The Torch Goes To The Rainbow

Are gay friends replacing the coveted black friend for insecure, hipster, white people?  From what I have seen, the answer is yes.  

So the torch has been passed from black to gay. If this is the case, is a hipster’s ultimate accessory a gay black friend? That must be a huge score.  An- all- you- can- proclaim- buffet of "Hey look how Liberal I am!" All wrapped up in one friend. 

This year alone I have witnessed at least six people proudly proclaiming the existence of gay people in their circle of friends. In each case, it had nothing to do with what we were talking about. “Yeah, I’m gonna take it easy this weekend”.  I have gay friends that also like to take it easy on weekends, too”.  I had always assumed that gay people liked to relax, but the reassurance was nice. No wonder Liberace always looked so well rested. 

Looking For Ugly People

As a copywriter, casting is something I do quite often. And I am fortunate enough to be in the kind of role where what we're looking for just magically appears after we specify what we're looking for. But I've often wondered, how do people send out a request for weird/ugly looking people?

The search must entail  words like "different"or original. But deep down, the ones that show up know the deal. They have accepted their lack of facial symmetry and are cashing in. Good for them.

Years of ridicule will never be erased. But a nice fat pay check for having a mule-like profile is better than nothing.

Talking With My Hands Full

There's a strange breed of man out there. Guys who insist on initiating conversation while I'm pissing. Full on conversations while we're both holding our junk.

A nod hello or ideally, goodbye, is fine. But a full on conversation while we're coddling our birds is just a bit on the fucked up side. To me at least.

Maybe I'll rock the boat a bit and start up some friendly chatter while taking a dump. I can either yell from the stall to someone using the urinal or simply address the person beside me if there is one.

(Grunt) "So, how's your (grunt) morning going so far? SFX: Horrible Korean Food Aftermath. "Nice day out there. (Grunt).

This is actually more civilized when you think about it. At least there's physical separation between the two participants.

Just last week I witnessed to coworkers talking business in the washroom long after they'd finished what they came to do. Surely one of the boardrooms is a more suitable venue. Nice view. State of the art technology. And, most importantly, no recently unleashed fecal fumes.

I blame the Fonz. He held court in the shitter for over a decade on Happy Days.  As a result, a generation of men think this purely functional place is a reasonable place to socialize.

Maybe I'll open a chain of coffee shops where specialty coffees, good conversation and the option to hold your dong exist together, in harmony. I will call it  "The Bean Shaft".

The Dr Scholl's Girl

Was the skin tag the first of many imperfections she publicly pointed out? Is this behaviour learned? Do her parents walk up to people with physical abnormalities and ask what's the deal is with those blackheads? Will she walk up to strangers with clubbed feet and ask the same, loud and brash questions of them? There should be a follow up to the initial skin tag commercial where the girl who asked the question is shamed in a public place by someone with a skin tag. Or forced to swim in a pool full of skin tags. Then and only then will the stars be realigned.

Mother Nature Used To Be A Whore

 As a young, impressionable boy, the female body, more specifically, “boobies” held an almost mythical status to 95% of my friends. The remaining 5% are now prominent window dressers throughout the GTA, which is both completely fine and, from what I understand, quite profitable.  But back to boobies. It was the mid-eighties search for the elusive nipple that defined a generation. My generation. We started with National Geographic, moved on to a friend’s dad’s stash or, if blessed by the carnal gods, stumbled upon a pile of filth inside a log or under a rock in a forest.

Forest porn.  A phenomenon that I once thought was exclusive to my hometown.  But through careful research, I now know that this treasure hunt for Hustler and Jugs magazines occurred throughout Canada.  For some untold reason, it seems people, at some point, decided that the appropriate place to house their porn was in fact, amongst the trees. Was this a guilty impulse? A kid claiming his father’s collection as his own? Or, more likely, the work of a forest sprite that complemented his rope belt with a hairy palm? In any case, at some Mother Nature became the unofficial muff diving hot spot.  If, of course, you were one of the few lucky eight to  thirteen year olds who bumped into a moss-covered pile of passion. My search continues.