master’s degree!?” “Looks like the greatest doctor in Sick Kids’ history isn’t so great after all!” “Successful Doctor Actually a Miserable Failure, Story on Page 1!” “I can’t believe I went down on you in the break room!” “I want you out of my hospital!” “I don’t believe you! It can’t be true!” All the men in white who respected him, the medical students who idolized him, the journalists who had covered him, the nurses who had covered him, they all screamed at him. Some screamed questions, but others just screamed.

And then a lone voice of sanity cut through the crowd. “People! PEOPLE!” They quieted.

His mom stepped through the mob. “It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake. There are more important things here than some old Master’s degree. Things like a tiny baby, delivered by a donkey in that manger so many years ago. My son is like that donkey. And sure, he might not have his Master’s degree, but neither did that donkey. And it ate Jesus' placenta. How many of you can say the same!? So I say, let he who has his Master’s degree cast the first stone.”

The two were pelted by a barrage of stones. Mom stood in front of her son, biting anyone who came too close. Incidentally, the man sick from the pesticides was finished off by a boulder to the temple.

They fled the hospital. Mom said, “well, screw those assholes. I bet when they do colonoscopies on themselves, all they find is their own head! But not me. I think you’re greater than Stalin, Chris, even without your Master’s.”

And it was a Christmas miracle.

Drink milk until I return

2006-04-01T23:00:00.000-05:00

I have been far too busy to blog lately, and for this I beg forgiveness while secretly hating you for making demands on my time. I will be back soon.

In the meantime, here are some of the latest squibs from the Big Dairy marketing savants.

Canadian: Big Bad Bessie with the M-I-L-K! Get down!

American: We have travelled the galaxy to find the calciphilic world of BRITTLELACTICA!!! Truly an epic of frosty proportions! (Be sure to listen to the address by "The Grand Dame of PMStonia.")

Helping Myself

2006-03-30T23:58:00.000-05:00

My name is Siddhartha Hood, and I can help. Whether your problem is alcohol dependence, drug addiction, overeating, or even just too much time spent in front of the television, I will solve it before you even know I’ve arrived.

I do this all without charge. You don’t even have to contact me! I am just so in love with everything in the world that I want to hold it close.

Here’s how it works: you go to sleep, dream brilliant dreams, and when you wake, your problems are gone. Disappeared into the night never to trouble you again. You may feel the urge to track me down and thank me, but don’t bother. I’ve already moved on to help others.

I hit upon this revolutionary way of freeing people of their desires when I was rummaging through some people’s bags at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Their idea that the first step of curing yourself of alcoholism is to admit that you’re out of liquor has changed my life.

No longer will you have to struggle with temptation. I will take that burden from your shoulders and put it into my extremely large house. I will struggle your struggles, fight your battles, smoke your pot, and eat your pie.

How do I keep level, when I’m constantly surrounded by all these material goods that threaten my spiritual equilibrium? It’s easy, my addiction is helping others! Seriously though, just stay in bed and keep your questions to yourself. I’ll worry about what to do with all your stuff while playing the evil out of your Xbox.

Just think of the excitement of starting your life over! Wouldn’t it be amazing to recover some of the potential you lost so long ago? Because that is what is left in a room with no furniture, a car with no stereo or hubcaps, and an empty wallet: an infinite quantity of rich potential. That is my gift to you.

Now this isn’t a religion. There’s no dogma that goes with this new beginning that I have given unto you. So if you wish to go out and feed your addictions again, that is your choice. I won’t stop you if you want to go out and buy a new plasma screen TV and some more nice jewelry. Rebuild your gilded cage. But remember, a better security system can’t protect you from yourself. So try and stay away from those. I may return on my mission of liberation a second time.

Personal Products

2006-03-24T10:40:00.000-05:00

Girl, the Gillette company has a lot of sexy new bathroom products, and they’ve asked me to fill you in with all their many features! How many features, you ask? They are absolutely engorged with features! These products just blow away the competition, and when you see how they can fill that void in your life, you won’t be straddling the fence anymore, you’ll choose Gillette!

Venus Vibrance

The main course in our load of products is the Venus Vibrance – Similar to a Man, Made for Women! Based on our patented g-spa technology, the Vibrance features an easy-to-remove razor and a vibrating shaft, so you can shave your inner thigh until it’s smooth and slick! And it’s sure to do its job without the irritation caused by male products.

The Gillette company has produced a website with a few hot videos of the Venus in action, as well as some descriptions sure to moisten your lips in anticipation! Here's a taste:

Soft Elastomer

The beautiful handle has a soft grip to enhance control. Grooved finger pads help you keep your grip – even in a wet environment.

Shape

The ergonomic handle has been specifically designed for women, and accommodates the many different ways women hold a razor while shaving. Venus Vibrance is easy to hold, even in the tub or shower.

Ball Shaped End

A ball shape at the end of the razor allows a stable, extended reach, even into the most difficult areas. So go ahead and reach. You won’t lose your grip.

And if you want to shave with your friends, buy the double-handled extension and make everyone jealous! Buy now and get a free bottle of Shaving Lube – perfect for your most tender skin!

Canal Bath Beads

No one has time to take a relaxing boat trip with a bunch of sailors, but our new Canal Bath Beads allow you to simulate the experience at home! Draw a bath, get yourself nice and soaped up, maybe drink a bottle of wine, and you’re ready to go. After a few minutes with the beads, you’ll be so relaxed and accomodating it will be impossible to stay in a tight-assed mood! Canal Bath Beads, a bathing experience so good, it’ll curl your toes.

Lover Loofah

Here’s one for the men. Everyone knows men feel a little girlish using loofahs, but the Lover Loofah is specifically designed to satisfy a man’s needs. After the first use, you won’t be able tear him off it! Its soft edges stroke and massage the man’s skin, but at the same time are rigid enough to feel good on even the most rock-hard area. Best of all, the Lover Loofah is automatically re-filled with an effective moisturizer, so your man will be eating sandwiches and falling asleep with healthy, glowing skin.

But that’s not all! Buy any one of these products and get 100% off. At Gillette, we don’t just sell products … we sell satisfaction!

UN stock soars

2006-03-09T19:39:00.000-05:00

BUSINESSWEEK -- UN (NYSE:UNX) is enjoying unprecedented gains in the world's stock markets today following the release of a severe belt-tightening plan including layoffs and outsourcing.

"The earlier reforms addressed the symptoms, more than the causes, of our shortcomings. It is now time to reach for deeper, more fundamental change," said UN CEO Kofi Annan, addressing the quarterly assembly of UN's board of directors.

"What is needed, and what we now have a precious opportunity to undertake, is a radical overhaul of the entire company -- its rules, its structure, its systems -- to bring it more in line with today's realities, and enable it to perform the new kinds of operations that its customers now ask and expect of it."

The plan, titled "Investing in the United Nations for a Stronger Organization Worldwide," contains such bold cost-cutting measures as cutbacks in "non-core" areas and the relocation of much of UN's administrative functions to lower-cost countries.

"We have to remain competitive," said Ben Poliunuk, UN's newly appointed Executive Vice-President Financial. "In this day and age, UN can't afford to keep throwing money down the toilet when we could be employing third-party contractors in Asian for half the price." Poliunuk's former title was Secretary for Peacebuilding and Economic Improvement.

Under the new plan, most UN administrative work will be contracted out to Kotak Mahindra, an Indian firm that specializes in the provision of "unspecialized labour." The company has already indicated that it will be recalling many of its workers from Indian child brothels and Nike (NYSE:NKE) factories to meet UN's office personnel requirements. Personnel for more demanding positions such as economic forecasters and humanitarian aid planners will be seconded from Rajasthan Spinning & Weaving Mills Ltd. of Bombay.

Not everyone is happy with UN's reformation, however.

"They're ignoring their own corporate charter," said Juan Somavia, director-general of the International Labor Organization (itself a branch of UN). "They used to guarantee equal pay for equal work but now they are paying only 50 rupees for each genocide averted!"

Annan says he has a plan for quelling such criticism.

"The ILO? We're disbanding them," he said during an interview in his new office in Calcutta. "Their information is also out of date. Our new charter says nothing at all about inefficient so-called 'labour rights' and instead focuses on wealth-creating rights of property."

Annan then lit a large cigar with a hundred-dollar bill and leaned back in his chair, revealing that he was being fellated by two Indian women.

==

I actually didn't make up the title of the report. That's what it's really called.

“It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul -”

2006-03-09T00:44:00.000-05:00

Apparently Meghan doesn't like all the killing I do on her behalf. I'll KILL ... myself? It's hard to combine the roles of lover and fighter. Find out more below!

==

Patrick, you just haven’t been the same since that Iago kid came to town. I mean, you keep giving me Kleenex tissues and then having a hissy fit if I throw them away after I've used them to wipe the tears from my eyes. I know it’s silly to cry but I was sad when you killed my dad, my 5-year-old autistic nephew and my cousin, who was a really a girl. She was just sort of butch, Patrick! I think you owe Gregtina a big apology.

I’m starting to feel like we aren’t communicating anymore. I’ll ask you how your day was and you’ll mutter something about the icy currents of the Pontic sea, and then you start bellowing for blood. I appreciate your knowledge of geography and interest in donations to the Red Cross, but I just wanted you to say something along the lines of ‘It was fine.” Maybe you could elaborate a little bit and tell me about a Battlestar Galactica episode you watched, but this social nicety doesn’t require you to fall into an epileptic fit.

While we’re on this topic, Pat, it sort of hurts my feelings when you imply that my apartment is a brothel. Sure, I may not have the best interior decorator but that doesn’t mean I’m a hooker or a “common bawd” as you so aptly put it. “Lewd minx” is not a term of endearment and my roommate was very upset when you suggested she was a procurer.

I want to have fun with you again, Patrick. Remember when we went on dates that didn’t involve tracking down and slaughtering my ex-boyfriends? Those were great. I had a fantastic time singing karaoke with you and I wish we could do it again without someone having to die. I like to dress stylishly for you but frankly, I’m getting tired of having to buy a new dress every time you eviscerate some hapless guy standing next to me. Blood leaves some pretty unfortunate stains and truthfully I never had any desire to watch you lasso and garrotte a man with his own intestines. Plus, I’m telling you, he was looking at the bar menu, not my ass.

I didn’t want to have to mention this, but a few nights ago when we were sleeping together, you kept mashing a pillow down my face. Not cool, Patrick, not cool at all. I guess you thought I wouldn’t notice but it woke me from a very pleasant dream. And no, it wasn’t a dream about another man. Or a woman. Or a hedgehog. I’m sure you don’t realize this but if you smother me with a pillow, I could actually die. Maybe you think I’ll leave a murderously attractive corpse but this is not reason to accelerate the process, honey. I’m sure these “pillow hugs” are just another sign of your affection for me but I think you could demonstrate this caring in more constructive ways - like allowing me to breathe.

I guess what I’m trying to say, Patrick, is that we need some space. Possibly 500 meters of court-ordered space. I really hope you get the help you need, but I can’t live my life knowing that every man, woman or child I sit next to on the bus will be ripped to shreds before my very eyes. I know you believe that riding the bus verges on an erotic experience, but it’s public transportation, darling, and most of the time I’m on the bus to go see you. What do I do with the rest of my time? Go visit Gregtina’s sister, Bobnessa, of course.

Your god sucks

2006-03-06T22:16:00.000-05:00

I attended a panel discussion today on the Mohammed cartoon furor (yes, I know it's been done to death already). Since the "debate" was on a university campus it unsurprisingly contained no advocates for freedom of speech, though one particularly joyless speaker hinted at a Muslim need for a sense of humour. (He avoided being stoned to death by being a Muslim himself.)

The worst of the worst, from my perspective, was the explicit agreement of everyone present that the cartoon debate had revealed the West's shameful penchant for believing secular values are superior to religious ones. Rather than fill this entire post with the obvious rant embittering the tip of my tongue, I'll simply point out how very much I prefer living according to rules based on principles -- any principles -- to living according to the supposed edicts of a racist, sexist, bipolar, invisible man who lives in the sky and squanders his omniscience measuring the length of men's beards.

Now that I have that off my chest, I've decided that if large sections of humanity need to follow imaginary fiats to feel secure the least I can do is come up with a more modern invisible sky-man with which they can retard human progress. In this spirit of generosity I have devised Matthew's Guide to Deities Better than Yours.

==

A Rock

It's steady, it's solid, and it's got a divine message about millions of years of erosion shaping us into something better. Come on, the sermons write themselves! Not to mention that when Rockites inevitably split along sectarian lines the matter will be easily resolved by whomever has the bigger rock to worship/hit the apostates with, thus avoiding generations of hatred and strife!

A Stick

Can you imagine a stick ever asking you to kill over a confluence of ink on a page? Or demanding that you burn your wife for taking a stroll without a male escort? Or making you do anything at all? It's the god with the benefit of being totally inert! Stick can also be used to chase away hungry dogs or entertain friendly ones.

Michael Ignatieff

OK, so the nature-type gods aren't your thing? You say you want a sinewy intellectual with a brooding stare and pre-made hymns to his greatness? Michael Ignatieff fits the bill! His radio experience means his booming, deific voice has already been heard by many across the world, and if you're looking for miracles, getting elected as an MP after publicly supporting the war in Iraq and torture is right up there with turning water into wine.

The Teapot in Orbit around Pluto

We all know it's there -- now it's just a matter of worshipping it and doing what it says. I suspect the Mighty Teapot of Nearly Extrasolar Splendour wants nothing more than to be symbolically furnished with honey and scones. (This interpretation of the divine will makes me a High Priest of Tetley.) Ready the Holy Thurible of Bone China and say three caffeinated orisons per day until your soul is pure. Don't worry; all tea transubstantiates as you swallow it, so you'll be in an ecstatic state of hyperactivity in no time!

==

I hope you find these proposed deities useful in your day to day lives. You'll notice that all of them are far, far better than Allah, YHWH, Father Sky, or Shiva. If you need to know what Rock, Stick, Mike, or Teapot wants of you, please feel free to Paypal $50 to the Church of the Shoed Whore and I'll be sure to interpret the sacred texts into rules for you to live by.

==

Alright, no more Mohammed cartoon posts, I promise.

My Maniversary

2006-03-06T00:33:00.000-05:00

Friday was the one-year anniversary of my relationship with Meghan. She calls it our anniversary. I call it my maniversary.

It has been one year since I became a man. A virile, ass-kicking, chest-thumping, other-man-killing man. Some pheromonal interaction between my girl and me has led me to metamorphose from a friendly, hand-shaking boy … to a monstrous, arm-ripping man.

The metaphor of the caterpillar-butterfly is both apt and completely incorrect. Perhaps if the butterfly emerged from the cocoon, returned to the cocoon, came out once again, destroyed every other butterfly within 20km as well as a low-flying jet, and then re-entered and re-exited the cocoon a few more times, then we’d have a very apt image.

Somewhere in my testosterone-clouded brain, I understand the genesis of these changes. With a girl like Meghan, a certain quantity of possessiveness is understandable. If another man –competitor! – tries to breath the same air as my girl, it’s like he is trying to be inside her. Is it not then rational to crush crush crush his skull and rip tear bite the offending lungs, never to infringe on her innards again?

The transformation was gradual. When I first met her, the only thing I destroyed was the front of my pants. As we saw each other more often, I was overwhelmed with passions I didn’t understand. Is this love, I wondered, pensively punching my fist clean through the chest of a man standing too close. Is it lust? The misdirected smile of a freshly severed head held no answers.

As I used my body, it changed. Hair and stink erupted me from me like a disgusting Pompeii. I simply could not stop growling. I would wake up, never sure if I would roll over to see her smiling face or a twitching pile of attractive men. Sometimes it would be both. She’s a kinky dame.

And so our anniversary has come and gone. I am panting and I can’t remember why, and she is smiling that wonderful smile at me. Or is it someone behind me? I’ll KILL HIM!!!

Supreme Court overturns ban on Sikh ceremonial dagger

2006-03-02T13:47:00.001-05:00

2 Mar 2006
CBC News

A Montreal boy can now wear his Sikh ceremonial dagger in the classroom after Canada's top court unanimously overturned a ban on the 10-centimetre steel dagger curved for optimal throat-cutting.

A total ban infringed on Gurbaj Singh's guarantees of the right to bear 10-centimetre steel daggers curved for optimal throat-cutting in public places full of children for religious reasons under the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled 8-0 on Thursday.

The court threw out arguments from lawyers for the Quebec school board that originally implemented the ban. It said there is no suggestion the 10-centimetre steel dagger curved for optimal throat-cutting is a weapon of violence or that Gurbaj, who was 12 when the court case started five years ago, intended to use it as one.

The argument is "disrespectful to believers in the Sikh personal relationship with God and does not take into account Canadian values based on multiculturalism," wrote Justice Louise Charron.

"If some students consider it unfair that Gurbaj Singh may wear his 10-centimetre steel dagger curved for optimal throat-cutting to school while they are not allowed to have knives in their possession, it is incumbent on the schools to discharge their obligation to instil in their students this value that is ... at the very foundation of our democracy."

After the ruling was released, Gurbaj said he believes the case arose out of ignorance of his personal relationship with God.

"This is an article of my personal relationship with God," the 17-year-old said. "We do not use it, we do not take it out. That's a restriction."

The case stems from a November 2001 incident at Ste-Catherine-Laboure school in LaSalle. Gurbaj's cloth-wrapped dagger came loose from around his waist and fell to the ground at the elementary school.

The principal ordered the then 12-year-old to remove the 10-centimetre steel dagger curved for optimal throat-cutting, but Gurbaj left school rather than remove the 10-centimetre-long ceremonial dagger, which, he says, is a key component of his personal relationship with God. He eventually switched to another school and his family took the matter to court.

Lower court decision upheld

The case has been winding its way through the legal system for four years.

In May 2002, the Quebec Superior Court ruled Gurbaj could wear his 10-centimetre steel dagger curved for optimal throat-cutting to school if it were wrapped in heavy cloth inside a wooden case, underneath his clothing.

Quebec's government at the time, the Parti Québécois, appealed the decision. In 2004, the Quebec Court of Appeal struck down the decision, ruling the 10-centimetre steel dagger curved for optimal throat-cutting had the makings of a weapon and was dangerous.

Although banning the weapon was a hindrance to the right to bear 10-centimetre steel daggers curved for optimal throat-cutting in public places full of children, the court ruled community safety comes first.

McGill University Prof. Jack Jedwab said Canadians are looking for guidance in determining where to draw the line when it comes to issues of the right to bear 10-centimetre steel daggers curved for optimal throat-cutting in public places full of children for religious reasons.

"People are looking for some leadership on this point and hopefully they'll get some from the Supreme Court," he said.

Manjeet Singh, the Sikh chaplain at McGill and Concordia universities, who also assisted Gurbaj Singh's legal team, said baptized Sikhs believed the 10-centimetre steel dagger curved for optimal throat-cutting is a symbol of courage, freedom and responsibility to stand up for their rights.

"It is one of the five articles of our personal relationship with God that every baptized Sikh is supposed to have on their person, all the time," said Manjeet Singh.

Craig Buchanan, vice-president of English affairs with for the Quebec Federation of Parents Committee, said the issue is divisive.

"It's a tricky situation. If you start to try to limit the right to bear 10-centimetre steel daggers curved for optimal throat-cutting in public places full of children for religious reasons, then what's that going to do to other religious freedoms?" said Buchanan. "And if you seek to compromise safety in schools, how far is that going to go as far as safety in the schools?"

==

This is a cut-and-paste of the CBC article available here with the following Find and Replace actions performed:

"kirpan" -> "10-centimetre steel dagger curved for optimal throat-cutting"

"religious freedom" -> "the right to bear 10-centimetre steel daggers curved for optimal throat-cutting in public places full of children for religious reasons"

"religion" and "faith" -> "personal relationship with God"

I think my favourite part is the quote from Justice Charron:

If some students consider it unfair that Gurbaj Singh may wear his kirpan to school while they are not allowed to have knives in their possession, it is incumbent on the schools to discharge their obligation to instil in their students this value that is ... at the very foundation of our democracy.

Don't you forget it, kids. The very foundation of democracy is special privileges for everyone! Because objective rules are for bigots!

The end of the cartoon saga

2006-03-01T11:43:00.000-05:00

Roiters – As furor over the Muhammad cartoons first published in a Danish newspaper in September dies down, some Muslims are taking the pictures into their homes, their work, and even their mosques.

Ali al-Rabat, a downcast imam, explained the issue’s newest twist. “I think we made it pretty clear to you Western pig-dogs. Depictions of Muhammad are forbidden because they incite idolatry. Even the Jewish controlled media can understand that. The proper object of worship is forever Allah, and we don’t want to confuse things.”

“We didn’t care about the stupid cartoons because they were insulting – that would be over-reacting pretty seriously, now wouldn’t it? It’s because there is a small group of Muslims who are genetically predisposed to worship pictures of the prophet.”

The imam pulled out a wallet-size version of the infamous turban-bomb Muhammad cartoon and dropped to his knees. Sobbing, he said, “a small group of which I am sadly a member. All praise to Muhammad’s picture! Gyahh!”

Worshipping Graffiti

An Iranian secret policeman, who refused to be named, added another perspective. “For years, we have been trying to humiliate Jews with our insulting depictions of Moses and Samual and Sharon and all those crazy prophets of theirs. They have the same ban on depictions and idols, so we thought they had some of the same genes as us. We kept hoping we’d catch one of them bowing down in front of our graffiti of some Jewish figure eating babies and bathing in the blood. That would’ve been pretty funny.”

“But,” he continued, “there was a fatal flaw in our plan, now that I think about it. If we have any of the same genes, it means that at some point Jews and Muslims interbred, which is ridiculous.”

Difficulties with Protests

Protests have died down since their peak last month. Many of the protesters have quietly wandered home, citing the difficulty of finding more Danish flags.

“We tried to keep it alive by spreading the issue to other countries,” said one of the more enthusiastic flag-burners. “France published the cartoons too, and we had a couple days of their flags handy, which was nice. Someone dug up some Norwegian flags from who knows where, so we made it into kind of a Scandinavian thing. But we ran out pretty quickly.”

“No one saw this coming. We would have stocked up beforehand if we knew that Denmark was in line for a sweet Jihad. But we couldn’t do anything once everything got started, because of the boycott on Danish goods.”

“So eventually we just went back to burning the American flag. Anything to keep the protest alive. I’m unemployed and lonely. Have you seen anything offensive lately?”

“Our Message is Clear”

In a telephone interview, a Saudi Arabian spokesperson – oh who am I kidding? – a Saudi Arabian spokesman commented on the cartoon crisis.

“I think we made our message very clear. We will destroy our own infrastructure, trample each other, and call enormous attention to things we find offensive. The Muslim areas of the world, from Indonesia to Nigeria, are united in our position that …”

The phone line was then overcome with static.

Teaser

2006-02-27T22:41:00.000-05:00

. . . and that poor bulimic girl who for years held only the world record for Most Blintzes Vomited Quietly into a Plastic Bag in Her Bedroom So Her Parents Wouldn't Wake Up grew up to be Olympic javelineer Jelka Danneskjöld.

More inspiring stories coming up next on the Whore, when we'll tell you about a dog who can't stop earning advanced degrees! Good boy, Dr. Woofers! We'll also have the story of Fred "One-Arm" Crane, who swam the English Channel despite having only one leg. And in studio to tell us about her upcoming biopic will be the inspiring Nicole Chalmers, who overcame leprosy, palsy, and uninterrupted epileptic seizures to become one of Chanel's highest earning runway models!

We need to break for a moment, but don't go away! Our weatherman is waiting to tell you which continents to avoid this evening and Jerry-in-the-Sky will fill you in on the quickest route for your commute! He'll also have some Tips and Tricks for better driving, so pay attention all you rush-hour Whore readers! And try to glance at the road occasionally while you're reading us.

In our next hour we'll hear from Patrick who is live at the European Commission to tell us about Proposition 489-2(b) which will regulate the price of feed turnips grown during the spring quarter of odd numbered years. We've had our fashion consultant Summer dress Patrick as a large turnip himself to celebrate the occasion! Will he be mistaken for a turnip and eaten by hungry parliamentarians? Find out, next!

And coming up next on the Whore, Professor Craig Q. Pentsworth will tell us what's hot -- and what's not -- in the world of publishing. This year fiction is out, biographies are in -- and you'll never believe whose autobiography has the author sleeping with more than 40 Hollywood leading men and two Hispanic day labourers! It's never too early to start on your summer reading, so stick around!

A popular chocolate bar has been linked to benzine poisoning and kidnappings by pedophiles -- we'll tell you which sweets to keep away from junior after this brief message from our sponsor!

Don't touch that mouse, unless it's to scroll down to our sizzling documentary on campus lesbian experimentation. Where is it happening, how does it affect you, and what exactly do they do to each other? You won't want to miss our in-depth coverage and hidden camera exposé!

The secrets to unspeakable wealth, unending glee, and multiple continuous stroke-inducing orgasms, all after this brief commercial break. For God's sake, please don't stop reading and go somewhere else.

So don't go away! The Shoe and Whore has the answers to all of life's mysteries, if you'll just stick around. We'll be right back.

We meet at last III: The Final Homily

2006-02-16T23:05:00.000-05:00

Gah!

No!

Blood? How -- !? I am immortal! And yet -- can it be? Are you truly the chosen one?

Truly?

It must be so! Only the chosen one could have struck me down. How foolish I was in my hubris, to think myself invincible because only one man in all of the Seven Kingdoms could defeat me. Yet here stands that man, my brackish blood streaming from his silvered blade. I knew Sudenrevers, the god of irony, was probably not the best god to pray to for all my evil powers.

cough cough It's all getting dark now -- with my last breath, let me tell you something the Eternal Order never would . . .

I killed your father, they said? Draw near and learn the truth, Hero of the North and Slayer of Woe.

I AM YOUR FATHER.

Be not so shocked. My time is short, but I shall tell you the tale of your conception, and my malefaction.

Your mother was daughter to the High Seneschal of the Northern Cisterns, Handmaid to the Flame and Darling of Heaven. I was but a stable boy, tending horses and suffering the beatings of my "noble" masters. With each passing day, my hatred grew.

She took pity upon me, that gracious princess, and welcomed me into her company. Although her mother hated me and punished her daughter for our comity, the princess came to me each night with a rose at her hip and a round of bread for my sustenance.

We loved each other with the fire of a thousand suns, and pledged eternity to the service of our passions. When the stricture of her station chafed at her beyond her capacity to bear, we made plans to escape together to the grassy meadows and fertile plains of the Halcyon Valley. There we would make our lives as simple farmers, delighting in nothing but each other.

It was the scheming vizier who found us. I fought him with all my young strength, but he bewitched the princess and brought her back to the Shining Donjon. There she was bound to the Blinding Throne with the Tether of Eternal Duty and I was forever cast out.

How then could I fail to recognize the fraud of duty, the ragged lie of honour! I took my hatred and loss and sought out the most evil of men and demons. Morivar the Execrable first took me as his student once I pledged my soul by digging up the corpses of goodmen and leaving them on the doorsteps of their best friends in life, when their sorrows almost were forgot! The Histiatrix of Mundren Fell was next my teacher, though in payment she demanded from me acts for which there are no words. And so it went, my thwarted love fueling my need for power, for viciousness, for revenge!

You who call me evil and curse my designs -- it was men like you, men of duty, who drove me to this!

YOU MADE ME!

cough cough

They never told me she had taken with my child. They were wise to keep it from you -- to hide you in the castle sculleries, never telling you your true heritage. You might have sought me out and taken your rightful place at my side. Together, we might have ruled the Imperium, and the Lands Beyond. Even the Burning Legions might have bowed before us. But all that is now gone. The son has slain the father.

The circle is complete. I regret nothing.

I feel Death coming for me now. Take your hostages and return to the truckling people you love so much. But never forget whose blood runs through your veins. Enjoy your laurels, hero. I'm not sure I could.

I think can see the other side. I can feel the eternal torment that awaits me -- payment for my lifetime of calculated atrocity. I knew that price when I chose this path, and embraced it. So be it.

So be it. [he dies]

==

If you enjoyed this story, Tor Fantasy and Science Fiction publishes many more like it. For a catalogue of our stories of the fantastic please send 15¢ to the address below.

We meet at last II: Electric Boogaloo

2006-02-15T18:10:00.000-05:00

All credit to guest contributer Chris. Except for the credit for, you know, coming up with the idea and doing it first.

==

No, N'Insythrall the Unmaker, the time for words is over, and the time for justice is nigh. Your chaotic reign of murder and terror is quickly dissipating, as is the festering cloud of oppression and corruption which has swung so low over the Seven Kingdoms for so long.

I must say, your coordinated abductions of the seven eldest heirs was a masterstroke and set back by many months my efforts to convince the leaders of the realms to recognize the danger they faced. Of course, once I had broken the Seal of Sustained Pestilence and collected the acid-laced tongues of the Night Hags of Neverday Swamp, the fields once again were fertile, and our dwindling armies of famished soldiers were re-energized and assembled against your ravaging forces of Shadowfiends and undead minions, who need never pause to eat nor sleep, propelled as they are, by your infernal magicks.

And how dare you speak ill of the Eternal Order of Heroes! I owe much to them, including these magical leathers, which have seen me through the Flame Plains and the Mountains of Madness, and which I luckily decided to don during a short dip in the Pool of Purity, which (as you know, for I saw the putrid eggsac portal and recognized your handiwork) turned out to be infested with no fewer than forty Unholy Crocolith!!!

The Eternal Order of Heroes told me something about my father: they told me YOU KILLED HIM!!

I did not ask for this lot, though I will accept destiny's burden. I was but a simple scullion, running errands for the Knightwatch, when fate plucked me from a life of innocence to land me unready in the path of power. Was it not sheer coincidence that I would be the last to speak to Akbar the Grand Vizier after he single-handedly repelled your swarms of deadly demi-gorgons and Rift Dragons, and tumbled, mortally struck, from the tallest Rampart of Highcastle to land directly beside where I had been hiding? Was it not sheer folly to entrust a dirt-faced boy with the secret location of the Heroic Chronicles?

No, I claim no birthright, no particular aptitude for this task. If not me, then countless other brave souls might have been chosen by the Gods to pick up the Torch of Purest Flame, to throw it into the mouth of the Mountains of Madness, breaking the enchantment which held the Seven Sages of Abyssinia in a state of incomprehensible, gibbering insanity. Though you may kill me, the people's need for freedom from under your yoke of oppression will surface again, and again, and again, until YOU -- and the entire Caliphate of Cannibals! -- are overthrown!

The Seven Sages of Abyssinia have kept records of the Old Legends for a dozen centuries, passing on the wisdom of ancient prophecy to those caught up in the circle of time of which you spoke earlier. But lo! The circle will only be complete upon your destruction, fiend, and I, and this thrice-blessed blade will be your deliverance.

I give you one final chance to yield, and I will spare your life. Yield now and avoid this.

You give me no choice. You have much to answer for.

We are very similar, you claim. Hmmph! Is that what you need me to say? Still seeking approval and praise despite commanding armies numbering in the tens of thousands, eh? Are you -- sniff -- lonely? Do your captives, mute skeletons, and Tongueless Ones not compliment you enough? Ha! You sicken me and I pity you. Yes, indeed, we may have been comrades-in-arms, once, were it not for your complete impermeability to any qualms of decency, honour, mercy, or compassion! The only unslakeable thirst is that of your bottomless ego, knave. Justify yourself to the Devil.

No more delay. Have at you!!!

Valentine's Day

2006-02-14T23:59:00.000-05:00

I know today is supposed to be a romantic day, Billy. I know. But for a love such as ours, things can never be like other people. Besides, you wouldn’t understand the flowers and you’d just eat the chocolates until you made yourself sick.

Billy, I don’t know how to say this. I … oh hell. I think we should see other people. I’m serious Billy, quit playing with your toy. Listen to me Billy, or I’ll take it away!

Good, now I have your attention. Yes, it’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be sad that our wonderful journey of exploration and deviation is coming to an end. I’d hold you and comfort you and wipe away your tears – I still do have feelings for you – but your parents could be home any minute.

I’m a doo-doo head am I? Well, I’m going to take the moral high ground here. I understand you’re angry. It’s okay to be angry. I forgive you.

You see Billy, relationships are funny things. They’re like – let’s see – relationships are like your toy I’m holding here. Sometimes they look like they can go on forever without any help, but in reality, someone needs to wind them up every once in a while. You like that metaphor don’t you, Billy? You’re such a smart boy, such a beautiful boy.

I guess the problem, Billy, is that I felt like I was the one doing all the winding. I always came to your house to babysit you, but you never once came to visit me. Sometimes you even tried to run away from my loving touch! All I wanted to do was love you! Why can’t you – and everyone else I’ve ever talked to – just understand that!

It hurt me Billy. It really did. And so I did some things I’m not proud of … proud being an extremely relative term. I … I coached a little league soccer team. I know Billy, I’m weak. But I have needs – horrible, depraved needs! I … I was a kindergarten substitute teacher! And little Timmy and I … there’s no need to go into the details.

So Billy, it’s time for us to move on – you to adolescence and hideous maturity, and me to another town with less heat. Happy Valentine’s Day, Billy. Remember me fondly to your therapist!

I think I will take this toy of yours with me, as a memento to our love. Yes Billy, I know, I’m crying too. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Goodbye then. Here’s looking at you, kid. Goodbye forever!

WWMID?

2006-02-13T16:36:00.000-05:00

What would Michael Ignatieff do,
If he were here right now?
He'd make a plan and he'd follow through,
That's what Mike Ignatieff'd do!

When Michael Ignatieff was at the Globe
And Mail as a weekly scribe,
The workings of the world out there,
He aptly did describe.

When Michael Ignatieff manned the mic
On shortwave in Britain,
His sexy voice impressed the mates
And moistened the women.

So what would Michael Ignatieff do,
If he were here today?
We'd see political kung fu,
That's what Mike Ignatieff'd do!

I just want a leader with some brains,
Who isn't afraid to piss off Ukraine.

And I just want Mike
To establish his own Reich;

Canada needs a crack PM,
So let Mike reign o'er the Commons!

Oh, what would Michael Ignatieff do?
He'd call his MPs 'round.
To kiss his ass they all would queue,
That's what Mike Ignatieff'd do!

When Michael Ignatieff wins the vote
In the year 2010,
He'll cleanse the land of Tory filth
And let homos wed again.

PM Mike will cow Quebec,
His victory is foregone,

'Cause Michael Ignatieff don't take shit from an-y-one!

So bow your head and venerate
This modern day Greek god;
Conservatives will know they're screwed
When Mikey's votes have all accrued!
Mike's the man who'll see us through,
'Cause that's what Mike Ignatieff'd

DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

That's right!

Six dead as cartoon protests enter second week

2006-02-09T20:52:00.000-05:00

19 February 2006

Six more Jews are dead after Israeli police were forced to fire on a crowd of protesters outside the Iranian embassy in Tel Aviv.

The Jews were protesting the Iranian newspaper Hamshari's decision to publish 12 editorial cartoons lampooning the Holocaust and illustrating the commonly held Muslim opinion that Jewish religious rituals involve blood sacrifice. Traditional Jewish belief holds that depictions of Jews as pigs, cannibals, demons, child molesters, and organ thieves who deserved the Holocaust and are destined for extermination are offensive.

The riots, now in their sixth day and spreading rapidly through Jewish populations throughout the world, have claimed 22 lives. Three Arabic foreign missions have been set aflame by angry Jewish protesters chanting "YHWH is great!" and throwing stones at police. At least two foreign attaches have been garroted with long sideburn hair while trying to escape.

Hamshari at first insisted the cartoons' publication was an exercise of free expression, but soon issued an apology and sacked its editorial staff over pressure from the Iranian government. Several other Middle Eastern papers published the cartoons, but quickly issued apologies as Jewish violence grew.

Jews have rioted in at least eight countries worldwide, with reports of unrest in many more.

"Freedom of opinion, expression and of the press, which we guarantee and respect, cannot be used as an excuse to insult sanctities, beliefs and religions," said Ehud Olmert, Israel's acting prime minister. Olmert has been criticized in the past for calling for the "extermination" of Arabs and for entreating his people to "push Iran into the sea."

Abroad, Jewish groups echoed his sentiments. "Freedom of expression cannot justify indignity towards a religion," said Joel Kaplan, president of the B'nai B'rith, a Jewish service organization. "Let any further violence be on the heads of the cartoonists."

At the same time, controversy spread throughout the Middle East as Jewish groups pressed Arab leaders to condemn Hamshahri for publishing the strips.

Arab governments have been quick to condemn the cartoons.

"Anti-Semitic images are as unacceptable as anti-Muslim images, as anti-Christian images, or any other religious belief," said Syrian President Muhammad al-Otari. "This does not mean that I am against freedom of speech, or freedom of the press. Yes, I am for that. But as I have indicated in the past, freedom of speech is not a licence. It does entail exercising responsibility and judgment."

Some commentators criticized Arab governments for failing to defend freedom of speech more strongly, while others praised them for exhibiting religious tolerance.

However, such statements have had little effect on Jewish rioters, who continue to call for the execution of the Iranian cartoonists or the amputation of their hands for blasphemy.

Before today's shootings, several foreign observers had condemned Jewish authorities for failing to protect Arab embassies in Israel, or even for stage-managing the protests themselves. Now, however, the Israeli government has issued a strong statement calling for an end to the riots.

"Jews of the world, be reasonable," said Tzipi Livni, Israel's foreign minister. "What brings more prejudice against Judaism, these caricatures or pictures of a Jewish hostage-taker slashing the throat of his victim in front of the cameras or a Jewish suicide bomber who blows himself up during a wedding ceremony in Amman?"

Colorectal Examinations in Northern Ontario

2006-02-08T11:23:00.000-05:00

From Canadian Family Physician, 2006

ABSTRACT

PROBLEM BEING ADDRESSED: Colorectal cancer (CRC) is a substantial cause of death and morbidity in Canada. In addition, the lack of young professional women in rural areas leads to low staff morale and high turn-over.

OBJECTIVE OF PROGRAM: To screen for CRC safely and effectively using colonoscopy performed by non-specialist endoscopists in rural areas. To satisfy staff urges.

CONCLUSION: It was not difficult to design and implement a CRC screening program in our small rural community. Colonoscopies performed by family physicians have been free of serious complications, such as pregnancy.

==

Background

Colorectal cancer screening is widely recommended, but often under-utilized, especially in rural areas. This study shows that is is an effective way to detect the polyps that lead to colorectal cancer, and also to raise morale and retain staff in short-staffed rural practice.

Methods

We conducted 219 colonoscopies in a small rural Ontario municipality. While the literature approximates that 1% of patients will suffer from any of a number of complications -- punctured colons from over-enthusiastic probing, serious chafing, and herpes – our data set is free of any injuries. This proves that, with appropriate finesse and lubricant, the colonoscopy can be performed by non-specialists, i.e. publicly heterosexual men.

The method we used is widely practiced, both in Canada and internationally. Until recently, it was not permissible in some States, but these restrictions have been dropped as health groups have lobbied against them.

To maximize the benefits of the procedure, it is imperative that the patient be heavily sedated and reasonably attractive. The risk of injury is considerably lessened if the patient is in the side-saddle, trembling Lotus, or fish-out-of-water position, though other positions have been found to be effective as well. The operation is made easy if both the rectum and the doctor’s instrument are both heavily lubricated. The instrument is them inserted deeply into the anus. The instrument should be as sensitive as possible to detect any irregularities, which tickle. For thoroughness, repeated examinations are encouraged.

The main issue for us was risk from patients. Risk of identification has been quoted as being as high as one in 1000 procedures, although Rex et al in 2000 suggested, “the rate of identification in recreational colonoscopy is uncertain but is of the order of one in several thousand.” We minimized risk of identification using a heavy cocktail of drugs. Besides, they probably liked it.

Results

Table 1: Results of first 2 years of colonoscopies

C-scopes / Males screwed, / Age / Polyps / Complications
performed /er, screened, % / Range /Detected/
Year 1: 153/___3%____ /__16-25__/_?__/_____1**
Year 2: 171/___28%___ /18-35,73*/_?__/___2***, ****

*In year 2, we had exhausted the population of young ladies. This led to some desperation among still-needy colleagues, with occasionally gross results. Like you never!
**One patient, upon awakening, demanded dinner and a movie.
***One journalist had caught onto our program and came to investigate. We have examined him for colorectal cancer, but the results were inconclusive and require further tests.
****One man visited the clinic with complaints of fecal occult blood and terrible pain of the colon. We turned him away.

Conclusions

The program has been a great success. Turnover rates have declined precipitously among our staff, and we must have fixed something while we were in there – we’re doctors! The only downside to the program has been an increase in the number of cigarettes smoked by staff, but this is not statistically significant. We have no reservations about making this recommendation to any short-staffed rural medical practice: rape your patients in the ass!

Turbomb

2006-02-06T23:14:00.000-05:00

I consume a lot of head-shaking news in a week: dead civil rights activists, evil Ken dolls being sworn in as political leaders ("If you look carefully at what I said in the election campaign, I did leave open that possibility," Harper said today as he appointed an unelected minister to his cabinet; get used to that statement, Canada), NASA confusing the terms "theory" and "fact," and a woman getting a face transplant that makes her look like a nightmarish vision of a dead woman who had her face peeled off by doctors. (The recipient needed the transplant after she was mauled by her dog: "When I woke up, I tried to light a cigarette, and I didn't understand why I couldn't hold it between my lips." Man's best friend indeed!)

But of all the abstruse, ludicrous bubbles in the human stream of effluent that roils across the planet's face each day, somehow nothing seems quite so ridiculous as Muslims rioting, burning buildings, and killing people over a Dutch cartoon.

There's really not much I can say to improve on this story. Hardcore Muslims in the Middle East are setting European embassies on fire and demanding executions and amputations because they don't like a particular confluence of lines drawn by a Danish artist and published in some European newspapers. It's hardly news that religious zealots of any stripe have no sense of humour, but this is on a whole other level.

One interesting point is that the newspaper staff who commissioned the cartoon did so because they were worried about European self-censorship of anything having to do with Islam. They've obviously made their point a million times over. But are we further gone than they are? I can't imagine a Canadian paper commissioning or publishing similar images for a similar reason. I'm just hoping that's good taste and not an unwillingness to offend anyone for the sake of making a point.

Enjoy this take on the whole mess. I'm actually too depressed to comment rationally on this anymore. Let the idiocy begin.

==

Apparently these rioters have never heard of the famous and pious Jack Chick:

If they had, they wouldn't even be Muslims right now because they would have accepted the holy light of Christ!

Or amputated Chick's hands to prevent him from spreading infidel filth and shaming the One Who Removes Disbelief. Whichever.

How about this one? Mohammed's head is on fire! Surely the Most Crimeless didn't descend from Hira with his noggin aflame or we'd be calling him the Most Combustible, right? (And is this really so different from the turbomb?)

This is Mohammed (lettered as the Turkish "Mahomet") being tortured in Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell, probably for charging interest on a loan or trimming his bread when it got itchy. Damn you Giovanni da Modena! (Click on the picture for yet another story of religious tolerance.)

OK, if Muslims are going to be upset about any picture it should be this one. I mean, what the fuck? What the fuck.

==

To anyone who doubts my self-restraint: my original idea for this post was to MS Paint a comic series in which Mohammed has sex with a pig, the pig has children, and Mohammed has an orgy with his pig-children while eating pork and shoving rolled-up bacon into his colon. I hope no one burns down the Matheist Chancery in Damascus now.

V-Day: “A Vagina Miracle”

2006-02-03T12:24:00.001-05:00

And now, a word from our Sponsor: Meghan. She's trying to sell vaginas or something.

==

Foreword

The phenomenon of V-Day has spread like a pair of sweet thighs or a vaguely fishy reek, originating from “The Vagina Monologues”. “The Vagina Monologues” is a play written collaboratively by Eve Ensler and her snatch, which is apparently the reincarnation of Moliere. For those of you who have never had the privilege of seeing “The Vagina Monologues”, just think of the trendy liberal pandering and faux ‘uplift’ of “Rent” but with less atonal singing and more fallopian tube. Now V-Day activists have some fantastic goals, say, like preventing rape, sexual exploitation and spousal abuse. If their agenda had ended there I would have said, “Fantastic, sign me up.” Substantially less fantastic, howeever, is the dogma that Ensler and her cunt cronies felch from their non-vaginal lips like golden nuggets of wisdom and pure radiant Christ-love. Here are some choice samples:

The Vagina Monologues

“My vagina's angry. It is. It's pissed off. My vagina's furious and it needs to talk."

“What’s special about your vagina? Somewhere deep inside it has a really, really smart brain.”

Eve Ensler:

“You wouldn't come up with something like thong underwear if you started with a great
love and appreciation of your vagina.”

“I would tell them [mothers] to love their daughters' vaginas, and to really encourage that love.”

“I completely lived in my head for years and years and nothing changed. It was only when I began to live in my vagina that the world really changed.”

I guess there’s only one question left to ask. Is it sticky in there?

______

The Girls’ Own Guide to Loving Your Vagina

V-day is fast approaching and goddamn it, ladies we need to prepare ourselves. We shall fight in the breeches, we shall fight in the landing mounds, we shall fight in the bushes and in the narrow streets; we shall never surrender!

In preparation for this glorious mission, I have created a guide to loving your hair-pie written in language that even the most simple-minded twat can understand.

The first step to loving your cunt is to give it a special name, the way Adam named Eve and all the animals in the garden of Eden. This will definitely make you feel more empowered and less objectified as a woman. Perhaps you could name it after a prominent female historical figure like Harriet Tubman, Mary Wollstonecraft, Oprah or Beyoncé. Another option is to give your slit a really commanding name like Cuntilla, He-Man, Twatasaurus Rex or Hammer of the Gods.

Once you have a suitably empowered name for your fur burger, it’s time to take out your scented magic marker set and draw a beautiful portrait of your stunning slice. Don’t worry about having any artistic ability or anatomical knowledge. It’s perfectly okay to make completely arbitrary decisions about what your vagina looks like because you’re a woman and don’t have to bother with that logic bullshit. Your pussy smells like watermelon and is covered in yellow and orange hearts? Awesome, girlfriend. If you really can’t think of anything, just take out a tampon box and copy the discreet abstract design on the side. Trust me, Picasso, Pollock and De Kooning did stuff like that all the time!

By now, you should be feeling pretty confident about your relationship with your vagina. This is the time to pamper your pootang with high fashion. Many people knit sweaters for their dogs, so why not crochet something pretty and colour-coordinated for your dick sharpener? Accessories are always key for a stylish snatch. You could look sophisticated in a beret or go for an edgy look with a fuzzy cowboy hat. Black is always a slimming option for ‘curvy’ quinnies.

The final step towards a more intimate relationship with your bearded clam is to incorporate it into your decision-making. Your relationships, personal style and career can all benefit from a deeper connection to your cunt. For example, a pussy-empowered dialogue might go a little something like this:

Pussy-hating boyfriend: So, where do you want to go for dinner tonight?

EMPOWERED WOMAN: Well, my vagina and I were thinking it might be nice if we went to the most expensive restaurant in town and you paid for everything.

Pussy-hating boyfriend: Well, gee, I love you, honey, but I just lost my job and you’re an oil heiress. Could we split the bill?

EMPOWERED WOMAN: *bone-splintering voice emanating from inside her pants* I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME, WRETCHED MORTAL!

Pussy-hating boyfriend: Okay, I guess I’ll just have to live in a parking garage and eat rats. It’s cool.

EMPOWERED WOMAN: Well, you know how it is. “Marie Curie” doesn’t settle for second-best.

Or how about at a business meeting?

Middle-aged, Middle-management Misogynist: Susan, are you ready to present your report to the shareholders?

EMPOWERED WOMAN: I believe you forgot to address “Marie Curie”. She was a major contributor to this project.

Middle-aged, Middle-management Misogynist (sweating profusely): I didn’t realize your…your… genitals…had such an integral role in drafting this document. Erm, may I shake “Marie Curie’s” hand?

EMPOWERED WOMAN: *earth-shattering voice echoing out of said genitals* THIS IS SEXUAL HARASSMENT!

(Middle-aged, Middle-managament Misogynist is dragged away by lawyers. His screams can be heard in the corridor outside and then a portentous silence. A few days later, EMPOWERED WOMAN and “Marie Curie” receive a cash settlement, a promotion and a pat on the ass.)

In conclusion, ladies, let your cooters run free in the wind. Let your cunts climb every mountain, follow every rainbow, pick edelweiss on the hillside, take elocution lessons from an indomitably cheerful nun and generally just cause a ruckus. For V-Day is on its way and it’s about time you had a pink taco partay!

When Stereotypes Attack!

2006-01-31T11:59:00.000-05:00

So I was like, all walking by the TV and I saw that Mugabe is all like, oppressive? In Zimbabwe? And so me and my girls went to the mall and we were all like Helllloooooo!!! That kind of treatment of your citizens is soooooo last week! So anyway, we used Daddy’s plane and flew over there and everything was so gross! Security guards were all over the place and trying to grab my brand-name stuff and I was like, “You are definitely ewwww.” So we totally set up a shelter for like, all the people who can’t afford Gucci stuff. And a lot of people didn’t like, die? You know? So that was the best thing EVER!

==

I handed in my badge and gun to the chief today. He’s probably right, you know? My take-no-prisoners attitude was really compromising the investigation. What we need is someone who follows regulations. I mean, they exist for a reason, right? Just sometimes, when I’m following a perp’s car or I’m cornered by a bunch of hoods, I just see red and I throw out the book, and I start causing immense property damage. So I’d better just go home with a vat of ice cream and try to forget about the case. And especially forget any hair-brained notions to go solve the case on my own! That’d be ridiculous!

==

Well, we’re gonna go out there and give 110% and just try and put the puck in the net. The other team’s been playing hard, so we’ve just got to step it up and play harder. Even if we lose though, I can always comfort myself by comparing my trials to those of Ivan Denisovich, Solzhenitsyn’s legendary protagonist, and feel mes inquietudes diminish geometrically. That man could write.

==

Listen up world governments, and listen closely. If you don’t deliver one trillion dollars to me immediately, my secret fortified island will execute the Omega plan. You cannot stop me! Your reputations and credibility will be destroyed! Hahahahahaha! Of course, the funding would make the program far more effective, and would allow us to cure AIDS with the Alpha program instead of just distributing safe sex pamphlets.

==

Dude! Your idea is totally making me trip out! Waaaay out. That is out there, and I want you to know that I’m behind you, like, all the way. This is totally going to work. But I’ve got to jet man. These teleconferences cost money, so have your people talk to my people and we’ll hammer out the details. I think this is a revolutionary way to corner the market. I might finally be able to afford that rocking Hummer! Peace.

1-800-MATTHEW

2006-01-30T22:54:00.000-05:00

As we enter February, the armpit of the year, are you noticing that you're a little bored with your life? Feeling a little fed up with the workaday world and its little disappointments? Sick of interacting with humanity, a pack of bloated looters feeding on your time and affections with their secret pleasures and sorry needs?

Maybe I got carried away there. My point is that you deserve a vacation! Forget your unfulfilling drudgery -- be it your job, your education, or your truckling family -- and sign up for a month in the life of Matthew Q. McContent!

I know what you're thinking: Do you mean the Matthew, you cry, Darling of nations and forty-time winner of the Nobel Prize in literature, physics, and oral sex theory and practice? How could I ever deprive him of the never ending orgasm of his life? Well friend, Matthew enjoys nothing more than giving to those less fortunate than himself. Are you him? No? Then you're less fortunate!

The year of 2006 is shaping up to be a banner year for Matthew, so reserve a month quickly! Matthew's keen interest in the Middle East (which could be yours!) will undoubtedly bring you much joy in the coming year as the democratic expression of the Palestinian people once again proves the value of democracy! By getting your order in early you'll also lessen the risk of reserving a month after North American begins glowing in the dark. (Please note that our no refunds policy applies even if Matthew is a 10-ounce husk of ash at the time of your reservation.)

Another big event you won't want to miss is Matthew's entry into the legal world! If the idea of spending two weeks in a library researching whether the use of a plunger handle as a choke-rod elevates sexual assault to aggravated sexual assault you're in for a treat! Not to mention the impending retooling of the Canadian criminal justice system that's just sure to make the coming year smooth and pleasurable one for anyone entering the field.

And don't forget bar admissions tests, the tests so fun that people have committed suicide during them (I guess they just couldn't handle all the merriment)! Nothing beats cramming your head with so much useless knowledge that you start having dreams about judges bursting into song about tax code reform while your mother's breasts squirt poison into your mouth and the scary man in the white suit is walking toward you very slowly but no matter how far you run he's always right behind you walking on the ceiling whenever you look back and every time you turn around your head twists off and you end up running with it into a room of screaming babies with fangs who all latch onto you and start swallowing your flesh and you try to shoot your way out but your gun won't work so you wake up and spend 10 minutes trying to slow your heartbeat when every creak sounds like one of them coming straight for you in the darkness of your empty bachelor apartment only too soon to be abandoned for one twice the price but closer to the sweltering smog and unwashed human crush of downtown Toronto.

So don't delay! Call 1-800-MATTHEW ext. 723 to speak with one of our Life Exchange Associates today and start living the life of Matthew the Gleeful Gambolling Gadabout!

I bloveg you all

2006-01-26T23:59:00.000-05:00

I have a headache dear, no blogging tonight. Maybe I'll make it up to you with a linkfest tomorrow.

I will, however, point out a website I happened across recently. Not because it's cool or interesting, but because it is the sad bearer of the most unholy portmanteau ever to slouch from the internet. This clearly demonstrates that the English language is completely out of control. Hoof clear while you're ticking, before it wangoes into a crashmaple.

www.blawgcast.com

Time for a little etymology:

World Wide Web = web

web log = weblog = blog

law blog = blawg (this step makes me angry)

Apple Computer branding + pod = iPod

iPod broadcast = podcast

blawg podcast = blawgcast

If you were a word wonk like me you could go even further back: broadcast is a compound of "broadly cast," as in throwing seeds around your plot of farmland. "Log" is a back-formation from "logbook," which came 200 years earlier. Fortunately, those make some goddamn sense.

Blawgcast.com isn't even a blawgcast itself; it's a blog about blawgcasting, making it a candidate for the next generation of lexical molestation. Any suggestions (other than a merciful bullet to the Broca's area)?

Preparing for life under a Conservative government

2006-01-23T18:56:00.000-05:00

Greetings citizen. No need to panic. I realize that the sight of a large man in a black uniform lazily swinging a cattle prod in your living room could be a little disturbing. But really there's no reason to be upset. I'm just here to help you prepare for life under a Conservative government.

Things will definitely change now that the Fiberals are out of power. You can expect to hear no lies from us since we're the party that won't say anything at all! Just listen to these gems from our glorious campaign:

But I've been very clear in this campaign -- I don't believe the party should have a position on abortion.

Oh Stephen Harper! How nobly non-false you speak! Clearly your statement about your personal belief regarding whether your party should have a position on an issue (even though it does) is not a lie!

I think the way to change it is to handle issues individually when it's essential to do so.

So rare to hear a politician tell it like it is!

So you see, no more lies from the party in power. From now on when laws are passed you won't hear the first thing about them. "A new law permitting police to pull over black drivers on 'hunches'? Why, I don't believe I should take a position on whether or not we just passed that law while burning a cross on the spire of the Peace Tower and dancing around in white hoods while devouring negro baby spines in hollandaise sauce." One hundred per cent Harper-brand truthiness!

Another change you will welcome is that we will now give the pre-born the rights they've always deserved! Each of your gametes -- or, as they are now called, "babies" -- will be protected as a legal person. Anyone who allows an egg or sperm to die without resolving into a living, breathing person will be guilty of murder! Having a period -- murder! Coke-bottle douching -- murder! Facials -- genocide!

This will also solve our falling birth rate problem! Soon women will be so busy having babies and taking care of their dozens of little ones that the child care issue will simply vanish! It just takes a little Conservative ingenuity to get ladies to stay home and stop bothering the rest of society with their nonsense.

It's time to mend some bridges with our American neighbours. First we ought to hand over all our oil; it's not like we really need it, and the U.S. (not to mention Iran) will love us so much! Also, giving American men prima nocta rights over Canadian girls will help our tourism industry recover from the losses it will take when our ski hills and pristine stretches of northern wilderness blacken and melt from increased carbon emissions. (Oh, and every American male can begin with Belinda Stronach. Pucker up, you blond Judas. See if you can walk across the Commons floor after you take sixteen thousand miles of cock.)

The increased tourism will also bring new income to our most important province. Ontario? What's that? The capital of this country is now Familyvaluesville and is located in the centre of Alberta. I think the province you call "Ontario" is the collection of labour camps we now call "Roarkville."

These are just a few of our reforms! You'll love our new gun policy: every citizen will be required to have an unregistered, fingerprint-proof assault rifle on his person at all times. Crime will plummet! As if that weren't enough, we're introducing minimum sentences: a million billion years for possession of smokeable tea leaves! Boy howdy, if that doesn't deter crime, what will!

Would you like to hear what we have in store for our learned opponents after we win power? Of course you do -- sit down or I'll have you declared a terrorist and shipped to Gitmo.

Gilles Duceppe will be deported to Pluto. The man has to be an extraterrestrial -- I mean, look at his eyes.

You could lash him to the bottom of a plane and use him as a landing beacon.

Paul Martin will be forced to have a Ni-Vanuatu flag planted in his skull. See how convenient that is, you goddamn traitor!

We don't really have to do anything to Jack Layton. His failure to keep us out of power means he has failed the gay agenda (child sodomy recruitment). The shadowy Gay Council of Sodomites will probably bugger him to death and choose a new frontman to pretend gay marriage is not simply an attempt to insert penises into the anuses of male children. Fortunately, you've finally elected a party that knows better!

Well, I'm sorry citizen. You just flinched one too many times. You're an enemy of the state! It's off to the penitentiary with you -- and no more revolving door justice, oh no! I'm sending you away for an octillion years!

Don't act as though you're surprised by any of this! If you wanted civil rights you had your chance to vote Liberal! Paul Martin said he would repeal the notwithstanding clause and you kicked him out of power! Now it's truncheons and state-rape for you!

A MAD election!

2006-01-23T14:41:00.000-05:00

I'm sure many of you read MAD Magazine when you were younger. But then, as time went on and it never covered any Canadian elections or posted on an obscure blog, you lost interest. Well MAD noticed and was pretty sad, so it has contracted me to get you back. I have no art talent, so just imagine all this text accompanied by distorted, yet somehow completely recognizable caricatures of all the candidates.

The Characters

Hi, I’m Dull Martin. Forgive me if I seem a little stressed out, I’ve got a country to defend from evil Americanite tyrants! And I’m sorry everyone has to go out in the cold to vote, but that’s everyone else’s fault for forcing the Liberal Party to collapse. And I truly apologize for all the politics everyone has to learn and worry about for the election. I know you all like to have the Liberal Party in power accomplishing nothing so you can sleep at night, or whenever you watch the news! By the way, since you’re in a forgiving mood let’s not talk about all this sponsorship stuff…

Well isn’t that exactly what we have come to expect from the corrupt Liberace Party! Hi, I’m Even Harder, and I wasn’t even listening to Dull Martin – and his corrupt Liberace agenda! – but that line always seems to work. Besides, the effort of keeping this rictus smile on my face makes it hard for me to concentrate on anything else.

Bonjour! I am – how you say – Gilles Ducrap. Most elections, my party doesn’t even run candidates in the rest of Canada because if we separated it would be very funny to ‘ave representatives in Hontario. But then we thought, why not? It’s not like we don’t have a sense of ‘umour, we’re separatists! Our Hontario slogan is: “Vote for the Bloc, we promise to go away!” What other politician can give such a promise!

Hello friends, I’m Black Gayton. What I’m hoping for is a minority government. That way, the NDP can hold the balance of power. But we don’t tell anyone that because we don’t want to seem power hungry. We tell the people that we want a minority government! What would be really great is if we got a minority minority government! Minorities! Get it? Well you’re just racist.

Anybody out there? Please give me just one second of your time! Hello, I’m Jim Hairy of the Green Party. Now that I have your attention, let me try to convince you why we deserve more of your attention. Wait come back!

==

The Campaign

Martin is checking his blood temperature. Harder is making sure the tape on his plastic smile is secure. Gayton is mumbling sweet nothings to his moustache. Ducrap is moving his podium a bit further a way from everyone else’s.

Martin: Mr. Harder will destroy Canada.

Harder: Martin already has!

Martin: Mr. Harder will take money from healthcare and put it into the military. This is ridiculous, because everyone knows the military is there to hurt people, so if you give it money, you have to give at least five times as much to health care in order to cancel out its effects. He has no respect for the status quo! The sweet sweet status quo.

Harder: I will cut the GST, andalsotheabilityofgaystomarry!

Gayton: What was that last part?

Harder: GST.

Gayton: The NDP would make a great government!

Mediator: No it wouldn’t. And it certainly won’t.

Gayton: Yes it would! We’re going to win a majority and everyone will vote for us and hey who turned my mic off?

Harder: Isn’t it time we stood up for Canada, andsatdownforAlberta?

Martin: Harder is all smiles now – monstrous, frightening smiles – but he has a hidden agenda to undermine Canadian values and fellate George Bush!

Harder: Martin broke some promises!

Gayton: Hey, you didn’t even respond to his accusation! At least respond to half of it!

Harder: Yes, it’s true. I will do my best to fellate George Bush.

Ducrap: Can I go now?

Martin: No sir, Canada has been held together by the Liberal Party for a long time. We have kept Quebec in Canada and defined our identity. If the Conservatives come to power, they will tear this country…

Ducrap: Not Quebec. Just me. This is all very boring. This debate is – c’est quoi le mot – a clusterfuck.

==

The Winner?

????

Passive Aggressive Resistance

2006-01-11T13:22:00.000-05:00

Christmas is over, but it’s given us all a chance for a few timeless messages about sharing and peace to be remembered and promptly forgotten. But before we all go back to our back-alley lives of crack addiction, I’d like to try to resurrect a fun past-time for young and old that now seems deader than Jesus could ever be – passive resistance.

The heyday of passive resistance seems to have passed. When people try to block soldiers, they just get blown up. The ideals of Jesus – as embodied especially well by Gandhi and his followers – lie bullet-holed and blood-smeared in a pit dug by a tank tread, and it seems like we’ve reverted to our old ways of just killing until there is no one left to disagree.

Admittedly, killing is a lot of fun. Being killed – not so much. But I’m willing to go against the grain and say that Gandhi had some good ideas. And I’m going to take those ideas and make them better – make them relevant to the real world again. I’m going to dig up Gandhi’s corpse and wave it around and say: “Hey! You remember me! Stop fighting!” It’ll be like Weekend at Bernie’s but far more offensive.

And Gandhi Corpse and I (together we form … GANDHI CORPS!!!) will tour the schools and frighten the children into resisting warmongers, but not being such total pussies about it. We will teach them about: passive aggressive resistance!

So the key to passive aggressive resistance is you make the person feel bad about invading your country. But the way to do this is not to stand in front of tanks or have soldiers cut you open in areas covered in salt! Ouchie! I have a bunch of people with bruises who will tell you that is not very smart. It is much more effective to resist indirectly.

For example, if a tyrannical government executes your family for no reason and then sends you a bill for the bullets, put it in a nice envelope and fill it out promptly. But ‘forget’ to sign it! Take that oppressive regime!

Or, if you and all your ethnic kin are told to gather in a small enclosure at a certain time, show up, like, half an hour late. If they get mad at you, just say something like: “Oh I was going to be on time, but you guys blew up my car last week. But that’s fine. Why would I need a car, to get around and go places? So can we get started, or are you going to keep me waiting with all the questions?”

If your oppressors try to break your spirit by having you torture your countrymen, just do a terrible job of it. For instance, if you’re supposed to whip them with electric cables, just hold them all wrong and just sort of rub them against the person’s scarred back. When the oppressive overseer comes by, tell him: “Oh it’s not that I don’t want to torture him. It’s a great idea and I’d love to do it. But no one’s trained me how to use this properly. Plus you guys broke my wrists a little while ago, so I can’t flick it right. But that’s cool. That’s cool.”

When the overseer leaves, complain to the guy that you’re beating that you’d love to change places with him because it’s so terrible working for this asshole boss and that it’s totally not your fault that you’re not doing a better job beating him. When you’re supposed to put your electric cables away, don’t clean them or fold them nicely or anything. Just toss them in the middle of the room and get gore all over everything. That’ll show ‘em.

It’s pretty common for occupiers to kick down your door and start shooting up your house. Pretend you don’t even hear them. Keep reading your paper while they blow up the kitchen. Just before they shoot you, look up and act surprised and say “Oh hello. I didn’t hear you come right into my house without even knocking. Can I get you something to eat? We don’t have much because the soldiers always take everything.” They won’t know whether to torture you to death for your insolence or just break your jaw and leave!

Slowly, slowly, you’ll break your oppressors. They’ll wonder why they spend all this time, money and ammunition oppressing such a monumentally ineffectual populace. Sure, bad things will happen, but you can always use passive aggressive resistance to make the best of it. If your legs get blown off because you wandered too close to an enemy compound, crawl up to any enemy soldier and tell him you’re his biggest fan and you’d love to help his unjust regime in any way possible. Then let your arms give out and just sort of roll uselessly on the ground.

Or you can just do your own thing. That’s awesome. That’s probably better than my suggestions. I guess if you like being oppressed you could do that. Whatever.

Merry Jesusmas!!!

2005-12-20T02:11:00.000-05:00

The campaign is now over.

The Whore is on hiatus until the new year. Until then please enjoy our hold music.

Colonel!

2005-11-03T17:57:00.000-05:00

Colonel! That's right, you! You're not the colonel? OK, raise your right hand. Now you're a colonel.

Colonel, we need your help! (Put your hand down.) The land of Overtheristan is chafing beneath the oppression of a horrible dictator who forces the population to slave away in his nickel mines. He doesn't even sell the nickel he gets, he just puts it in his palace and rolls around on it. We must liberate the Overtheristanianites and return them to gainful employment!

Your mission:

Storm Overtheristan and overthrow the government! Free the Overtheristanianites from the nickel mines!

Your assets:

Private Rolly

Rolly joined the army to lose weight. Unfortunately he was put in charge of the Pastry and Shortening Division. Rolly is now too fat to run or operate devices of any kind. He spends most of his time trying to clean the crumbs from his uniform.

Corporal Shooty

Shooty has a vast repertoire of firearms and other weapons. Sadly his nickname is a misnomer since Shooty is a pacifist and refuses to shoot his weapons at anyone. Shooty is very wise; unfortunately this is a war, not a public lecture series. Shooty outranks the other members of your team and wears pink socks for some reason.

Private Vagina

Vagina has struggled to make her way in a man's army and show that she's just as capable as one of the guys. She has been unsuccessful, mainly because she's a liability who couldn't win a war against a one-legged French vintner if she had a flamethrower and he was only allowed to kick. Private Vagina can use a radio, but not very well.

Private E.W. Earthworm

E.W. is a crawling vermicular lifeform. He has been noted for his chipper, can-do attitude and his ability to attract fish. Rumour has it that if you break E.W. into two pieces, you will get two privates. He has a small turret attached to his back but his species lacks the mental sophistication to aim or fire it.

The mad king of Overtheristan also has many terrible creatures working for him. We know of very few, so more may show up during the mission.

Dancing Zealots

In a brilliant and evil ploy of boundless enormity the king of Overtheristan sponsored a series of world-class salsa and ballroom dancing competitions in his city and then enslaved the dancers who arrived. Each was injected with a madness-causing agent and had two miniguns bolted to his hip joints. These guys could give us some trouble.

Bazooka Panthers

Genetically engineered to combine only the deadliest of nature's and mankind's weaponry. The good news is that each Bazooka Panther has only one explosive shell. The bad news is that one shell is enough to kill your entire team.

==

All right Colonel, your men and Private Vagina and Private E.W. Earthworm have arrived at the river. They're awaiting your orders. Don't be shy, just shout them out!

==

Incoming Message!

Colonel Chrissy said:

Alright, you bitch-maggots!! Listen here and listen good. I'm Corporal Klik and I'll be ordering you around like the thoughtless killing machines that you are! Do you understand?

...I SAID DO YOU UNDERSTAND!!! WHEN I ASK A QUESTION YOU WILL PROCESS IT THROUGH THAT MASS OF LIMP SHIT YOU CALL YOUR BRAIN AND YOU WILL ANSWER "YES, SIR"!!!

NOW, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

Good.

First things first. Private Vagina, clearly no one respects you. It's not because you're incompetent, not not because you're so flat-chested and beady-eyed that it would be like fucking a four-foot bat - it's because you have no penis. Take Private Earthworm and stuff him down your pants. There. Better! From now on you two will be working as a team. Team Alpha. Team Alpha's job will be to engage any Dancing Zealots with a Salsa and/or Ballroom Basic Step. The Zealots' real goal will be to get into your pants faster than a horny croupier. Their frustrated clutching and groping will activate Private Earthworm's turret, breaking their hearts, and hopefully - killing all three of you.

Second. Rolly! WHERE THE JEEZUS GODDAM IS ROLLY?! Jeezus H. Christ in a chicken basket, you're a fat bag of willpower antidote aren't you?! You and the cock-chinned Shooty over there will make up Team Bravo. Shooty here will be giving the rest of the team his guns because it has come to my attention that he IS A GODDAM HIPPY PACIFIST FAGGOT!!! YOU LEAVE A WORSE TASTE IN MY MOUTH THAN PRISON RAPE, YOU STINKING TREE-HUGGING EUNUCH PUS-CUP!!!

Team Bravo will be performing Operation Organic Food in which our non-violent Corporal here will be playing the part of bazooka-panther bait. The walking Goodlife ad will be operating his guns, the triggers of which will be dipped in chocolate sprinkles and operated with El-Gordo's slimy tongue.

Allright teams. You have your orders! Get out there and save the Overtherians. Every enemy head gets you a nickel. Good hunting.

NOW MOVE MAGGOTS MOVE!!!

Oo-rah!

==

Yes sir!

Here is a diagram of our first planned manoeuvre:

Mission accomplished!

The boys seem to respect Private Vagina a little more now. E.W. seems happy too but he's always happy so that doesn't mean anything.

Your standing orders for engaging the enemy have been accepted, but there's no enemy in sight! After our first manoeuvre, here's where we are:

Awaiting further instructions from any colonel!

==

Incoming Message!

Colonel Sean said:

I'm laughing so damn hard, i can't bellow!

==

Colonel Sean is -- laughing at us?

You made E.W. cry.

Awaiting further instructions from any colonel!

==

Incoming Message!

Colonel Meghan said:

The tale of Private Vagina is what happens when Freudian psycho-analysts get 'Paint Brush'.

==

Yes ma'am!

Private Vagina tells Shooty all about her childhood traumas and the difficulties of being an incompetent woman in an incompetent man's world. The fact that traditional psychoanalysis sets the male analyst above the "hysterical" female patient aggravates her problem and makes her feel worse.

On the other hand, E.W. works through some parent issues and is happy again.

==

Mission Update!

When we began our mission, we were here:

After one day of manoeuvres, we are here:

Awaiting further instructions from any colonel!

==

Incoming Message!

Colonel Patrick said:

Alright you maggots, you've got 5 seconds to stop crawling all over my food before I squish you good!

I warned 'em.

And now I got something to say to you maggots! This isn't a goddamn summer camp for you to work through your problems about how your uncle touched you inappropriately and your daddy never loved you, turning you into a bellowing, mid-level drill sergeant . . . I mean colonel! I mean drill private! No uncle, don’t!

Ahem. Here are your orders! You’re going to float across that goddamn river on a large flotation device. The flotation device is a face-down Private Rolly. Be on the lookout for any bazooka panthers or zealots or rapids or anything at all. Actually, never mind. If you see them or not, it’s the same. You’re dead.

To recap, I want all of you to float across the river on Rolly, all the while hiding in utter horror under his fat folds. When you cross the river, well, try to stay hidden and not let anyone know you’ve made it. I’ll lose a bet if any of you make it alive.

==

Yes sir!

Here is a diagram of our planned manoeuvre:

The soldiers shove Private Rolly into the river.

Private Rolly protests, but the others are having too much fun to listen.

"Call me Ahab," says Shooty, but none of the other soldiers has read the book so the joke is wasted.

But what's that, off to port?!

Nuclear sharks! And we're floating on a meat raft! What do we do colonel?!

==

Incoming Message!

Colonel Patrick said:

There's only one thing to do! Throw E.W. into the water! Don't make me go into your pants to get him, Vagina! I will! Oh God it's like the kelp harvest. Throw him in!

Well, that's better...

HOLY SHIT THERE ARE NUCLEAR SHARKS RIGHT FUCKING THERE!

Oh, they ate E.W. That was quick thinking on my part, eh?

Ahem. Now, who's got the fence-cutting tools? E.W? How could he have them? He didn't have any bags! Well, let's just hope he washes up on shore...

==

Yes sir!

It sounds as though you've gotten a little ahead of yourself though sir! We'll throw E.W. overboard and see what happens!

Worm overboard!

E.W. lands near the nuclear shark . . .

"You look like fun," says E.W. with a big smile. "So do you," says the nuclear shark.

"Let's be friends," says E.W.

"I should be getting back," says E.W.

"OK, I'll take you," says the nuclear shark.

With heavy hearts the new friends say goodbye.

E.W. arrives on the northern shore with the other soldiers.

Now there's a fence in front of us! What do we do colonel?

==

Incoming Message!

Colonel Meghan said:

I'm the sensitive and caring Colonel Cunt and I can see you pus-dribbling poo sculptures need a helping hand. I volunteer my immaculately manicured helping hand for some serious bitch-slapping, eye-gouging and hair-pulling.

First of all, it's obvious that E.W. is hiding some fence-cutting tools in the place where his vertabrae should be. Vagina, Rolly, pretend you lisping ignoramuses actually managed to pass that 9th grade psychology class and dissect that traitor! Failure to follow orders will result in the silent treatment!

Shooty, you mincing bag of rejected organ donations, your chin looks about as sharp as a scythe. You will start hacking at the fence with your hideous facial protusion. If you don't immediately comply, I'll spread rumors about you to all the popular girls!

E.W., you erectile implant gone horribly awry, just wriggle on the ground in your death throes! And if heaven is in my pants, you are marching directly to hell!

==

Yes ma'am! (Boy, the command structure really seems to have it in for Private E.W.)

The soldiers attempt to use their psychology to dissect E.W.

"Go ahead and live then," says Corporal Shooty. "We don't want you to rip yourself open and expose your gizzards."

"That's great!" says E.W.

MISSION FAILED!

The boys try Colonel Meghan's secondary suggestion:

Success! Corporal Shooty is now hallucinating from pain and nickel poisoning.

The sun is rising, casting the sky in an unnerving and entirely impossible shade of pink. But what's this? A patrol of dancing zealots approaches!

We can hear them talking among themselves. "Dancing is so good for cardio. And you meet so many chicks!"

What do we do!

==

Incoming Message!

Colonel Sean says:

OK everybody, move over! I know how to deal with these so called 'Dancing' Zealots. HA! You call that a salsa step? Looks more like a Cha-Cha to me. When i served in 'Nam, Charlie would send you to a cold, muddy grave for a mix-up like that! Which brings me to how to deal with these dancing freak-sacs. So listen up and listen good if you goddamn pus-sucking fecophiles have any interest in keeping your worthless hides in one piece. Anyone knows that any so called Dancing 'Zealot' can't resist a dance. And anyone without shit for brains also knows that miniguns are heavy. Now, hip shaking salsa beats and 40lb miniguns do NOT mix, Privates! Even amateur dancers have been known to suffer from bruised hips just for forgetting to empty their pockets of excess change. Those miniguns are sure to pulp the better part those Zealots' torsos when they succumb to the sexual rythms of the dance!

So get that goddamn radio out and tuned into the hottest salsa station you can find, Vagina. On the double! Move it, move it!

==

Actually sir, the proper term is "coprophile."

But yes sir!

Ooo, El Canario! My favourite!

The dancing zealots begin to dance! It's working!

"But there are no girls here!"

"Who cares, we're all secretly gay anyway!"

"Oh yeah! Now spin! SPIN!"

The mass of their guns gives them too much quantum inertia! The universe begins to twist . . .

Everything goes black.

One zealot snaps out of his trance to find . . .

"God? Is that you?"

"Yes my son."

"Please help me!"

"I'm sorry my son. You have torn a hole in the universe. You can never go back."

"But what will I do! I have a family!"

"You ignored and neglected your family for dancing lessons. And now you must spend eternity dancing."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"IN BARE FEET ON JAGGED RAZORS THAT ARE COVERED IN ACID AND ALSO ON FIRE"

"Nooooooo!"

Did you hear something?

The soldiers cross the border into Overtheristan. Even the sign is made of nickel, the fiends!

But where should we go, colonel?

==

Incoming Message!

Colonel Chris says:

Grunts!

No, Shooty. This is not Buddha, come to deliver you from violence, and cup your hairless, atrophied little balls. This is your corporal speaking from the inside of Vagina's radio. Clap those slack jaws shut and listen, you pet-molesting jarheads. This next maneuver'll put hair on your backs.

Go to the store! All soldiers need to buy disguises and Rolly needs a snack. By now, you're all looking like fried chickens to our fatassed margarine man. I'm afraid that Shooty might have to pawn some of his guns and/or put that chin of his to work on the shopkeeper's daughter in order to procure the proper disguises. Remember, all Overtheriens have hair on their backs. DO NOT forget to pre-hair your backs.

E.W.!! You slimy little twat-lamprey! No, your cilia do not count as back hair! And whatever you do, keep your mustache on! The Overtheristanianites' mythology associates smiley little worms with evil. They are the harbingers of the titanium age, where all the nickel in the world will be drastically undercut. But, their mythology says nothing about smiley little worms with mustaches!

Get suited up and then head for the mines!

HUT HUT HUT! GO GO GO!

==

Yes sir!

"Does this make my chin look big?"

Private Rolly purchases a disguise either as an old, bald woman in a dress or a fat soldier in a muumuu.

Ravishing!

The newly disguised soldiers pass easily through enemy checkpoints and arrive at the nickle mines.

But the way inside is blocked by a squad of bazooka panthers! What should we do, colonel!

==

Incoming Message!

Colonel Meghan says:

ATTENTION! Alright, you lazy-eyed pube lickers! Colonel Cunt is on duty and she isn't the warm and fuzzy type like Colonel Chris, ready to send you off on shopping sprees and junk food binges.
Rolly, you dough-faced Pillsbury cast-off, I want to you lie down on the ground.
Everyone else, push Rolly towards the bazooka panthers!
If my theory is correct and I have made 30 seconds of painstaking calculations, then Rolly will hit the panthers like a bowling ball knocking down a bunch of feline bowling pins with bazookas attached. STTTTRRRRRIKKKEE!
Of course, there is also the chance that the bazooka panthers will feast on all your mangled corpses. That would be a real 'Oops' moment! Still, it's important to allow oneself to make mistakes. As Oprah says, mistakes are how we GROW.
So get on this mission, you toe-fucked prodigalities and don't bloody mess up!

==

Yes ma'am!

Private Vagina pushs Private Rolly toward the bazooka panthers.

Unsurprisingly, he rolls.

One of the panthers is instantly crushed, but the other one fires! Oh no!

ROOLLLLLLYYYYYYYYYYY!!!

The panther runs away and Private Rolly regains his feet.

OK, let's go! But what's that sound?

Oh my God! The king of Overtheristan has heard of our progress and is airdropping in to stop us with his killer robot chassis!

My God, it's made entirely of nickel! And the king is green from nickel poisoning! The evil king lands next to the soldiers and begins to speak:

"We're not so different, you and I . . ."

"Just kidding."

It's a rout! What do we do!

==

Incoming Message!

Colonel Pappy says:

Oh my God, he's penetrated Private Vagina, blown Rolly, and Shooty looks like he just might fire his gun. Not only that, but I think I'm seeing double E.W. I feel like I'm revisiting my fratboy days. And if they've taught me anything, it's that if you get in a fight, you go for the crotch, and you go hard.

So here are your orders you maggots! E.W. you distract his fire, because whenever he strikes you down, you become more powerful than he could possibly imagine -- an additional worm of power! Everyone else, go for the control crotch and yank it around like the fluffers you'll be if you get dishonourably discharged from the army for failing me!

==

Yes sir!

E.W.! That is doubly homosexual!

Rolly and Shooty begin to yank around the evil king's metallocrotch.

This continues for some time . . .

All of a sudden!

That's ok E.W. It happens to all worms sometimes.

==

Incoming Epilogue!

After the death of the Overtheristanianite king the people of Overtheristan celebrate the soldiers as heroes!

Private Rolly is given all the pastry and drumsticks he could ever want as a token of the citizens' gratitude. He dies of an arterial blockage several hours later.

Corporal Shooty spends the rest of his days reflecting on the meaning of the events he has witnessed. He comes to the conclusion that his gun collection was sort of pointless.

Sadly, Private Vagina dies of her injuries soon after the battle with the king. She is venerated for her sacrifice and mounted at the Overtheristan border in her own honour.

Finally, E.W. marries E.W. and together they have many adventures.

But those . . . are stories for another day . . .

Working with your lawyer

2005-10-31T23:59:00.000-05:00

Hey, remember the first days of the Shoe and Whore, when the shoe was shiny and the whore still had some tread on the tires? Back when the blog was funny, before we were bought out by Scientologists and became a thinly veiled recruiting front for Sea Org? (By the way, we still offer two free spiritual colon cleansings if you sign up before the end of the month!) Back when my very first post made fun of an obscure legal pamphlet with graphics designed by someone apparently suffering from multi-infarct dementia?

Well, those heady days are back! So lower the lights, put your feet up, and find someone to lick your genitals for about 10 minutes, because you're about to learn why a youth and a lawyer are a recipe for brain-twisting, nonsensical pictures.

==

Stupid or subtly trenchant? The cover graphic shows two symbols of cooperation: a pair of gears and some hand holding. When combined they mean the exact opposite since gears need to be able to turn and the hands are holding them firmly in place.

Maybe the message is that your lawyer and you can grab onto each other and -- with garish, frightening grins on your faces -- clog the machinery of justice. That's deep.

Better than hiring a lawyer, of course, is obtaining the mystical Orb of the Ancients. If you travel beyond the Bleeding Falls and brave the fires of the Burning Sea perhaps the crouching, crenellation-skulled people of the Endless Oubliette (whose arms converge into a single hand) will poke out of their dark holes and give it to you.

Note also the lawyers in the bottom-right corner of the page. Those are the Regular Lawyers: well dressed, faceless, straight-backed, briefcased. According to small graphics that appear later in the pamphlet, however, these are not the only members of the Canadian bar:

Zombie Lawyers!

Superhero Lawyers!

Perhaps this is how we will be ranked after our bar admission tests. The lowest tercile are led to a euthanization chamber and gassed. When they rise (lawyers won't die), they're dressed up and sent to shamble about the lower courts doing bail hearings and library research. The upper tercile are irradiated until they gain superpowers and spend their days billing $300 hours to corporate clients for chatting on the phone with that hot chick from their legal relations department.

I also like how they achieve diversity in these pictures by putting a single ink smudge on one of the faces.

This judge is so evil even her witness chair is afraid of her. She doesn't look so bad from a distance, but . . .

Maybe she's upset that she's being upstaged by a large arrow that points to nothing and has nothing to do with the page text. Or that her tits have frozen and are sporting icicles. But maybe not; she just looks very pleased to be banging that gavel.

The graphic in the bottom right seems very accusatory. Fortunately it isn't pointing at us. Despite being directed at "U" it is clearly indicating something somewhere past your left shoulder.

Also, another example of gears that can't drive each other.

Many hands pulling in different directions at an impossible shape. This is a visual metaphor for the law that I'm almost, but not quite, able to parse.

Wow, a lighter sentence?! Nothing makes me think lighter sentence like a fairy recoiling from a egg giving birth to a flame and then immolating itself. Amusingly, her hair is drawn in the same style as the eggfire, so if you squint it looks as if her head is on fire. Maybe she should be a fiery! Ha! Ha! Ha!

The side of the cabinet reads "INFO-?". The answer is clearly "No, ladybugs!"

Finally, the last page. The orbs make their return here, this time as the points of question marks made of hook-billed vultures. This is an interesting image, though I'm tempted to wonder why the author, who seems to be encouraging the reader to ask questions, illustrates his point with a picture that makes you feel that, given the chance, question marks will attack you and peck out your eyes.

Then again, that might not be so bad.

Captain Mattulon deserves a blowjob

2005-10-27T22:57:00.000-04:00

Most computer games (the fun ones anyway) are bloodbaths. In my time as a gamer I've pwned thousands of n00bz in Counter-Strike, lit up hundreds of occupied police cars in GTA3, and murdered Gary Coleman with a shovel in Postal 2. I've massacred innocents for power-ups, strangled mobsters with piano wire, and instructed my lemmings to dig holes in my opponent's bridge, causing entire families of the small mammals to plummet screaming to their deaths.

Fortunately death is not sex, so incredibly violent games are freely available to anyone so long as none of the bisected carcasses happen to display a bare breast. (This can lead to some downright depressing situations: the games' protagonists, despite saving the world, never seem to merit a blowjob from anyone.)

Sadly, even sweet, sweet violence has begun to come under attack, with psychotic anti-fake-violence advocates such as Jack Thompson calling games like GTA3 "murder simulators" and backing bills drafted by a U.S. Representative (with the confidence-inspiring name Mary Lou Dickerson) that would ban violence against pixels once and for all. Less frothy groups, such as the National Institute for Media and Family, make more lucid arguments for a correlation between fake and real violence, but still have trouble explaining why a generation of people who grew up eviscerating electronic prostitutes with fire axes became the least violent cohort in decades.

Being both lucid and ludic I bristle whenever anyone suggests taking away my murder simulators. Anyone who wants to see the grey future of bowdlerized games need only look at two current non-violent offerings and imagine how much fun they'd be. First is the UN's Food Force, a brave but ultimately lame attempt to engage young people in a depressingly realistic attempt to deliver food to the world's hungry. The reason video game violence doesn't really warp anyone is the same reason Food Force isn't particularly compelling: after the seventh or eighth time the villagers complain because your airdrop landed in the river you start wanting to blanket them with napalm instead of MREs simply because you know they're not real.

A Force More Powerful looks slightly more interesting (even though the screenshot on its homepage is of a book). In it you play the leader of a student organization and attempt to build your empire through a steady agenda of non-violent protests, publishing, and political pressure. Eventually your movement can grow into a powerful interest group and even force the government to resign. (Yes, this game was created by a group of those student protesters with comically demented estimations of their own ability to change anything.) I imagine the amount of fun that can be had choosing the number of placards the hippies at the Bundestag will carry is somewhere around the amount you can get by playing the "Prevent Spoilage" minigame in Food Force.

==

Despite the aforementioned proof that most consciously non-violent games are not fun, we may well be headed for a period in history in which the primary producer of computer games (the U.S.) is not allowed to market anything more violent than the mushroom- and turtle-stomping antics of the Super Mario Bros. In anticipation of this sad day, the Whore suggests game publishers take a proactive approach and begin re-releasing some of their moneymakers with the violence completely excised.

Fallowfield 1942

"Battlefield" is just such an -- intemperate word.

In this farming simulator you are charged with taking a parcel of fallow land and making it arable within three years. This is a MMOPG (Massively Multiplayer Online Plowing Game), and so you will play as part of an elite cultivation team. During your tenure you will battle weather, hedgehogs, and Nazi occupiers who will try to steal your daughters and pillage your stores. You may only retaliate by throwing turnips, and your throws must be calculated to drop the turnips into the soldiers' mouths so that they become disgusted and leave your farm alone.

Failure to produce a saleable crop by the end of the war has no negative results as the U.S. implements the Marshall Plan and you just buy whatever food you need from North Africa.

Rome: Total Bar

Those legionaries are thirsty after some unspecified but assuredly non-violent activities against the Gauls in the north! If you don't make that hegemon's wine as sweet as he likes it you can kiss your testicles goodbye! (This punishment occurs off-screen of course. We wouldn't want anyone to get the impression that anything violent ever happened in ancient Rome.)

In this thrilling tavern simulation you must send forth your scouts to locate the sweetest grapes and the freshest hops for your distillery. Failure means the Roman soldiers will forgo your bar for the bathhouses or brothels stocked with foreign maidens and young boys; you will be sold as a slave and forced to sing and dance at the Colosseum.

Dome

Demons have conquered most of 11th-century England and the only way to drive them back to Hell is to tax them senseless! You are the last surviving census taker in the land. With the help of your quill and upgradeable abacus you must make the ultimate record of which demons own what land so the tax collectors can collect their tribute from the horrible fiends and send them penniless back to Hell!

Half-Life 2

Don't let that uranium decay! As each alpha particle escapes from a slug of uranium you must fly your nano-ship into it and force it back into the nucleus of the atom it came from. If you succeed in prolonging the uranium's half-life, the element safely arrives at the Tehran Nuclear Energy Facility where it will surely be used for non-violent purposes.

World of Craft

Also know as Quest for Tin, World of Craft is a massive online game in which players attempt to round up scarce components and craft them into magical items. Since weapons are disallowed and armour is pointless most of the game's players concentrate on minting tchotchkes and pots to give to their virtual friends. The World of Craft culture can often be harsh to newcomers, with "noobs" being ridiculed for the low quality of their early attempts at cookware. But those who stick with it will almost certainly find a niche, be it as an antiquer or tin miner.

==

Now if you all will excuse me, I have to go design some sway-resistant girder grids for Quake.

The TRUTH About Webster -- An S&W Exclusive

2005-10-25T22:18:00.000-04:00

. . . and the puppy who loved to swim washed ashore several days later.

Wait a moment, I've just been handed this breaking report. It seems Chris, brother and nemesis of Patrick, has called a press conference to "dispel rumours of ethnic, species-related, or any other type of cleansing" at the brothers' shared abode.

We're picking up the feed from the press conference now, where Chris -- who seems to be wearing a t-shirt with a picture of a spider with a red line through it -- is preparing to speak.

(Note for clarity: Chris actually authored everything below this line.)

==

Alright! Ok! You've annoyed, provoked, inflamed, insulted, pestered, egged, and tantalized me enough. You've snuck up to my home, shredded the veil of security and peace that characterised my good, calm life, and you've graffitied my very soul with what would appear to be either two dog-sized beetles humping a cat in a crater on the moon, or an outline of a homeless man taking a shit.

Enough, I say! A man can only take so only kicks to the vigor before he must stand up for himself, for the children, for his bruised little vigor, and for the TRUTH!

I must respond.

I refer of course to the recent editorial clash regarding the circumstances surrounding the sudden demise of the spider, "Webster", who became an adopted housepet in the home that Patrick and I share. So many inexact narratives have been bandied about, so many half-truths, liberal interpretations, outright lies and statistics have been published. And for what? A single new reader, whose name (b1-66er) is incomprehensible and not at all witty? But are we any closer to closure? The answer is negatizzle.

Before I tell you what REALLY happened, let's review the facts:

-Webster's first web was located in the bottom left corner of the kitchen's north window, and encapsulated three small jars of jam: blackberry, strawberry, and apricot.
-This web was abandoned.
-Webster's second web was located between the counter and the sink against the eastern kitchen wall.
-Webster's real name is Emmanuel Lewis.

Now it's true that I was responsible for Webster's decision to abandon his first web. As I said, his web prevented access to several small jars of delicious jam. On Wednesday, September 28th, I decided to sequester Webster on a paper towel for just enough time as to remove the jars from underneath his/her web. Webster, frightened by the presence of another being, quivered with terror. "Hey there, Webster," I said. "Don't be scared! It's only me, Pat's brother, Chris!" Webster settled down then, apologizing and saying that he had been neglected for so long that he had forgotten what normal Spider-Human contact was like. "What do you mean?" I asked. It was then that Webster confided in me that its relationship with Patrick had followed a cyclical pattern of beatings and drunken make-up sex for several weeks before it had finally degenerated into a total lack of interaction between the two . . .

(Writer's Note: I will use the female possessive pronoun for the relationship description, for this was the role that Webster played. However, because the true gender of the spider was unknown at the time of the relationship and still remains unknown, Pat is totally gay.)

Originally, Webster would fashion a tight cylinder in a warm spot above the radiator, fashioned from stickyweb strands and lubricated with insect guts which Patrick's penis would slide in and out of, satisfying him. Webster, exhausted from the effort of creating this structure, could renew herself by gorging on the protein-rich semen slurpee left by Patrick. Things were great between them. A real mutualism!

(Writer's note: a real gay mutualism is more like it . . . )

Indeed, though Webster confided that things with Patrick had started out on a very promising note, and that he would often bring gifts of insects and that they would often play together, lately Patrick was neglectful. He didn't even seem to notice the small things, and that around him now she felt like her spinnerets were clumsy and gnarled, and that her venom-dripping fangs were dull and dry.

"He's crazy!" I said. "Maybe he just needs a change. Why don't you try making a web somewhere else, say…someplace waist level like above the radiator in Pat's room? That way, I can use these jams and you can try to rekindle things with Pat!"

Webster was very excited at the idea and thanked me, jumping off the ledge and scampering off under the fridge. I noted that Webster had only seven legs and was limping slightly, probably as a result of one Patrick's uncontrollable drunken rages.

I didn't see Webster for a time after that, and I assumed that she had moved to above the radiator in Patrick's room, or possibly that Meghan, Patrick's new human girlfriend, had become jealous of Patrick's relationship with Webster and squished the poor spider out of spite. But the TRUTH was ever more poignant.

Webster's attempts to woo Patrick had failed, though the cycle of drunken beatings followed by neglect continued. Patrick would ignore any copulatory weavings, knowing that this, coupled with the onset of colder weather would mean slimmer pickings for Webster, and probably -- starvation.

I found Webster one day at the second web and we spoke (Or was it the third web? Or the fourth? How many times had she relocated in order to please her unpredictable human lover? I couldn't say, and much remains unknown). Webster said that she could no longer go on like this. She expressed her wish to die. Her soul was a shambles. She told me she had tried everything she could, weaving small love letters into her web for Patrick to read, weaving webbreasts to go along with the web-ginas she made for him, even offering to abort her eggsac, but to no use. Their relationship was as dead and desiccated as the hapless fruit fly husks in her web. She blamed herself.

In addition, the effects of the beatings had left her stiff and graceless –- easy pickings for any other spider Patrick or Meghan might choose to push into her home, pitting her against others, as they had taken to doing, to satisfy their sick appetite for gladiatorial combat.

She said that she would rather a quick and painless squishing she knew was coming to the horrible prospects she imagined the future would bring. She feared starvation. She feared conscious paralysis followed by liquefaction of her organs. She feared further stiffness and beatings would render her completely immobile. But most of all, she feared dying of a broken heart.

She knew her time had come, and one day, after much thought and consideration on both our parts, I granted her wish and provided her a noble, peaceful end, whisking her away on pillows of hair and powdery dust into sweet vacuum bag heaven. She -– selfless to the end! -– asked me to tell Patrick that I had killed her out of spite, in order to spare him any feelings of guilt.

There you have it. An exclusive, in-depth Shoe & Whore special! The TRUE ending to this sordid tale of brothers, bestiality and buh-ginas, only @ the Whore.

Counter-point: Webster had to die

2005-10-24T23:21:00.000-04:00

Now let's not lose our heads here. Let's not manufacture tragedies just for attention. Above all, let's not forget what Webster was:

-a horrible, furry, bloodsucking monster
-a living, crawling symbol of the effluvient life Patrick leads
-a communist
-most likely some kind of arachnid porn star whose claim to fame was the ability to pleasure nine females at once.

Chris shouldn't be vilified as a murderer -- he should be praised as a moral cleanser, one who sees the many-legged iniquities of our corrupt world and refuses to look away. "No," said Chris. "Not in my kitchen." And instead of making excuses (the exterminator will get it, we say, or, aren't they all God's creatures?) he picked up his vacuum cleaner -- his vacuum cleaner of freedom -- and sucked injustice from that kitchen.

Oh, Patrick would have you lament the loss of his fanged, verminous friend as if it were innocence itself. See how he cries for its vicious predations? See how he laments the absence of its phantasmagorical sculptures of traps and dessicated horrors? Witness how he lashes out at Chris, our scion of purity and virtue, as an illiterate and ill-tempered thug? I ask you, how can a man defend such a thing? Such a -- monster?

Well, I assume they were having an affair. That explains everything from the spider-human hybrids now terrorizing the joggers of Ottawa's urban parks to the swollen spots on Patrick's -- egg sac.

Add interspecial miscegenation to the list of charges against that rogue!

==

Also:

This is a haiku,
The lines go five, seven, five.
Patrick is foolish.

Webster

2005-10-22T23:40:00.000-04:00

Ok, enough humour for now. My friend is dead. My best friend in the whole world.

Dead.

Do you know who killed him? My own brother. Chris killed Webster. My life is like a goddamn soap opera, only there’s less soft lighting and instead of JR being dead, a large hairy brown spider is.

Yeah, so my best friend was a spider. You got a problem with that? Maybe I’ll kill your best friend in the whole world!

Alright, I’ll admit it’s a little weird. Perhaps a bit of background is in order: One weekend, while Chris was away, I let the place go a little bit. My standards of cleanliness have been compared to a “volcano of radioactive shit”, so it should come as no surprise that a few webs sprang up here and there. My energy levels have been compared to “a dead sloth in space”, so it should come as no surprise that I didn’t clean them up. And the quality of my decisions has been compared to a “Jell-O hammer”, so it should come as no surprise that not cleaning up turned out to be the best decision of my life. Because one of the webs was the comfy home of Webster.

Webster and I had some great times together. One of our favourite games was “Hide and Seek”. I would come into the room and he would hide somewhere deep in his web. And I would laugh and look around and say, “Where’s Webster? Where’s Webster?” in a goofy voice. And then I would peek around his web and see him, and he would hide even deeper, cause he never wanted the game to end. He would play that game for hours –
he loved it!

Webster was my gateway to the whole fun world of bugs. Since Webster and I were having so much fun together, I figured it would be nice to meet some more bugs. But I’m human, and I was a little shy, so I would put the bugs in Webster’s house so he could introduce us. Webster was always so happy to meet new bugs! He would run out and kiss them again and again, and then he would run all around them over and over again – he was so excited! And then he would bring them into his house and have a bit more of an in-depth friendship interview. I guess Webster’s standards were pretty high, because I never saw those bugs again. But that’s OK, I was happy with just Webster.

At our happiest time, I wrote a little haiku for Webster:

Eight-legged fun bug
Pretend to be a
Gross and hairy thing
Ha! Can you rock harder? No!
You might destroy the whole world

But through it all, just like in cartoons where there is always a mean old prince or hobbit lurking in wait for the happy spider, Chris’ jealousy of Webster was growing. “Pat nevr (sic) give (sic) me bugs to play with! I can never life (sic) up to the hie (sic) standards of coolniss (sic) set by Webster! My only opshion (sic) is to destroy him! I hate all things, especially heterosexuality, basic hyjean (sic), and cleaning under my fourskin (sic)! But more than all these thigs (sic), I hate Webster!” His musing was rarely coherent but always evil.

So one day, while I was picking flowers for Webster in a nearby park, Chris struck. He swept aside Webster’s home and slapped again and again at the surprised spider. I came home, and Webster was gone. All that was left was a clean corner. Clean of web, clean of life. Clean of happiness. Sterilized of joy. Swept of life. Washed with tears.

Naturally I was traumatized. I wrote a sad haiku to honour my sweet Webster.

Webs in the corner?!
Stain on floor, or you?
Is that your hairball?
Won’t touch, will never clean up
You might be spider Jesus.

And my hope was well founded! Webster came back, making a clever web in a place only I would see. He had lost a leg, but was otherwise well. It seems that Chris’ feeble sweeps had actually been far too anemic to penetrate Webster’s mighty carapace. In fact, I do believe that when Chris attacked Webster, Webster overpowered him and – his fangs hovering over his would-be murderer’s neck – spared his life. Perhaps, to sate Chris’ irrational bloodlust, Webster made an offering: his own leg. Webster always was a kind creature who wouldn’t hurt a fly. His mercy was to be his downfall.

But I was too happy to be rational. I yelled, overjoyed at the resurrection of my best friend in the entire universe. Chris overheard.

The next day I brought Webster a spray-bottle filled with champagne so we could celebrate our reunion. He was gone. “Where, oh where is my precious Webster?” I cried. “I vacyoomed (sic) him up,” said Chris, springing from the shadows. “I knew he was to (sic) strong for me to take in man-to-man combat, so I used teknolojy (sic) and evil!”

I picture the final scene like this. Chris approaches coyly. Webster sees him with his many compound eyes, and – a true prophet – knows what is coming. All the centipedes, all the roaches, all the beetles, all the kind-hearted denizens of the kitchen watch to see if their Bambi, their Simba can defeat this foe of nature’s plan. Chris holds the vacuum above his head, turns it on. The insects all step back. All but Webster, who stands on his hind legs. He leaps towards Chris. If he can only hug him, if Chris will only let himself be loved, he will cease his relentless tidying of life. But Chris’ heart is too far gone, and he sucks Webster into the abyss.

But Webster lives on. Yes! In the hearts of his disciples. In every splash of bacon grease, in every tumbleweed of hair and dust, in every sprinkling of crumbs, in every week-old filth-encrusted fork, in every poorly aimed urination, in every unwashed sock, in every smeared mirror, in every whiff of garbage, in every inch of solid grime, in every accumulation of dirt and bacteria and filth and dust, WEBSTER LIVES ON!!!

Five minute wars

2005-10-20T20:00:00.000-04:00

Good evening. I am a person with a deep voice wearing a tweed jacket and sitting in a den next to a large globe. Welcome to Five Minutes of History on the History Network, Canada's first choice for the briefest of vignettes about the shared stories of our past.

This week's topic is always a favourite among our old and elderly viewers alike. War! While war is a tragedy that ought never to be glorified, there is an undeniable fascination with watching humanity's greatest clashes being summed up in several seconds by semi-employed theatre school graduates.

And so without further delay I give you . . . five minute wars!

==

Peloponnesian War

Sparta: Athens is too powerful!

Corinth: I agree. Let us go to war! [they attack]

Thucydides: I will write a book about this war.

Historians: Hurray!

Aristophanes: This war is hilarious!

THE END!

Punic War

Hannibal: I am kicking ass for the Carthaginians, but the king doesn't trust me with a big army so we lose.

Rome: Huzzah! Now we'll besiege your city for three years until you come out begging for food and then we'll sell you all into slavery!

THE END!

Battle of Tours

Franks: God is on our side!

Muslims: God is on our side! [they fight]

Muslims: Ouch.

THE END!

Hundred Years' War

English: Boy, this is a long war.

French: We have driven out the English, oh wait they're coming back again.

Joan of Arc: God is on our side!

Pope: No He isn't.

Joan of Arc: Ouch. [she burns]

English: We have decimated the French army but now we will lose to a bunch of French paupers fighting with table legs and frosting tubes.

English and French together: Let us create a new world order of peaceable contempt!

THE END!

The Crusades

Christians: God is on our side!

Muslims: God is on our side! [they fight]

Christians: Ouch.

THE END!

Mongolian Raids

Genghis Khan: Hey you tribes! Stop fighting and come raid the Chinese with me!

Chinese: Hey!

Genghis Khan: Ow, my balls!

THE END!

War of the Roses

Lancasters: I want to be king of England!

Yorks: No I want to be king of England!

Lancasters: Let's throw roses at each other!

Yorks: This is the best war ever!

Tudors: You fops are making it easy to undermine the aristocracy and centralize power with the Crown.

The Aristocracy: Oh no!

THE END!

U.S. War of Independence

Americans: We demand the freedom to impose whatever ridiculous religious strictures we want!

British: Never! We require more fur hats from North America! [they fight]

British: Those hats are out of style now.

British Loyalists: Run to Canada!

THE END!

Napoleonic Wars

Napoleon: I am short and tubby and have a penis the size of a ladyfinger. I will overcompensate by becoming KING OF THE WORLD!

British: OK, but then you get to live on a little island.

Napoleon: That sucks.

French: We will never acknowledge that any war other than this one ever occurred.

THE END!

World War I

Some religious douche: Ow, I'm dead.

Austria: To war!

Serbia: Oh no!

Everyone else: Austria and Serbia are fighting! That means we should mobilize the largest military effort in the history of mankind and kill millions in the blood- and rotting-flesh-soaked hell of trench warfare!

France: We surrender!

Triple Alliance: Germany has lost so let's steal all its money for war reparations and reduce the Germans to impoverished rage. Surely that won't bite us in the ass in about 20 years.

THE END!

World War II

Hitler: a) It's all the Jews' fault. b) I should be leader.

Germans: Sig Heil!

Jews: This can't be as bad as it looks. [they die]

Allies: We should be safe in these trenches. [they die]

French: We are safe behind our impenetrable Maginot Line, oh wait they went around it. [they surrender]

Russians: We will feed our troops into the meat grinder for the next four years and never receive any historical credit for it.

D-Day

Sergeant: OK boys, storm that beach! [he dies]

Paratroopers: Help, we're being blown all over the place and we're lost!

Nazis: Their paratroopers are everywhere! Retreat!

Battle of the Bulge

Allies: Well, this war is almost over -- oh crap.

Nazis: We ran out of gas. :'(

Victory in Japan

Americans: Take this Russia, I mean Japan!

Japanese: We are now the victims of the most devastating weapon ever deployed against humans --

Americans: Take another one! Ya ha ha!

Japanese: Please stop.

THE END!

Falklands War

Argentina: We will seize these islands and hold them against the British army with the might of our Argentinian military!

British army: [laughs, kills]

THE END!

1991 Gulf War

Kuwaitis: We sure do love drilling for oil sideways under Iraq's borders. Oh dammit.

U.S.: Don't worry my friends, I'll save you! [saves them]

Saddam Hussein: This is the Kurds' fault. [gasses them]

THE END!

Kosovo War

NATO: We must protect one people from several other peoples.

Public: Why are we waging war again?

NATO: Don't worry about it, we're all done.

THE END!

Invasion of Afghanistan

U.S.: My World Trade Center! Someone must pay!

Islamic bloc: [all point to each other]

U.S.: [throwing dart at map of Middle East] You'll pay for this -- Afghanistan!

THE END!

2003 Iraq War

Bush: Saddam Hussein has nukes and ties to terrorism. OK, really he doesn't.

Iraqis: We are glad to be rid of Saddam but now we are cold and hungry.

Bush: O sweet freedom!

THE END!

==

That's it for this week's instalment of Five Minutes of History. Join us next week when we will take an extremely brief look at the American decision to go off the gold standard. Here's a preview:

U.S. Government: We need more money.

Join us next week for Five Minutes of History, where it doesn't take ages to learn the Ages!

Incoming message

2005-10-17T23:25:00.000-04:00

Greetings Hu-Nam! We are very sorry to be informing you that one you call "Captain Mattulon" is not available for this week's communication! We are a-feared that he has answered a call of duty and is now engrossed in the task of freeing the universe from hostile alien forces! He asks us to make requests of you that you forgive him for his absence, given his noble and urgent cause!

We see you are not pleased by this developments. Perhaps Captain Mattulon's other alien friends can help appeasing you! Goodbye for the Spathi!

Welcome to Terran Starbase I, civilians. I understand you're looking for Captain Mattulon after he failed to report in as he usually does every Monday and Thursday.

I feel only disgust for you people who think the Captain should neglect his duty to the galaxy and, indeed, to the human race simply to satisfy your lust for jokes about pornography! Captain Mattulon is out there risking disintegration and carpal tunnel syndrome so that you can sleep snugly in your beds and never worry that an Ur-Quan armada is trying to destroy Earth.

Get out of my sight.

Well hello there Earthlings. Looking for one known as "Mattulon," hm? How did we know? Let's just say that we are -- experts in the acquisition, and provision, of information. Certainly we know the whereabouts of the Captain -- and all the information will cost you is one of your Earth hearts. They are quite the delicacy on Alpha Tertii VIII.

No? I am afraid we cannot do business then. Good luck in your search.

SCREECH! YAPYAPYAP SCREEEEEEEE Mattulon? WEEEEERRREEEEEEPPPPPPPPPP *tail wave* CHA CHA CHA CHA TA SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, CHAKKA CHAK SCREEEE *regurgitates*

Clear enough? You're welcome.

Mmmm, Earthlings. You seek Mattulon, our ancient foe? As we speak he is breaching our outer defences with his ragtag group of space allies and patchwork fleet of battle cruisers held together only by the colourful profanity of their chief engineers.

I'll tell you what: if you convince him to return to Earth and funnel his energy into making crude witticisms in some sort of online journal I will perform oral sex on you. Take a good long look before you decide -- each one is prehensile . . .

Oh very well. I'll transport you to him right away. (Call me . . .)

==

Switch on No. 8 auxiliary! Full strength in No. 3 turret! Who are these people? Are we being boarded?!

Oh, it's my readership. Someone fetch two deck chairs! I'm sorry I couldn't write a decent post on the blog this week -- SOMEONE HAIL THE PKUNK! GIVE ME THAT MIC -- CHO'YU'THOTHOTH NGYGNHYTI BRJ!

Sorry about that! I'm trying to save the human race from the fallow servitude of the Evil Lords from Beyond the Stars. FIRE CONTROL! FIRE CONTROL! LOWER THE EMERGENCY BULKHEADS!

Look I know I'm scheduled to post today, but look around! This ship is falling apart, and the future of all sentient life hangs in the balance! Now -- MY GOD THEY'RE COMING IN THROUGH THE DORSAL DOCKING UMBILICUS -- stop grousing about the blog and grab a laser pistol! FOR HUMANITY!