Jokes that didn't make it VII

An albatross, a robin and a hummingbird walk into a bar. They order three dry martinis, shaken, not stirred. The bartender asks the sparrow for ID, saying he looks too young, and flatly refuses to serve the buzzing hummingbird on the grounds that he's had one too many already. As the three friends get up to leave, the albatross turns to his fellows and says, "You guys are like an ancient mariner around my neck."

Jokes that didn't make it VI

The human body is a lot like a car. You can oil it up and rub it down, get the annual checkups and make sure it's eating right, but if it was made in Siberia, you're sure to have a convict poking around the chassis before long.

Jokes that didn't make it V

A penguin walks into a pawnshop with a toaster in one flipper and a racing form tucked under the other. The pawnshop owner looks the penguin up and down, whistles appreciatively and asks, "How much for a blowjob?"

Jokes that didn't make it IV

Julius Caesar sneaks in one night, after a three-night drinking binge with the boys. He tiptoes into bed and stares longingly at Cleopatra's bronzed bosom. "Cleo," he whispers suggestively, nuzzling into her neck and running a hand down her thigh. Cleopatra rolls over and says, "Kiss my asp."

Jokes that didn't make it III

Jesus walks into an inn, hands the innkeeper three nails and says, "For the last time, fix the goddamn toilet."

Jokes that didn't make it II

A Protestant, a Catholic and a Muslim are waiting on a New York street corner, waiting for the light to turn green. As they stand there awkwardly, glancing nervously at each other, they notice a rabbi exiting a deli across the street. The Muslim looks at the other two men and says, "I could kill for a pastrami on rye."

Jokes that didn't make it

A man walks into a bar with a zebra, a giraffe and a photo of Charles Grodin making love to a dictionary. He walks up to the bartender, takes a deep breath and says, "I'll have a Coke."

Ways to make money

1. Get a job.
2. Get a spouse with a job and mooch off of her/him until she/he divorces you. Then sue for half.
3. Win "Ugliest Person Alive" Pageant.
4. Mug schoolchildren for their UNICEF boxes.
5. Sell friends into slavery.
6. Invent free range veal.
7. Panhandle on street corner.
8. Panhandle in Alaskan stream.
9. Marry a filthy rich widow/widower; wait for her/his impending death.
10. Get elected to public office.
11. In the event #10 proves undoable, win lawsuit against government for unlawful hiring practices.
12. Join the mob.
13. Build world's largest porn theatre.
14. Become a porn star.
15. Start up a new 'family values' organization to fight pornography; tell everyone it's "non-profit."
16. Invent a self-sufficient stapler.
17. Sue large vitamin supplement company for mental anguish.
18. Open nude diner.
19. Sell handguns to angst-ridden teenagers.
20. Turn gun-toting, angst-ridden teenagers into the police; collect applicable rewards.

In days gone by IX

In days gone by, artists revelled in the introduction of contrary ideas, imaginative new visual forms and championing the appreciation of beauty. They painted, sculpted, sketched and designed, constantly challenging the pre-conceived notions of the day. They ignored sleep and sustenance, giving birth to the term "starving artist" while surviving on the simple satisfaction of a bronze bust or a lakeside watercolour. They drank heavily, experimented with mind-altering substances and lived constantly in a whirlwind of self-destruction and unrestrained joie de vie. They lived with the courage of their convictions, all passion and fiery determination, lopping off body parts in bids to woo unrequited loves, before ending their days in local madhouses and paupers graves. Today, an artist will charge you $500 for a banana peel nailed to a discarded condom rack.

In days gone by VIII

In days gone by, reporters asked tough questions, smoked cigarettes and tucked press passes into the brims of their fedoras. They wore suspenders and slept-in suits, pounded the pavement night and day and seeked the truth and 'the scoop' with equal abandon. They plucked away at manual typewriters, bottles of scotch tucked neatly in the bottom of their desk drawers, and they fought for their stories, arguing with grumpy, raspy-voiced editors until the excitement of 'Stop the presses!' cut through the din of a smoky newsroom. Reporters were a trusted cornerstone of society and embodied the spirit of unbiased information gathering and dispersal. Today, they moonlight as funeral home copy writers so they can get a deal on burial plots and all-weather floral arrangements.

Specials I'd fast-track if I was in charge of PBS

I Married a Dull-Witted Corn-Fed Huckster with a Foot Fetish
Former Friends star Jennifer Aniston takes time from her floundering feature film career to expose the sad, sick details of her tempestuous relationship with Brad Pitt.

In Hiding: The Jehovah's Witness Protection Program
An in-depth look at the moral, ethical and religious reasons that led to the creation of an offshoot to the FBI's Witness Protection Program.

A Saint's Early Years as a Sex Trade Worker
Mistress Tessa's life as a bondage queen in Bangkok, before her rise to sainthood in the ghettos of India and her new nom-de-plume: Mother Teresa.

Apples: A Plague for the New Millenium
Eye-opening research that shows a concrete link between apples and our age's most devastating diseases, from cancer and AIDS to stupidity and mental retardation.

Far East cuisine

If you're craving Chinese food, don't bother eating the neighbour's cat. You'll only be hungry again in an hour.

What classified apartment ads really mean

With files from Steve "Psycho Samurai" O'Neill

Quiet area
= Located next to highway, grabage dump or dance club

Lively/colourful neighbourhood
= Area rife with B&Es, crack addicts and gunshots

Safe neighbourhood
= Area infested with big, mean, starving dogs

Close to TTC
= No parking

Off-street parking
= Every man for himself

High ceilings
= Basement apartment

Bright and roomy
= Small windows, similar to a ship's portholes

Warm and cosy
= Small attic apartment

Newly decorated
= We vaccuumed and mopped after the last tenant

Full kitchen
= Enough room for a microwave and chair combo

Close to restaurants
= Not quite a full kitchen

Family-friendly
= Warning: Lots of screaming kids around

Backyard access
= You can see it from your window

Beautifully maintained grounds
= No trees or grass

Separate entrance
= Landlord lives on main floor

Convenient location
= Helicopter pad on roof

Close to downtown
= No where near downtown

Things you don't want to hear from a priest

• You look really hot in those flip-flops.
• You have the taught, unblemished skin of an eight-year-old.
• Even a man of God has urges.
• I do have wine. But wouldn't you prefer something a little stronger?
• Sin, shmin. Take 'em off.
• Abstinence and virginity are the devil's work.
• Did you know the confessional is actually roomier than the backseat of a Chevy?
• Your mom is really hot.
• Pass the lube.
• C'mon officer. Tell me she doesn't look 18.

Absent-mindedness

Quick, turn around and go back. I forgot my sense of decency.

A snippet of deep conversation between two guys and a girl

Girl: What's a fluffer?

Guy 1: A fluffer is someone who works on movie sets -- to arouse men.

Guy 2: He means someone who sucks cock.

Girl: Oh.

Guy 1: Thank you, Mr. Concise. Real classy.

Guy 2: I don't know, you said someone who arouses men. That could mean anything -- maybe they're cooking them steaks.

Better endings IV

"O Captain! My Captain!" Todd shouted.

"Sit down, Mr. Anderson!" Mr. Nolan bellowed. "Do you hear me? Sit down! Sit down! This is your final warning, Anderson. How dare you? Do you hear me?"

"O Captain! My Captain!" Knox yelled.

"Overstreet, I warn you! Sit down!" Mr. Nolan's fear was palpable now, an ugly, jittery thing eroding his authority and accentuating his already unsightly old-man wrinkles, Botox be damned. "Sit down! Sit down. All of you. I want you seated. Sit down. Leave, Mr. Keating. All of you, down. I want you seated. Do you hear me? Sit down!"

"Thank you, boys," said Mr. Keating, the words catching in his throat like a dolphin struggling in the nets. "Thank you."

And then, with a gleeful, wide-toothed grin, Mr. Keating turned to his students and displayed the dreaded -- though much anticipated by the boys -- thumbs-down.

"I think you know what to do gentlemen," he said.

It was at that point that the young members of Mr. Keating's Dead Poets Society turned on the school's headmaster, Mr. Nolan, and, like a pack of rabid hyenas, fell upon him, tearing him limb from limb and rending the flesh from his bones.

While the lads feasted zombie-like on the remains of the old school administrator, Mr. Keating prepared a batch of cool, cherry-flavoured Kool-Aid, which he laced with arsenic and Drano. After they had devoured Mr. Nolan, Keating and his boys went into the countryside, donned long, hooded white robes and drank their after-dinner refreshment under the gentle glow of the full moon.

Top 10 things you need to know about prison life

Off to prison? Here's a guide of dos and don'ts for surviving the ordeal with your important bits intact.

DO:

Make yourself a shank: The sharpened ends of eating utensils and toothbrushes will serve you well when the gym suddenly empties and you're squaring off against Mexican Mafia enforcer, Enrique "El Toro" Dominguez.

Go to group drug counselling: Be sure to attend regularly if you're a junkie -- and let's face it, if you weren't, would you be in jail in the first place? There's no better place to score some tits. If by some miracle you're not an addict, start using immediately. You're in prison for God's sake.

Find religion: It's the best chance you have for early parole. The board isn't interested in remorse unless it's accompanied by the ability to quote scripture chapter and verse. I know what you're thinking, but that's the way it works.

Beg your family and friends to visit you regularly: The chats about your aunt's slow descent into dementia aren't going to do you any good, but it does offer an opportunity for them to smuggle in stuff. Smokes, drugs, brownies -- anything you can trade to keep your ass out of harm's way for another week.

Tell the other inmates you're HIV-positive: It will probably save you from most anal invasions -- but sadly, not all.

DON'T:

Make an effort to switch cells in the hope that you're new Aryan Brotherhood cellmate will protect you from the gangstas: Odds are he's more interested in tattooing a swastika on your ass and making you his bitch.

Piss off anybody who works in the prison cafeteria: Unless you're interested in a long, slow death from the ingestion of ground glass in your tomato sauce.

Smile, laugh or whistle: There's nothing to be happy about here. Any of the aforementioned "happy" habits you may have had on the outside are more than likely to get you gang raped in the shower and sliced and diced with a homemade toothbrush shank.

Ask an "ask": An ask is a favour. If you need something from another inmate, be sure to make a "trade." If you've got nothing to trade, spare yourself the eventual molestation that an "ask" will bring and handle shit yourself.

Tell anyone your crime was "an accident" or "a mistake": If you're in for car theft, tell them you chopped up a cop and fed him to your dogs. Fraud? You killed your brother-in-law with a chainsaw. Act crazy. Eat soap and lick the toilet bowl. It might keep Tony "The Butcher" Spinoli from cutting off your testicles and mailing them to your mom.

Mr. Etiquette: Crackheads

Q: Because of the itinerant nature of crack addicts, am I expected to welcome them to the neighbourhood with a fruit basket, even though they probably won't stay long?
-- Cracking under the strain, Kingston

A: It warms my heart to see that you're acknowledging this ever-growing portion of society Cracking, and even more so that you're willing to make contact with such a magnanimous gesture.

That being said, I must tell you that a fruit basket is a highly inappropriate gift for a crackhead. It's likely to breed hostility in an already unpredictable and violent individual, as well as provide him or her with vital vitamins and nutrients that will improve strength and cognitive functions, increasing the danger, and your chances of sustaining a mortal injury, in this potentially volatile situation.

There is only one surefire way to gain the confidence of a crack addict and only one currency that's valid in a crack den: Crack. Buy a vial and garnish it with a pretty bow. Weave a card with your cellphone number through the bow and let the crackhead(s) know that you're always interested in buying used CDs, stereo equipment and kitchen appliances. Feel free to include the addresses of various neighbours in possession of particularly nice items, or simply point out the people you don't like very much.

Happy neighbouring!

Mr. Etiquette: Opening doors

Q: Maybe you can settle a bet between my brother-in-law and me. He says it's rude to hold a door open for a lady, while I say it may be old-fashioned, but it's still right. Can you help?
-- Bill Booth, Peterborough

A: Hi Bill. In short, you're both right. However, it's not a question of being rude or right, but rather what exactly comes of the situation once you've chosen to go ahead and take the plunge.

Like many issues of etiquette in today's fast-paced society, holding the door open for a lady is dependant on numerous factors pertaining to the lady herself. If the lady is pretty, smiling or exuding an overall air of goodwill and warm-heartedness, by all means, open away. But there are some things to watch out for in order to avoid a potentially disastrous situation. The two main issues to keep in mind when making that typically split-second decision are: size and type.

Size: This one can be tough, since you have to quickly gauge both the woman's girth and the width of the opening through which she is about to pass. The last thing you want is for the lady to become wedged in the door frame, placing you in the awkward position of having to either push her through the doorway or pull her back in. Either situation is embarrassing for both parties and likely to lead to hard feelings on the part of the woman, who, accustomed to her own gargantuan size, may have better handled the situation on her own, without any pressure from a chivalrous outside source.

Type: This category can be broken down into more sub-categories than any one man can count. Of importance here are four specific female archetypes that are relatively easy to identify and that should be avoided in most social situations, especially those that involve providing a service such as opening a door. They are: the Mother, the Martyr, the Man-Hater and the Manager.

The Mother is obvious. With kids or baby stroller in tow, the 21st century mom is of a generation that somehow believes it has invented reproduction and child rearing and subscribes whole-heartedly to the concept that children should be both heard and seen. Opening a door for a mom will almost assuredly get you a "get away from me and my child(ren)" scowl, and creates a high probability that you will be left standing there for some time as the entire clan is prodded through the opening. It also opens up the chance that you will accidentally injure one of the misbehaving little brats with the door and become wrapped in a war of words that could lead to civil action.

The Martyr will typically be found struggling to carry half-a-dozen packages -- each larger than herself -- which she can't possibly hope to manage on her own. This woman commonly insists that she has no choice in the matter, that there is absolutely no one who could have helped her and that the task has to be done all in one shot, right now. This attitude is not conducive to social interaction, and odds are she'll take your eye out with the edge of the dish strainer poking through one of her bags.

The Man-Hater can be tough to spot visually, coming in many shapes and sizes and from all walks of life. However, most men are genetically programmed to identify these types instinctively. If you were born without this defence mechanism, your life's a crapshoot at best. If you were, you know the drill. Avoid eye contact and immediately remove yourself from the vicinity.

The Manager is typically found in areas with an abundance of office buildings and is commonly found wearing some sort of man-clothes or derivative thereof. Her neatly pressed pant suit accentuates a contempt not only for men but for anyone who stands in her way. The Manager will climb over your rotting corpse to get what she wants, and like her male counterpart, despises even more those over whom she has no authority. They do not want your help. Leave well enough alone.

Mr. Etiquette: Blogging comments

Q: I'm fairly new to blogging. A few people have left some comments on my blog. What should I do?
-- Niko973, Toronto

A: There are a few basic things to remember when participating in a small, self-contained blogging community Niko973.

The first is that if someone comments on your blog, it's poor form not to return the favour at some point. But be forewarned: Barring the use of passwords, codewords or logins, this self-contained community is not necessarily self-contained. Anyone can see it. In other words, if you intend on doing or saying something irrational, illegal or idiotic, set yourself up with an unidentifiable user name and refrain from making comments or writing posts that will give away your secret superhero identity. Yes, you can go in and delete a comment after you've posted it, but this will breed an air of anger, resentment and paranoia.

Secondly, when leaving a comment on a post where everyone is, for example, discussing their favourite songs and CDs, don't go into a six-paragraph rant about the state of U.S. foreign policy or your neighbour's addiction to raccoon-burgers.

Finally, ease into the proceedings. Many blogs have regular readers who have spent a lot of time reading the posts, commenting and building a relationship with the blog's author. This group may be wary of outsiders and particularly cautious when it comes to strangers who make consistent references to panda bears, serial killers or Paris Hilton. Assuming the blog is not sex- or pornography-oriented, your first comment should probably not include unsolicited invitations to coffee, a marriage proposal or a pyramid scheme, nor should it ask the author's measurements, phone number or sexual preferences.

Mr. Etiquette: Washroom chats

Q: Is it appropriate to have a discussion with someone in a public washroom?
-- Arthur J., Malton

A: No Arthur, it isn't. The only way such a conversation can be justified is if those engaged in the dialogue are friends that haven't seen each other in over a decade and the discussion involves matters of national security.

Although many people subscribe to the idea that it is OK to chat with someone in a bathroom if both parties are on equal footing (both urinating, both washing up, etc.) this is a barbaric ritual best left to a drunken -- and quickly forgotten -- night out at Medieval Times.

Mr. Etiquette: Lavatory pop-ins

Q: Dear Mr. E.

About six months ago I moved into a new condominium in downtown Toronto. My problem is with my aunt. She lives about 45 minutes out of town but loves to come into the city almost every other weekend. Each time she drops by my place, just to use the facilities. Without notice she will come by my building, ring my buzzer, and then ask to use my bathroom. Some times she is alone but often there is an entourage of three or four of her friends. As you might imagine, these surprise visits can occasionally happen at inconvenient times. I also resent always having to have my apartment in a guest-friendly condition. Am I wrong to want these 'visits' to stop?
-- Cindy, Harbourfront

A: Unfortunately for you Cindy, you have made the error of allowing your aunt to be privy to both your address and your weekend stay-at-home habits. Short of moving or abandoning your sanctuary during the times she is most likely to pop in, I suggest leaving your bathroom in so filthy a state that your aunt will quickly come to the conclusion that the deli down the street provides more agreeable facilities. This of course, means you must also endure these sub-par lavatory conditions. Hopefully, this situation will last for a reasonably short period of time, after which you will be rid of your aunt and her busybody friends forever.

Mr. Etiquette: Urinals

Q: When I go to the bathroom at a bar these days, there is often advertising over the urinals. Is it OK to read the ad above the next urinal if somebody is using it?
-- Scared to Look, Toronto

A: In short, Scared to Look, the answer is no. It is in no way acceptable to glance, cough, or even breathe heavily in the direction of someone who is urinating beside you. If you feel the need to do any of these things, do it upward or straight ahead. If the urinal on the other side of you is not being used, you may perform the aforementioned actions in that direction.

If your desire to view the advertisement in question is so overwhelming or persistent that you cannot resist, finish your business and zip up. Take your time washing your hands -- which more likely than not, the individual beside you will fail to do in his all-consuming quest to leave the washroom -- and then you will probably have the opportunity to read the ad at your leisure.

The chameleon

There's a mysterious chameleon living behind the bar at my local drinking hole.

I say it's mysterious because no one seems to see it except me. Yes, I realize that the chameleon's claim to fame is its ability to blend into its surroundings, making it easier to hide from predators. But then why do I, far from being an eagle-eyed observer of my environment, see this chameleon scampering willy-nilly across the bar, ducking in and out between bottles of Johnnie Walker and Jack Daniels, while the rest of the establishment's patrons carry on, oblivious to its presence?

Don't get me wrong; I'm not an animal-hater or anything. Pit bulls, piranhas, snakes -- they're all OK with me.

But this grinning reptile taunts me at every opportunity. He sticks his tongue out at me and smirks smugly when I try to point him out to one of my drunken companions. Every once in a while he bolts from the bar on to my table and spills my drink, then slinks back to his favourite spot behind the television, while everyone points at me, laughing and clapping like a bunch of Portuguese folks whose plane has just landed without incident.

This bloody chameleon is driving me mad.

I tried to lasso him once. I spent $65.95 on a piece of rope (I think I got taken on that one) and studied lassos on the Internet for a day-and-a-half. I waited for my opportunity -- Halloween of course, to better hide my intentions -- then strode John Wayne-like into the bar, fully intending to capture my elusive prey.

After five minutes, I had pulled down and shattered over three-quarters of the liquor bottles behind the bar and earned myself a two-week ban from the premises, along with the disdain of the bar's regular patrons and a razor-sharp tongue lashing from the tavern's proprietor.

As I was being escorted to the door, I turned to look back over my shoulder and saw the chameleon, a cigarette dangling from his lipless mouth, grinning at me like he'd just dined on a plump, maple-glazed guinea pig or some other chameleon delicacy.

My girlfriend, disgusted by my behaviour, had stayed behind to enjoy the Halloween festivities. She was wearing red leather -- a delicious low cut blouse and mini-skirt ensemble -- and little red horns sat neatly on her head.

The chameleon stood beneath her legs and looked up her skirt. An appreciative whistle escaped his mouth as smoke tendrils rose from his nostrils. I was the only one who noticed.

God, I hate that chameleon.

Better endings III

So they called to Cinderella and told her the prince was there. She washed the cinders from her hands and face and stepped into the room. She bowed to the prince and he handed her the glass slipper saying, "Try this on. If it fits, you will be my wife."

Cinderella sat down to try on the glass slipper, but in all the fuss and excitement, the slipper shattered, sending many slivers of sharp glass into her foot. The wounds became infected and eventually, the foot turned gangrenous and was amputated.

Two weeks later, Prince Charming married a top-heavy, bleached blonde supermodel from Malibu.

Better endings II

After the death of Christian de Neuvillette, Roxane was miraculously cured of the dull-wittedness that had plagued her, and she realized the extent of Cyrano's love for her.

The two cousins were married in a lavish ceremony on the banks of the River Seine. They enjoyed a full and happy life with their twin sons, Edmond and Nez, both of whom, sadly, suffered from horribly disfiguring birth defects because of the family's long history of inbreeding.

Better endings

Snow White lounged erotically on a bed of leaves in the enchanted forest, nibbling suggestively on a bright, red apple and caressing her thigh with one delicate milk-white hand. Gentle moans escaped her lips as, with eyes shut tight, she slowly lifted her skirts. From behind an old oak at the edge of the clearing, Bashful stared dumbfounded, a warm, excited tingle engulfing his loins.

Lost in their own dark desires, the two were taken completely unaware by Grumpy, who opened fire with a modified AK-47.

Despite Doc's best efforts, they were both pronounced dead at the scene.

Home renovations

Hello?

Is this the right number to call about getting a building permit?

Wonderful. I'd like a permit to raise my house up and spin it 180 degrees. How would I go about that?

Yes, that's right. Correct, 180 degrees.

That's right. Downtown central.

Why not?

Uh-huh. Yeah, it is a semi-detached.

Well, I could speak to them.

But you don't understand, I'm just not getting the sun on my front porch during mid-day and early afternoon.

What do you mean 'ridiculous?'

I'm sorry but the backyard doesn't work for me. I'm a front stoop kind of guy.

Hello? Hello?

Tip for overworked parental units

Did you know that children under the age of two can fly for free on most airlines? So why not book your little tyke a flight to Zimbabwe and have yourself a nice, quiet, well-earned rest.

The food choice that broke the camel's back

She yammered on endlessly about rice or potatoes, rice or potatoes, rice or potatoes. Standing six or seven steps from the second floor landing, her doughy hand grabbing the handrail as if it might suddenly leap from her talons and scamper helter-skelter into a dark hiding place, somewhere damp and sweltering and frightening, like Florida. Or a day spa. Or a day spa in Florida.

"Whatever ma." It sounded desperate, a stop-your-yapping, I-can't-take-it-anymore voice.

She ignored his desperate plea and kept right on yapping.

Through bloodshot eyes, Antonio stared at his mother the way Jerry Falwell might stare at naked pictures of the Virgin Mary doing jumping jacks in a lumber yard. He chewed absently on his thumbnail as she prattled on relentlessly, something about boiling or frying or some internal chicken organ.

"I'm going to ram this stapler through your eye if you don't shut up!" On cue, he brandished his stapler menacingly.

Her eyes twitched bird-like in the recesses of her face. She paused for a moment, just a split-second really, before her narrow lips continued flapping. Antonio leaned back, beaten, and began stapling the webs of his fingers to the desk.

"Arroz ou batatas?" she asked, in her native Portuguese. Rice or potatoes?

In days gone by VII

In days gone by, private detectives wore rumpled suits, smoked Marlboros and knew how to take a slap in the face with class. When you wanted someone followed, they followed, and they used filing cabinets instead of computer databases and legwork instead of desktop publishing. They could jump fences, exchange witty banter with uncooperative policemen and dodge gunfire while chasing crooks across moving train tops. Today, they die due to complications from carpel tunnel syndrome.

In days gone by VI

In days gone by, bartenders offered sage advice, told clever stories and knew how to make a proper whisky sour without the aid of a recipe book or weekend mixology course. They had friendly faces, knew how to wipe a bartop with a flourish and when you were at your lowest, you could count on them for a sympathetic ear. They were gregarious, life-of-the-party types and their establishments were the focal point of every neighbourhood. Nowadays, they die of boredom after popping the cap on one too many fruit-flavoured coolers.

In days gone by V

In days gone by, cab drivers were the heart and soul of any urban centre. They drove horse-drawn hansoms, wore top hats and knew every street and thoroughfare like the back of their hands. Eventually, the hansoms gave way to mechanized yellow cabs -- but you could still count on your driver when you needed to "find some action" or "follow that car." Today, they burn to death when their map books are set ablaze by the knock-off cellphone rechargers in the front passenger seat.

In days gone by IV

In days gone by, farmers were the backbone of society. They churned butter, milked cows and showed us that "salt of the earth" wasn't necessarily a precursor to hypertension. They were early to bed and early to rise and they taught us there was honour in the slaughter of domesticated animals. Farmers were the embodiment of good and right and self-sufficiency. Nowadays, they starve to death.

In days gone by III

In days gone by, pilots were reknowned for their bravery, dashing good looks and spiffy uniforms. They flew transcontinental flights in Volvo-sized planes, tested dangerous new aircraft that broke the speed of sound and taught us that "death from above" was far better than "don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes." Today, they perish when a computerized gizmodoodad tells them the mountain up ahead is intangible.

In days gone by II

In days gone by, fishermen knew how to mend nets, tell captivating tales of high sea adventure and navigate by starlight. Today, they're lucky if they don't meet grisly ends at the claws of roving bands of crabs.

In days gone by

In days gone by, loggers knew how to eat flapjacks, sing charming ditties and swing double-sided axes with abandon. Nowadays, they're better known for getting killed by falling tress.

Domestic dispute

Belinda darling? Please put down the shotgun snookums.

I know I forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste again, but we can work through it baby. Sure we can. Why don't you go lie down for a while and I'll make you some of that herbal tea you like so much? How would that be honeybear?

I know. I know pooky-pie. I should've put my dirty socks in the hamper and bringing that webcam college girl home as your birthday present didn't work out so well, but hey, nobody's perfect right?

Whoahhh... easy there sweetie, that puppy's got a hair trigger. Let's not do anything we'll regret.

OK. That's a good point. There's no reason I can't eat my dinner at a table instead of in bed and I don't have to go out drinking with the boys after work every day. Still, a man needs to unwind a little...

Chhhh-chhh!

No, no, you're right of course. I'm relaxed enough. It wouldn't kill me to go one night without scouring the Web for porn and making small talk in that swingers' chat room. What? Oh, I hadn't mentioned that? Heh, heh, well, that's a funny story you see...

Pumpkin? Don't you think you're aiming that a little low?

The perfect plan

Good day fellow researchers, scientists and all-around good people. As I look around this room, I see some of the most brilliant minds the world has to offer, encased in slim, shapely bodies with unblemished skin, good hair and nice teeth. Today we have been charged with the most monumental of tasks. The fat of the world hangs in the balance.

Let us travel through the black hole, going really, really fast, thus turning it upon itself.

Despite the reports offered up by myself and my most trusted colleagues to those in high office, this will not in fact save the Earth. However, we will either travel back through time before the cellulite plague ravished our planet, availing us of the opportunity to kill our past selves and take their places, or we may find ourselves in an alternate universe, where this curse did not take place. In that instance, we can proceed to kill our parallel selves and take their places. By so doing, we will side-step the catastrophe that is sure to engulf our unfortunate, less-pleasant-to-look-upon brethren.

The search continues

Has no one found the missing post? Blast!

Wait...there. The large rectangular-headed man with the screws in his neck. Perhaps he has seen the missing post? Onward men! Brandish your pitchforks and torches to alleviate the stranger's fears!

AWOL

Quickly! Form a search party! Yesterday's post is missing!

The Corporate Lord's Prayer

Our chiefest of chief executive officers,

who art in the 33rd floor boardroom
Hallowed be thy synergy.
Thy R&D come.
Thy downsizing iniatives be done,
In accounts receivable as it is in human resources.
Give us this day our daily action items.
And forgive our team its fiscal irresponsibility,
As we forgive those who don't think outside the box.
And lead us not into an economic downturn,
But deliver us from the left-wing media and environmental protection groups.
For thine is the fast track to an integrated solution,
and major accounts acquisitions,
and the growth industry,
for the second and third quarters.
Amen.

More truly surprising birthday gifts

• The holy hand grenade of Antioch
• The original manuscript of Donald Trump's book, America: Why Communism is the Only Way
• A miniature replica of the Kremlin carved from gorgonzola
• The komodo dragon that bit the toe off Sharon Stone's husband
• A cure for stupidity in an easy-to-take capsule
• Sushi
• A re-enactment of the Humpty-Dumpty story starring Rodney King
• Cigarette-flavoured bubblegum
• A cable television package that only shows good stuff
• The head of John the Baptist

The dangers of pet ownership

My hands shouldn't look like that. It's been an hour since I cut them while rinsing that cat food tin and they've already swelled to the size of grapefruits. Except grapefruits aren't purple and yellow and they don't ooze pus when you squeeze them. Shit, I'm dizzy. I should really call an ambulance. Or maybe Abigail. Yeah, Abigail could drive me to the doctor and the doctor will give me something and everything will be solid.

Why is it so hot in here?

Fuck, how am I going to lift the receiver? I know. I'll just knock it off the stand. Fuump. OK, now we're rolling. Uh-oh. How am I gonna hit those tiny buttons? My fingers are bigger than German sausages. God, I'm sweating like a pig. No Fluffy, no puss, get off the phone. My hands feel so heavy. I'll just lie down for a second and think.

Stupid phone. Stupid cat food tin. Stupid cat.

Truly surprising birthday gifts

• A human kidney
• An English manservant named Jeeves
• A flying cyborg monkey that can fill out tax return forms and cook gourmet French cuisine
• Pope John Paul II papal bathrobe
• Foods that don't cause cancer
• Pac-Man-shaped garbage disposal
• Weight Watchers coupons from McDonald's
• Original Sesame Street episode featuring Sir Laurence Olivier as Smackhead Bob
• The Caramilk secret

Questions

Why don't we have any peanut butter? Are the dolphins getting caught in the nets?

Who's more likely to assassinate the leader of a southeast Asian nation -- Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera?

Is daylight savings time the reason we ask, "Where have all the good times gone?"

Is a 13-year-old with a cellphone a sign of the apocalypse?

Are bleeding heart liberals the reason the U.S. government can't afford universal healthcare?

Is the road to hell paved with good intentions -- or cheap canary-yellow linoleum bordered by pointy sticks bearing the impaled heads of the wicked?

Phraseology of the Northern Clack: Arguments

"I know, I know."
- Used as a response to a statement that the utterer should have known to be true before involving himself in the argument. Embarrassment and anxiety at the realization that his previous comments have been based on a false premise cause the speaker to pronounce the phrase as "Inoino."

Example:
"But the earth revolves around the sun."
"Inoino."

The utterance of "I know, I know" is typically followed by the word "but." The utterer then proceeds to increase the scope and intensity of the argument in an attempt to confuse his opponent and assure that everyone involved or in attendance forgets his fundamental lack of knowledge on the subject.

"No. I know."
- Similar to "I know, I know" but with one basic difference. In the case of "No. I know," (the "No" is followed by a 3/4 stop) the speaker agrees with his opponent without actually knowing for certain that the statement he is agreeing with is correct. This can be due to drunkenness, laziness, or learning impairment. It can also be a by-product of a weak will, when the adversary is simply too convincing, charismatic or loud-mouthed to differ with. In 90 per cent of arguments, this is a death blow.

"Yeah."
- Statement most often used by an outside third party who agrees with a statement by one of the combatants but lacks either the willingness or intelligence to enter the fray.

"Yeah, yeah."
- The phrase has two usages.

1. Used most often by the eventual loser of an argument to show disdain for his opponent's comments without being overtly aggressive.

2. Used by the clear winner of an argument when his opponent refuses to accept defeat gracefully, insisting instead on rehashing the same points which were previously contradicted.

"Phhhhhhhhhhhhh…"
- With lips pursed, teeth slightly apart and the tongue resting on the floor of the mouth, this long, slow expulsion of breath may come from the winning or losing side of any argument. When "Yeah, yeah" won't suffice, this action commonly precedes a physical confrontation.

For more Phraseology of the Northern Clack, visit Carmine's site at It was a dark and yadda yadda...

Specific links:

• Phraseology of the Northern Clack
• Phraseology of the Northern Clack, Part II
• Phraseology of the Northern Clack, Part III

What not to eat

Five friends sit on the patio at Amadeu's, a Portuguese restaurant in Kensington Market. While Naomi and Deb are at the dollar store buying small, brightly coloured birthday gifts that vibrate with fine, third-world craftsmanship, the waitress brings out a small plate. The plate is resplendent with a watery orange-brown sauce. In the sauce are numerous bite-sized pieces of what appears to be a meat or meat by-product. After a consultation with the waitress, in which Kennedy's Portuguese fails to provide an answer, further consultation between the waitress and various semi-bilingual patrons inside ensues. Eventually, the mystery food is identified as chicken giblets. Tom, Donna and Kennedy smile politely and express their gratitude. Soon after, Deb and Naomi return from their excursion.

Naomi: What are those?

Kennedy: (confidently, despite being unable to translate the word earlier and knowing full well that Naomi will not likely understand Portuguese) Moellas.

Naomi: (not understanding Portuguese) What?

Donna: (facillitating) Chicken giblets.

Naomi: (scrunching her nose) Giblets? Back home, you buy a chicken and inside is a bag full of giblets. You pull out the bag and feed it to the cat. The giblets, not the bag.

Deb: (matter-of-factly) So it's cat food.

Kennedy: (full of ethnic angst) If the cat's not interested, you could always feed them to a Portuguese person. Cow tongue, pig snout, they eat everything. They're like the Inuit, they use it all. Hey, we can't build a house or make a shirt with this...

Deb: ...so let's eat it.

Kennedy: Exactly.

Tom: (recalling and relating a tale) We had this German roommate once. He cooked kidney one day and the whole house smelled of piss.

Donna: (grimacing) That's not right.

Tom: (hypnotically, as if recalling a horrible accident scene or painful chilhood trauma) He had spent a long time in the kitchen cleaning the kidney, too. To wash away the pee.

Deb: (concisely) Anything you need to wash the pee from is something you shouldn't be eating.

Modern philosophy

"I guess I just think too much."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, 'what do I mean?' I mean I think too much. Just like I said."

"Uh yeah. OK. Whatever."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"You know. 'Uh yeah. OK. Whatever.' That."

"Nothing man. Nothing."

"Right."

"Yep."

"I've got to stop thinking so much."

"What's the problem? What do you think about anyway?"

"You know. Life and shit. Everything, nothing. Over and over."

"How can you think about nothing over and over? How can nothing be repeated?"

"It's like two negatives making a positive, OK?"

"Uh. OK."

"Don't hurt yourself."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Well, do you figure anything out? I mean, with all that thinking, you must come up with some pretty interesting conclusions and shit."

"Just one."

"What?"

"I think too much."

Dirty white glove

Hi babe.

Best of luck today. I know that inspector will be ramrod strict when he inspects your secret lab animal testing facility today, and let's face it, it looks bad if he doesn't find anything. Makes him look incompetent and soft and pretty stupid really, considering the horrific stories of torture you've related to me, especially those long, wet, screaching Tuesday afternoons in the rodent areas.

Anyway, I'm sure things will go well. If not, try dropping a little "lettuce" on the floor. The way I hear it, those lab inspector folks are typically vegetarian, so we can assume they probably like the "green stuff," if y'know what I mean. Or, if he's one of those pasty-faced, goatee-sporting cult types, offer him a member of your staff as a human sacrifice to appease his goat-headed pagan god.

Yeah. I'm sure everything will go just fine.

Love,
Alphonse

Late night party monster

It's late. The party's waning. But there's still some rum left. I think I'll by safe as long as there's some rum left.

Steve's angry. Steve's pissed. Steve's glassy-eyed mad. He's a drunken pitbull wielding a chainsaw, all teeth and fleas.

I try not to look directly at him. He's an eclipse, a tsunami, a razor-wired black hole motherfucker.

Lick it Up revs out the radio and I know I'm screwed. Rob's distracted, bouncing to the music and reaching for the bottle out of habit. I start to reach out, try to stop the bottle from tipping, but Steve starts growling, a guttural thing full of malicious promise.

My bowels tighten up. Steve stares at me. He's Loch Ness dangerous, a YetiSasquatchBigfoot psycho crazy animal fuck.

I'm scared.

The last of the rum dribbles from the end of the bottle, a sad no-hope-for-the-future-cause-there-ain't-one senior citizen spittle.

God help me.

Late night party dancing

They dance the sexy grind dance. The husband and the friend watch. They grind harder. The husband and the friend look away, their short attention spans grabbed roughly by Alice Cooper's Poison blaring from the satellite radio station.

They dance more of the sexy grind dance. But it's Alice Cooper on the radio and she's happily married and he's not interested. Y'know, like proud Toronto disinterested. By the time Ratt's Slip of the Lip begins pouring from the speakers, they're sitting, begging for the husband and the friend to put on the all-Blondie channel.

They refuse.

Everyone drinks more rum.

Late night party linguistics

Donna: What was the name of the chick who was married to Alec Baldwin?

Kennedy: Kim Basinger.

Rob: It's BASE-inger.

Kennedy: Yeah, whatever.

Steve: No, he was right. It's BASS-inger.

Rob: Unh-unh. BASE-inger.

Donna (loudly and annoyed): Anyway! I read she's agoraphobic.

Steve: She's afraid of sweaters?

Donna (more annoyed): No. Open spaces. (To herself) Must make it hard. What do they do? Film everything at her house?

Rob: I'm telling you, it's BASE-inger.

Steve (as if to a small learning-impaired child): No. It's BASS-inger. It's German.

Rob: BASE-inger. That's how she pronounces it.

Steve: I don't care how she pronounces it. It's BASS-inger. I think I know more German than her.

Kennedy: Language evolves dude.

Steve: No. It devolves. Dude.

Late night party surgery

Steve: Aarrghhh!

Kennedy: Yeah, yeah dude. We noticed you.

Steve: Aarrghhh! Wooooooo!

Kennedy: Dude. Seriously. Let me cut that thing off your face.

Rob: He's gonna bleed though.

Kennedy: Well yeah. A little. It's not that big.

Donna: Are you kidding? Have you seen how much he's had to drink? He's going to bleed like the Red Sea.

Steve: Wooooo-hooooo!

Donna: Besides, he said he had a doctor cut it off and it grew back.

Kennedy: Don't talk to me about doctors. What do they know? I'm telling you. A Band-Aid and some rubbing alcohol and it's all cool. I'll cut that fuckin' thing off. No problem. And when I do it, it'll stay gone.

Steve: Woo-woo-woo-woooooo!

You forgot your lighter at my place

Works. Good. Mine.

All's well that falls well

"...and forgive us our trespasses,"

Knock-knock.

"...as we forgive those that trespass against us."

Knock-knock.

"Come in."

"Good morning pastor. Are you ready for your weekly stretches?"

"Christ. Is it Tuesday already?"

"Yessir. Indeed it is sir."

"All right Bob, all right. Let's get this shit over with."

"Wonderful. OK. Great starting position. Now grab your ankles. Fabulous. And now...stretch. That's it. A little more."

"Arrgh...sweet baby Jesus. I think I pulled a kidney."

"C'mon. Don't stop. Feel the burn."

"What the fuck does that even mean, you sanctimonious prick?"

"Focus now. Stretch. Both of them back. You're almost there."

"Arrgh! Sadist. Faggot. Vile cocksucker."

"That's it. Right behind your head. Awesome! Now hold it."

Bob unbuttons his pants. His lowering zipper echoes against the pastor's belaboured breathing. The pastor looks up. His eyes bulge at Bob's bulge.

"What the fuck?! Oh God, I think I'm stuck."

Bob pulls down his boxers and approaches.

"Looking good Jerry. Looking real good."

Fine dining

Bienvenue à Manger L'homme Chez Nous messieurs. May I suggest the house specialty? Very well. We have a fine butter glazed leg of Spaniard in raspberry purée served on a bed of dandelions. Très savoureux. No? Perhaps paillardes de femme anglaise avec tomate épicée? This is the lightly pounded, how do you say, tits, of an English woman with a cumin and cilantro spiced tomato sauce. Very délicieux messieurs.

Ce qui? Oh no messieurs, non, non. There is no Iraqi on the menu. Non. Ce qui? Four North Korean burgers? Ahem. Very good sirs. Yes, right away sirs.

*walking away* Incroyable! Hamburgers! Porcs américains!

Sack lunch

My boss asked me to fill out an F-643-U yesterday, so I jumped on top of my hard plastic desk and whipped my shit out and waved it in his face. I assume he wasn't amused because 10 minutes later some beefy security guy was pulling on my piece and clubbing me with a hardcover Webster's.

I'm thinking about suing my boss for unlawful dismissal. But Randy from accounts, who was walking by during the whole overblown ordeal, says I might be barking up the wrong tree.

"C'mon. A lawsuit?" Randy groaned. "You were standing there with your balls hanging in his face."

"So?"

"What do you mean 'so?' There's a certain level of etiquette that should be observed in some situations. Your balls hanging in some guy's face is definitely a step or two below that."

Grand theft artismo

The gruff man drew smooth lines in black ink on a white page. I approached from just over his shoulder, eliciting a silent yet gruffer gruff from the man. I commented on how much I liked his drawing, his inkwork, his art. He gruffed at me.

"I'm no artist."

"Of course, of course. But tell me something. Are you happy?"

"Is anyone ever really happy?"

"You sound like an artist to me."

Hogan!

Donna needs the yellow pie to take a stranglehold on the game. She roles. Damn! A six. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. She grins a contented serial-killer grin.

I slip the card from its box. I snap the card a couple of times. Fwap. Fwap. The grin fades. Beads of perspiration form on her upper lip. I flutter my lashes coyly.

"Who headed the Gestapo?" I ask.

"Colonel Klink," she answers.

The game continues.

Watch your step

Hey! Watch it asshole! Where the fuck did you learn how to drive? Film school? This ain't the fuckin' French Connection pal!

Outdoor room service

They want to make it illegal for the homeless to sleep on the street. Or in parks and such. They say all these folks and agencies trying to help are only providing "outdoor room service" (how fuckin' clever) and "enabling" the homeless to "continue living a life of poverty and despair."

Following my long-standing tradition of agreeing with the majority, I agree. As such, for the betterment of our fair city, I propose the immediate internment of the following:

• Bums, winos, vagabonds and vagrants
• Smokers
• Pit bull owners
• Anyone who dares cut down a tree on their own property
• The gender-challenged, gender-confused and gender-biased (different camps, 'natch)
• Spitters
• Cursers
• Folks who don't like hockey
• Estonians

We will create the perfect city -- where everyone can pretend to care about health issues while driving their fat kids around in SUVs.