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.