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.