Thanks for not asking

Every year, without fail, the media hits the streets during heat waves to ask people what they think of them. Here’s what I think: It’s summer and during this time, it tends to get hot. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that how it always is? They’ll hit public pools and outdoor patios to get the inside story on what this heat really means to people. You'll hear things like, “Yep, I’m gonna hit the pool” or "thank goodness for patios!” This is not news. This is a season. The same thing happens during winter. “What do you think of the current cold spell? “ Hmmmmmmm? It’s winter. There’s no scoop or inside details to be found. The seasons have changed and now it’s cold. This happens every fucking year. End of story. We don’t need candid interviews so we can better understand the three centimetres of snow that fell last night. So stop it you uninspired bastards. Get back to things that really matter. Like what celebs are sporting cellulite around the pool this year. Now that's news.

What’s with my hairline?

Why does it insist on flirting with my eyebrows? When will this seemingly endless game end? Just connect with them already! It’s been 35 years in the making. Take the plunge. Those 4 millimetres have been holding on to dear life for far too long. It’s time for them to retire. Hairline: Meet my eyebrows. Let’s consummate this relationship once and for all. Do it. The masquerade is over.

Ova here?

I was surrounded by stereotypes while walking in New York’s little Italy last week. Short, pudgy, greasy haired Italian restaurant hosts outside every restaurant selling the virtues of their food while ending every sentence with “ova here”. “You gonna lova our pasta, it’s a like mama used to make. In fact, it's mama who’s making it. She’s ina the back, slaving over some handmade gnocci…..ova here” After such a heart wrenching sales pitch, I loved answering with complete disinterest. “No thanks,” I’d say and walk away. But they’d follow, throwing their arms in the air, proclaiming that I had insulted them by not looking at the menu. It was a strange feeling having a last name that has anything to do with what I saw and heard. They were begging for my money using demeanor and attitude that would be at home in a scene from Goodfellas. I was with three people who have no connection to Italy and I must say that I was a little embarrassed. Da vinci. Michaelangelo. Hell, Sophia Loren. For that night, they were all trumped by a guy name Vinnie who whores out his mom and his culture to sell spinach-filled ravioli. Ova here.

Royal Traditions

Watching from afar and by accident it was clear to me that the royal wedding was an absolute exercise in full-on bullshit. Why do we care about these people? Why is royalty even something we entertain or condone in this day and age? And is it me or is the inbreeding glaringly obvious? I mean look at Prince Charles’ ears. I bet you his fingers are like yard sticks.

What I really get a kick out of is the non-stop array of trivial traditions that precede almost everything. The white gloves shall remain on until the horse is dismounted. Said gloves shall be placed in a box and handed to a guy in a strange outfit. He will walk four paces to the left and not look anyone in the eye.  Elder statesmen will carry swords. The queen will send you a letter if she accepts your desire to have tea with her. The white gloves will still be in the box. A separate pair of white gloves will also be in a box in case the others prove to be faulty. You will arrive in a gold carriage. Ask permission before you step out. Just do it. It’s tradition.  Do not look at the box containing the white gloves. Wave. Wave some more. But without the gloves. They’re still supposed to be in the box. Wait for the queen to approach you. Take six steps forward, outreach your hand, have her take it. She will push you away when she’s done. Why? Because it’s tradition. And because she’s an asshole.  Now, finally, take the white gloves out of the box, drop your knickers and wipe your ass with them. 

MJ Clipped His Toenails

I admit to being a Michael Jackson fan.  He was my introduction to being a fan of anything. Now that he’s gone, I’m still on the fence about his guilt regarding the allegations made against him. But one other thing that I can’t help but think about is how weird it would be to see him do anything normal. Alarmingly enough, I find it easier to visualize him seducing a child than brushing his teeth.  That skeletal, ghost-like veneer just doesn’t lend itself to say, peeling an orange or applying deodorant. Can you see him doing everyday things? Just like everyone, he switched his pillow to the colder side in bed at night. He farted. He burped. He may have even picked what was left of his nose. Although all normal things, I still find it easier to visualize feeding an 8-year-old wine. In his younger years, things like putting on a pair of socks would not seem strange at all, but in what I will call “the ghoul” years, it would look comedic. Almost frightening. Oh well.  He’s gone and we’ll never know whether he was innocent or not. Or how it looked when he clipped his toenails.

It's just hair

Why do razor ads have to be so prolific? Words like “maximum” or “mach 5” are tossed around like nobody’s business. It’s as if these technological wonders are fulfilling some innate need for advanced facial hair removal. Like we’ve all been waiting and biding our time for the next razor breakthrough. I have never paid so much attention to a shave. But in these ads, the guy always seems so pleased with how proficient his hair removal skills are. His girlfriend – usually looking on adoringly – is also impressed by his smooth, ultra, turbo, science-infused shave. Seems to me like they’re marketing to 10-year old boys. “Oh look, big words and flashy stuff. It’s like a rocket ship! I want to shave with a rocket ship. I’m going to buy this razor because it reminds me of a rocket ship.” It doesn’t work on me. I have a beard.  It’s a statement. I’m shunning the rocket ship. Your hair removal revolution will have no place in my bathroom. Who am I kidding? Rocket ships are super neat. Super-duper neat. Yeah, I said it.

He definitely didn’t see me coming.

So yesterday I was waiting for the bus with a considerable crowd of people. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a blind man with one of those sticks they use, rapidly approaching. He seemed in control as he effortlessly made his way toward me. Oh no prob I thought. He’ll veer away when he needs to. Wrong. Within seconds, I had his “poker” rattling between my legs.  I had to jump over it to avoid falling. The 5-second exchange felt like an eternity. Was I about to be tripped by a blind man? The irony was too pronounced for me to even see it as a possibility.  In the end, I managed to avoid falling. He apologized and went on his way with razor sharp accuracy I might add.  His stick glided past everyone else's legs with ease. Apparently, my gams don't register with blind folk. What's next? Will I find myself being told to shut up by a deaf man? I wouldn't be surprised.

No. Not a deaf man. Instead, while nestled between 15 passengers on the bus, a man not 5cm from me  decided that it was the perfect time to start whistling. It was one of those moments, much like almost being tripped by a blind man, that you just can’t prepare for. So I said nothing, which for me is a revelation, as I tend to seek out confrontation whenever and wherever it presents itself. No. This time I decided to endure his coffee-and-timbit-soaked melodies until I reached my destination.  I got there halfway through his rendition of "Holiday" by Madonna. I kid you not. It would be so nice my ass. 

Manhandled

I only write when something – an idea or thought - presents itself to me naturally. That hasn’t happened for some time. But today, inspiration hit me in the most unexpected way: through a giant set of transsexual man hands. Let me explain. I get my hair cut at a place down the street and it’s usually a crapshoot in terms of who ends up styling my coif. Completely random. So I threw caution to the wind and let fate make my decision for me.  As luck would have it, I ended with an Asian transsexual with hands that made my head feel like a pool ball. These were mitts. Baseball mitts. And every snip brought more attention to her meaty gloves. The scissors literally disappeared into the never-ending sea of flesh. My head thrashed recklessly. With my eyes closed, I swore it could have been Wilt Chamberlain behind the chair. It’s all I could think about.  In fact, I’m still thinking about it. My haircut is a constant reminder of the ruthless manhandling I endured not 3 hours ago.  Then came the shampoo after the cut.  It was miraculous. With one “palming” she could scrub every inch of my head. Efficient? You bet she was. Convincing in her transition? Not so much. 

Make mine a moist one

So what’s with Coors Light owning cold? Is this not the most underachieving brand proposition of all time? Any beer can be cold. In fact, any “thing” can be cold. Put it in the fridge and viola, it’s cold.  While other beers celebrate their brewing tradition or the quality of their ingredients, Coors has decided to tell the world that their beer reacts favourably to your fridge. It’s like a frozen pizza company puffing out their chests about how hot their pizza gets if you put it in the oven. Or a clothing company boasting about how their t-shirts get incredibly dry. “Hey man. Let’s go grab some Coors. I’ve heard they get really, really, really cold. Can’t wait to pop a few in the fridge to see what happens. Oh, we’re drinking cold beer tonight let me tell you”. Maybe I should start my own beer company and make my point of difference the fact that my beer is wetter than other beers. The wettest beer around. I mean this stuff is wet.

Short, curly and mysterious.

I can’t believe how many times I’ve encountered pubes in strange and unexpected places.  I’ve lost count.  On the subway.  My desk at work. Boardrooms. Coffee shops.  The list is endless. But the one short and curly rendez vous that will always stand out in my mind took place at an advertising portfolio show I was involved in a few years back. One of those things where creatives look at aspiring students’ portfolios to offer guidance or spirit-crushing insight into their complete lack of talent. After looking at an endless line-up of books, I landed on one that stood out from the rest. It was arresting. Mind blowing. And life altering. Not because of its conceptual brilliance or artistic flair. No. What captured my imagination and attention was the single pube that had somehow fallen in between one of the ads and the plastic covering. Not only was it there, but by chance, the ad it was pressed against just happened to be white and laid out in a way that brought attention to it. As we both looked at the ad, and took in the pube, silence fell over us. I fell into a trance. How was I to give feedback under these circumstances? She saw it. I saw it. WE SAW IT! Do I bring it up or leave it alone? It’s staring right at us. The tension is unbearable. I’ll just turn that page. She knows this interview is over. No matter how brilliant her work may have been, it’s been tainted.  Haunted by a short and curly. I could make a joke about it but I think that’d make it worse. I’ll pretend I didn’t see it. The 15 seconds of uncomfortable silence definitely says that I have. She knows. I know. The pube knows. This story’s over.  Next portfolio show I’ll be sure to advise students to do a thorough pube- check before finalizing their portfolio.  You don't want to make a first impression with a short and curly.

Leave our teeth alone

While walking through Kensington market today, I saw many things. Many strange things. But the most bizarre encounter of the day was what can only be described as a hipster dental office. I kid you not. The sign looked all ironic. The work of a giant hipster asshole, no doubt. The clientele looked like members of Broken Social Scene. It was a sea of messy hair, skinny jeans and snarky, sarcastic glares. I could not believe it. Do hipsters have to infiltrate everything? So instead of intentionally looking dirty and messy are they going to get their hipster dentist to fuck up their teeth, but in a way that looks like they didn’t do it on purpose?  Maybe the hygienists with break into spontaneous burlesque shows or pillow fights.  The fluoride might come in crazy, out there flavours like pink popcorn. This way, the hipster patients will have ample fodder for their post appointment hipster conversation.  They’ll also make it open 24 hours a day. That’s so different. Another conversation piece they can bring up. Right after they tell everyone about the Ethiopian meal they had last night. The dental office was actually closed but I bet you it sucks as much as I think it does.

A five without an answer...

I think high fives are ridiculous. Low tens are just absurd. But, I will admit to offering my hand up a few times over the years – mostly during my hockey playing days when the alternative was an ass slap or god forbid, a ball-shaving. The most amusing thing I’ve taken away from the whole thing are the times when the high five is not returned because the person being propositioned did not see the gesture. The incredible seconds in which the person with their hand in the air just lingers, not quite knowing what to do. They know that others have seen their attempt at a high five.  All eyes are on them. It must be a very lonely time. I love seeing the person standing alone, sheepishly moving their hand, desperately hoping that their efforts do not go unnoticed. Seconds pass. Ten. Then 20. They have to do something.  I’ve actually seen people pretend that they were in fact fixing their hair or itching their scalp to cover up the failed high five. Futile. Everyone saw the boyish exuberance in their eyes as they raised up their hand. It’s no use.  Lower your hand and put it in your pocket. Because the only thing worse than a high five is one that’s unanswered. An unanswered low ten? Well you’ve just opened Pandora’s box.

A mistake for a name

I often wonder about the name “Anfernee". It belongs to a basketball player named Anfernee Hardaway. Now I have to think this was a mistake on his mother’s part. I’ll assume that she meant to name him Anthony. It’s the first and only instance that I’ve seen of a name being so radically misunderstood. Anfernee must know the deal. He’s grown up and seen the name Anthony. I wonder if he just doesn’t have the nerve to change for fear of insulting his mom? Jesus. It's his cross to bear. He's the one walking around with a huge mistake for a first name. The hell with her. Change it to Anthony, Anfernee. Do it.

Torontonians would throw sticks

The unrest in Egypt has brought many things to light. But what's stuck with me the most is something that I always notice when I see clips of Middle Eastern protests: The abundance of rocks to throw. They seem to be everywhere. No one is ever empty handed. Are the streets simply lined with throwing-sized rocks? Do the protestors gather and collect rocks before the protest? I don't think so. I’ve seen them grab the rocks in haste on a whim. They’re just lying there. In Toronto, during a protest, I’d spend 45 minutes looking for a rock to throw. “Oh that’s it. I’m gonna throw a rock at you. Stay right there. Don’t move. I’m coming back with a rock. Oh and I’m gonna throw it at you. Stay there. I’ll be back as soon as I can. With a rock. I promise. You're getting a rock thrown at you. Count on it. I said stay there."Toronto is more of a stick-tossing town. You heard it here first.

Names that are better than mine…

Drift Sugarbush, Kurt Pomelgranate, Jiff Prailine, Fran Calgary, Terry Popcorn, Trent Hennessy, Hank Blackman, Crust Hargrove, Dale Clydesedale, Blaine Licorice, Zack Wooble, Bob Canary, Deaner “The Muffman” Arlington, Stink Pilkington, Stan Velvetine, Haily Nuthatch, Yogi Barrington, Kenny Cheesemonger, Oliver Wetsphot, Jeffy Buttertart, Larry Horsefeather, Monty Butterbean, Anfernee Waldorf, Ernie Butterscotch, Nancy Noodle, Bobby “Stink Finger” Coltrane, Gary Fantasia, Bert Narnia, Holly Turtletide, Jesus Peterson, Kenny Cookiepuss.

Christmas Cheer

I can’t seem to recapture the interest I once had in the holidays. I look into things too much now. I used to hear Bing Crosby and think, “Oh what a nostalgic little ditty”. Now I hear it and think, Hmmm, it was the 50s. Domestic abuse was certainly not the norm, but it was much more of an “accepted” way to keep June Cleaver in line.  Is it therefore possible that after Bing belted out the final lines of White Christmas, he swigged back some JD and beat the crap out of his wife? Maybe. Was Burl Ives a racist?  He narrated a Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer – a tale that defines segregation – what does that say about his character? Look how they ostracized Rudolph over the color of his nose. They might as well have burnt a cross outside Santa’s workshop. Put it together.  Burl Ives: White snowman cartoon....grand dragon of the KKK. Hello? Then there’s the little drummer boy.  Lured by three “wise” men to a barn in the middle of nowhere? I mean really.  These guys would be in jail if they did that today.  And they'd probably travel in a white panel van, have thin moustaches and tinted glasses. How convenient that this drummer boy had no family to come looking for him. Something tells me that one of the wise men was probably carrying chloroform. 

Doubt without benefit

I don’t like people. I try to, but time and time again, I can’t. I don’t mean everyone. Just about 91% of the population. Just when I think I’m developing a soft spot for humans, somebody open mouth coughs on me, repeatedly on the subway.  Then a white kid calls his friends “his n$$gers”. Then a 13-year-old tells her dad to talk to the hand if he can’t handle the Usher song that’s playing while she tries on $400 riding boots. Then an 18-year-old in designer jeans holds a Greenpeace bulletin board in front of me to point out my carbon footprint. Then some DJ named “The Crocodile” tells me how zany he is in between horrendous pop songs. Then a celebrity interrupts my day to tell me how charitable they are. Then some homeless guy who abandoned his family and drank himself into a stupor gets a free pass because he has a golden voice. Then I hear someone who makes four times as much money as I do say the word “like” 15 times in 45 seconds. Then I see an ad for Jersey Shore and realize that it’s a particularly embarrassing time to have an Italian last name. Then I see a facebook post stating that someone has “ one more sleep” until something. Good god. Then I see a spoiled 15-year-old, dressed in a black, wearing a top hot talking about how melancholy he is. Then I realize that some Soccer mom from Cheektowaga thought it was a good idea to name my dog a “Goldendoodle”. Doodle? Then an asshole in an expensive car cuts me off because he has an expensive car and an impossibly small penis. Then the doorman that clearly sees me pretends he doesn’t so I have to drop my 8 grocery bags and search for my condo fob. Then a group of upwardly mobile business guys practice fake golf swings in the elevator. Then some hipster describes something as being “dope”. Then I hear a Creed song. Then I remember that The Barenaked Ladies exist. That’s the tipping point. Chinese chickens my ass.

Pretending to make a living

Believe it or not, there is a Toronto School of Puppetry. Actual schooling for something toddlers do,with ease, on a whim. Can you imagine breaking that news to your parents? That you have chosen to forego the whole university thing to stick your hand up a make believe pal of yours named Mr. Pop Tarts. What’s your son up to these days? Well, he and his l’il pal Mr. Pop Tarts are just beginning their second semester. I was worried about the workload, but that little felt fucker really has his back. I couldn’t even imagine telling someone that I’m a puppeteer. It’s comparable to saying you will never see a woman naked again because you make a living making this li’l pretend clown dance and sing. Or play an imaginary lute if you’re really good.

Your future is literally in your hands. He, she or it is your l’il business partner. That little fucker puts bread on your table with his silly little antics. Have you no shame? How can you look into his beady little eyes? You disgust me. And Mr Pop Tarts.  You’re not worthy of being inside of him. Asshole. 

Dead cats under the couch. Tonight at 10

I think we’ve reached a new level of exploitation. Never mind violence, nudity and whatever the hell Jerry Springer decides to crap out. Mental illness is the new kid in town. Namely, Hoarding, a debilitating form of OCD that makes people unable to throw anything out. The result? Filthy, incredibly cluttered homes. So bad, that in many cases, it’s not uncommon to find dead cat or animal under a pile of 25-year-old magazines.

Does this certified, debilitating mental illness deserve a weekly timeslot? A one time special seems more suitable. Are we that desperate to feel better about ourselves that we need to watch others struggle just to maintain a household? I admit to watching it a few times. Initially, it was interesting.  It made me feel better about myself. Specifically my apartment. Dirty dishes? Who cares? It’s not like there’s a dead cat underneath them or anything.  Laundry? No dead cat. It can wait. And that dust on the TV stand? Talk to me when a cat dies on top of it. Moving on.

So yes, I too used their misfortune as an excuse to be lazy.  But then I thought, why not feature other mental illnesses that can make us feel better about our other insecurities. Like schizophrenics for instance. Jump to the wrong conclusion? No prob. At least you don’t think the government is actually a group of highly intelligent three-toed sloths that talk in whispers, wear acid wash trench coats and report to Gary Busey. You’re fine.

Or how about turrets syndrome? You’d feel better about anything you say after watching an episode. Put your foot in your mouth? No prob. At least you didn’t yell “ Pussy Fart” fifteen times at the top of your lungs at a funeral home. All is good.

Yes. We love watching of other people struggle. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. Ideally, all three. So where do we go from here? Maybe we should have a channel devoted to real-life married couples with horrible sex lives. Or a one-hour sitcom that’s just a guy, sitting in a shitty apartment drinking himself into a stupor. Followed by a reality-based show that features a 450lb man who, on a weekly basis,  engulfs multiple roast chickens until he cries himself to sleep. Mmm. Chicken. 

Incontinence is cool

 I saw an ad for Depends today. Not the usual old woman struggling to get through her day. In this beautiful piece of communication, the ad actually attempted to make shitting your pants cool. The spot features a 40-something, good-looking black hipster going about his day. Yes 40-something.  As he goes from one thing to another, shots of the diaper he’s wearing flash on the screen every so often, reminding us that while he’s checking out some tunes on his iPod, he just might be shitting his pants. Off to the flower shop.  He buys some tulips for his girlfriend. And again, as he stands there, we know there’s a good chance he’s crapping himself.  It’s anyone’s guess, really.  Next he’s catching a bus and, as you may have guessed, possibly dropping off the kids in his designer jeans. 

So whose brilliant strategy was this? Ya know Bob, shitting yourself has taken a second stage for too long.  It’s time to break out of the norm and speak to a new generation. A generation of people that like their music hard, their hair messy and their incontinence cutting edge.

I’m not really laughing out loud

Or rolling on the floor laughing. I’m just saying it. I may crack a smile or chuckle a bit, but for the most part, it’s never audible.  It’s just a pleasantry. Like saying “how are you” when you really just want to keep on walking.  I hope to actually lol one of these days so this intricate and deceptive game I’ve been playing can finally end. The lies are catching up with my conscience.  And as far as rolling on the floor while laughing is concerned, that hasn’t happened either.  I mean picture it. Imagine me, in front of my computer finding something so funny and amusing that I actually launch myself onto the ground in a fit of giggles. It seems like a great ode to your sense of humour but again, I’m afraid I’ve been lying about that too. My apologies to all those I have hurt in this tireless parade of falsehoods I’ve been spreading all over facebook.

Talk it down.

Ah the phantom boner. An unexplained erection experienced by 12-14 year olds the world over. One second you’re taking in a geometry lesson and the next you’re sporting full wood. For no reason. It just happened. And for me, quite often. The timing was always horrible too. Like right at the end of class or just as it was my turn to present something. But you learn to cope. You talk it down in your head. Bea Arthur naked. Bea Arthur naked with Nell Carter. Bea Arthur naked with Nell Carter and Nat from Facts of Life throwing up on each other. Whatever it took to coax it down. If that failed, loose fitting track pants coupled with a strategic walk could also hide the culprit. Or you simply sat at your desk with a suspicious look on your face while everyone else left.

I’m thankful that this phenomenon has not followed me into my thirties. Presenting to a client with a hard on is definitely a career game changer. “Hey honey. They let me go. Got a boner while presenting our annual report. Should have worn my track pants”. Tee hee. I said “boner”.

Fox Hole Feng-Shui

The fact that don’t ask don’t tell has been up for debate for so long amongst the homophobic right wing in the states is indeed another indication of their sheer stupidity.  If they are as anti-gay as they claim, doesn’t it make more sense to encourage homosexuals to not only enlist, but to take the riskiest positions on the front line? The most dangerous of roles. – the ones where death is most probable.

I mean it’s clear that along with the inherent danger associated with war, the homosexual will also be a danger to himself, just by being homosexual.  The time and effort put into adding feng-shui to fox holes will be a huge distraction. Scented candles they’ll use to jazz up the bunker will tip off Al Qaeda.  And if that doesn’t, the Bette Midler blaring in the background certainly will.

So c’mon Limbaugh. Loosen your cowboy hat.  Think about it. Opportunity is staring you in the face. Put down your burning cross and seize the moment. Oh and if you don’t see the sarcasm in this, you are either stupid or a Republican. Oh wait, those things are mutually exclusive. Never mind.