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.