Vulgar Joke Of The Day

I’m so poor I use pubic hair for floss.

The Party

I drove past a house today.

This in itself has no special meaning. We’ve past by hundreds upon hundreds (if not thousands) of houses. They are mere structures. Just a collection of (sometimes decaying) brick and wood. Some have gardens that have not been tended to. Some have disheveled front porches and lawns. Some look unwelcoming and others all too willing to invite us in for a cup of tea.

All, every single one of them and whatever form, possess their own private histories. Have you ever sat in a park or taken a walk and wondered about the life of a person you witness entering their home? Once they insert the key and walk in what is the course of their history?

You have to actually stop and think to wonder about such things.

That was the case today with the house I drove by. Growing up, it belonged to a casual friend of mine. He wasn’t a close friend (he was one year older) but we were close enough thanks to a solid bedrock of mutual friends. His friends were my friends and vice-versa which made us blood-brothers of sorts.

Many of us were in the sports fraternity. He played hockey. I played soccer. We each played both sports. I think we may have even been on the same broom ball team.

One year, he decided he was going to throw the a big party. It was by invitation only. The surest way to ensure only the cool and desired were to show up. Build demand. Make entry scarce. That’s the secret to a great party. At 16 he understood this.

For days people were anxious. They wanted to be invited. Speculation was at a fever pitch. “I hear so and so is not invited!”

Oh, the horror! Reputations were going to be made or broken on this night.

I wasn’t sure about whether I was going to make the cut. I always lived life with one simple motto: “You never know. And I certainly don’t know much.”

We all knew who the “sure bets” were and who the “outsiders” were. But what of all those in the middle? Those people who teetered between cool and not cool?

I’ve always held a close affinity for the “alternatives.” The quirky if you will. I would find girlfriends in most unlikely places. A few times I am proud to say, I uncovered gems not appreciated by the masses.

One girl I dated was so below the radar screen I had to present her to my friends while she was on the cat walk for a fashion show. I’ll never forget my buddy’s face when I pointed to her. I hear she became “Miss Philippines” for the local chapter years later. But for one shining night we both looked like stars as we walked out of the school after the show.

I always felt uncomfortable for the forgotten. Not that I did anything about it. Sometimes I did turn a blind eye when a person was unfairly picked on. But other times I would offer a word of encouragement. To let them know I wasn’t like the others.

For some reason, even the tough guys saluted me in the morning. I guess I just knew how to tread that murky line.

Lucky me.

The day he methodically handed out the invitations the school was tense – more than the day of final exams.
The school bell rang. I hadn’t received mine. We lived nearby each other and shared the same bus ride home. There, he handed the remaining invitations. Verbally. He looked to my gang and said, “Hey, see you guys at the party. Alessandro, I hear you popped two goals the other day on that bad knee.”

“I did.”

“Sandro is the best soccer player with no future!” one of my buddy’s shouted. Everyone laughed.

With that, we enjoyed the rest of the ride home.

I made the cut.

The conversation went on in the bus. “Mirella is seeing Rob,” I was told by a friend.

That surprised me. Mirella was one of those smart, elegant girls. Way wiser than her years. She used to fix all my mistakes in Grade Six to skew my grade in my favour. I had a crush on her but never acted on it. She once asked me to dance to “Ripples” by Genesis in junior high. Like a fool, I refused. Too immature to accept a dance.

I found out years later she had a crush on me too. A missed opportunity for love.

What was relief for somes was internal grief (I can only surmise) for others. The kids who didn’t get invited looked straight away.

The night of the party we all hung out at my place until it was time to go. I was anxious to see who Mirella was dating. When I saw him I was disappointed in her choice. I didn’t know she liked big dumb, guys with a penchant for violence.

But that was nothing to what I witnessed later. One of the so-called nerds who lived just down the street crashed the party. It was a loud night so probably at the insistence of his parents he decided to pass by. Why not? Nobody would dare send someone back home?

People were moving in and out of the house. The part was as much outside as it was inside. There was no flow or any way to keep tabs of who was there. It was a good gamble on his part.

Sadly, he was told to leave. I couldn’t believe it. He quietly turned around and went home. What went through his mind? What did he tell his parents? What happened stayed with me for a long time. I was helpless. I had no leverage to persuade the powers that be to have him enjoy the night.

It turns out, the party wasn’t all that great. It was just a loud mess.

Mirella left early and so did I.

I looked in my review mirror and continued on home.

The Diner of Insomnia

My orbs are tired, man. But there’s no use in staying in. The Diner calls for me. I hear the sullen sounds of the streets. I’m not surprised to ever happen on a sundry of personalities at this time of night.

A parliament of human owls has descended on this famous night diner. No one really knows each other. Talking is rare. Only to ask for a cigarette or give an order do our voices fill the room.

I sit at a counter with strangers. The counter is the perfect cover. All these minds….lost….why are we here at this moment? She calls herself Minnie Minerva and she’s cute. I’ve been coming in here for months and I found out last night what her name was.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes and giggles. “Him?”

“Watch him.”

The man is dressed in professional attire and places a briefcase on the table and begins to lay out some papers. He shuffles them around and glances at his watch.

I am distracted by the television for a few moments.

Then, I hear him call out to Minnie. “Please hold all my calls” he tells her.

Hold my calls? I wonder to myself.

“Will do, Charles,” she answers.

I look at her confused.

She smiles.

A picture of a family suddenly appears. He lays down a phone…with no phone line.

I’m beginning to understand.

Minnie comes over and leans on the counter and says, “It takes all kinds.”

I look back at the man.

“See that couple over there?”

“The old couple?” I ask.

“They come in every night at midnight. They order the same thing each time – bagels. He takes blueberry jam while she opts for cream cheese. After the finish eating they doze off sitting up for exactly 3o minutes. At which point I have their dessert ready.”

“How come I never noticed them?”

“Because you weren’t paying attention. You’re so absorbed in your thoughts that all you see are shadows.”

The place empties out a little. We say nothing.

Until she breaks the silence. “You know, tramps like us….”

I stare out into the darkened serenity of the night. The street lights reflect from the wet ground. “My piano is out of tune and this cat is hungry,” I tell her.

She knows me somehow. “Let it ride its course. Dipsa’s are unseen until it is too late. The trick is to avoid its bite,” she tells me.

I have no clue what she means.

I ask for the Diner Special.

Well Worth the Faint

A marvelous blue sky clashed poetically with my off-white linen attire. The sand never felt softer as it comfortably formed itself under the soles of my feet. Walking along the shore, I observed that the water was much calmer than it was the previous day. Cool and assertive, it therapeutically surrounded my ankles. Wind and air were the next elements. This time, it was the contours of my face that benefited. My feet, ankles and face were all being seduced by earth’s finest elements. What could make this dream fresco perfect? Caravaggio painting the scene? I settled for the next best thing. A scantily dressed sensual lady showed herself as she jumped into my arms. I was set.

With one eye open I could see a thick blanket of frost had designed itself on the window of my bedroom. “Dreams can be so cruel,” I thought aloud as I clamored out of bed.

The second my foot hit the wood floor, my knee reminded me it was indifferent to the sultry dream I had about a sexy girl, sand, water and air. It was damaged and no amount of natural voodoo hocus-pocus was about to fix them.

After many weeks of ignoring the truth, it had become glaringly apparent to me that it was time to go under the knife. Screw the naturopath who told me that it was unnatural to heal the body by cutting it open. All kooky, spooky crazy-talk. She did not have to live with a bad knee. Conventional medicine beckoned!

The day I left for the doctor, as I sat like a bump on a log in the examining room, my mind was occupied by the fact that I was being yanked out of regular school and sent to prep school. I wasn’t a very reliable student. Just as I was about to pull out an apple from my pocket, the doctor walked in. He was tall, thin and red-haired.

He asked two questions and said, “That’s an ACL tear.”

“What’s an ACL?” I meekly asked.

“You’re anteriour cruciate ligament. You see, the ligaments that run…” I tuned out – maybe prep school was the right thing to do – as he began to rub his knuckles together to explain how the ACL functions.

“Oh.”

“Let’s check you out.”

He took my leg and placed it between his arm and chest and began to push and bend the leg towards me.

“Feel that?”

“Yes.”

“That’s your ACL giving way,”

My decision to go ahead with the long and difficult process of repairing my knee was an unfortunate one. As the old adage reminds, once knees are opened up they are never the same again, or something like that.

Nonetheless, if I wanted any shot at an active life the knee had to be sliced open, stapled and stitched.

I tried every way to weasel my way out of it. I asked the specialist if it could be rehabilitated through physiotherapy.

That sound you hear is the exaggerated laugh of my doctor.

Once he regained his composure he said curtly, “No. Judging by my examination it’s completely torn.” That was that. More impressively, he accurately deduced – as it turned out – all this without the benefit of a MRI, which weren’t used back then.

I was 18 years old and already washed up. A has-been before it ever began. So much for the big leagues. My talents were not to grace a soccer pitch for a long time – if ever.

A lot of stuff happened from the time the doctor confirmed I had a torn ACL until the surgery wearing those girly gowns – including eight other knee injuries.

I had a choice of a full anesthetic or an epidural.

“What’s the difference? I asked.

“Under a full anesthetic you are asleep throughout the surgery. With an epidural we freeze from the waist down. You can witness the whole thing,” the doctor explained. I decided to go for the epidural. Ring side seats to my own repair. All I was missing were some peanut M&M’s.

“Ok, Alessandro. Here we go. It’s the right knee,” the doctor tells the nurse.

What? It was the left knee! Is he mad?

“Kidding,” he said. I was not amused by his childish wink.

The anesthesiologist was young and talkative. Reading my chart he asked, “Nicolo? Do you have a sister?”

“I have two.”

“What are their names?”

“Maria and Giovanna.”

“Maria! She went to Laval Catholic High School right?”

“Yes. So did I.”

“Wow. I knew her. She was going out with Joe, right?”

“Yeah. She married him. Not to sound like a smart ass but I’m about to lose a knee here and my ass is exposed.”

“Ha, ha. You’re sister was pretty funny, too. Ok, here’s how this is going to work. I need you to curl up and place your head between your knees. Whatever you do, don’t move. It can cause spinal damage. Ok?”

“Got it.”

I cracked. I looked back. I saw the needle. It was as big as a lobster. I fainted.

“I told you not to look back.”

“I know. Sorry.”

A nurse came over and held my head down. I was now injected.

“Pretty soon you won’t feel a thing.”

“How will I know?”

“You won’t feel your penis,” my doctor interjected.

“Yeah right”

Within minutes he asks, “So, can you contract your penis?”

I tried. Boy did I try. I even burst some capillaries. My eyes turned purple I strained so hard. For some reason my fear entertained the nursing staff. I had no penis and they were laughing at me! What if I never regain feeling!

I began to wonder what life would be like without the use of my penis. Right then and there I secretly began to panic. Alternatively, I always dreamed of making love to a nurse on an operating table. Not today.

“Ok, Alessandro. You can watch the whole thing on the screen up above and to your right. Sit back and relax.”

Relax, Alessandro. Story of my life. It’s a lot easier said than done for some.

Just then he raised my leg. It didn’t look like mine. It was orange and listless as he manipulated it however he saw fit. The iodine made it looked like road kill. I fainted.

“Are you going to be ok?”

“Yeah, no sweat. It’s my first major surgery where I am awake. I’ll be cool.”

“Ok,” the doctor said unconvincingly.

Lying back on my elbows I was sure the worse was over. So I fainted twice. Big deal. Until….

I swear there was blood everywhere. It sprouted out profusely. Like that scene in The Shining where Danny sees the twin girls. A flood of blood buckets. The nurse handed the doctor a tiny square shaped cloth to apply on the incision. I fainted.

I could overhear the doctor say, “Give him a sedative.”

It was just what the doctor ordered. I never felt so composed in my life. I needed more of those pills for my high-strung genetic make-up. I don’t remember much about the surgery but I do remember him pointing to the torn ligament. It looked like a torn Kleenex.

Soon the doctor proclaimed, “That’s it. We’re done.”

I was wheeled into a room. Half awake, I asked for a cheeseburger. I must have dozed off – or fainted – because I sure don’t recall eating it.

A couple of weeks later I visited the doctor to check up on my wound. It was the first time the bandage was going to be removed. The knee felt extremely tight and my leg had been reduced to a mere twig-like limb. He began to remove the bandages. I felt woozy. Finally, he reached the knee. One look was all it took. I fainted.

My mother looked at me as she handed me a glass of water. “You’re such a wuss.”

It took months of rehab, but fixing the knee gave back my athletic life. I was active once again. Psychologically, I’ll never be the same as I still vividly remember how I tore it the first time right through until the 9^th time. There is no doubt that if one plans to lead an active life surgery is a necessity when it comes to the ACL.

When I tore my right knee16 years later it took me seconds to make my decision. On the operating table the anesthesiologist suggested an epidural which was the standard. I chuckled and instructed him to, “Knock me out.” I wanted to get out there with some dignity. Besides, there was a student doctor present. I wasn’t interested in hearing any “Oops.”

I may have even dreamed of that sweet girl as I frolicked with her on the beach.

Needless to say, I didn’t faint.

Tiberious

The weather outside was hot and humid but idyllic nonetheless. Tiberious stood seriously before the corpse with a dash of delightful but detached indifference. Examining the mutilated body intensely, Tiberious allowed his imagination to run circles in his mind.

The inescapable scent of blood filled the air. A blood river that did not know where it was going streamed along the soft ground. His depraved inner thoughts took him into the nether regions of his subconscious. He marveled at how the victim was meticulously cut by the ingenious hand of its perpetrator. What an inglorious act it would be to put such an artist behind bars!

The sweat expunged itself from his forehead down to the side of his face profusely. He wiped his face slowly and rigorously. He shook his head thinking he could jolt himself back into reality. It did for a second but the sudden thought of the terror in the dead stranger’s eyes that remained evident captivated him.

It reminded him of those hazy, lazy days when he used to go fishing alone for mud minnows and stone cats as a kid. It was so peaceful it frightened him to the very core of his dubious existence. He carefully collected his catches. The skeletons of their tiny corpses remained in a jar next to the jam and coriander at home. He recalled the day he saw his first body by the riverbank of his youth, 36 years before. He closed his eyes and smiled lightly.

“Detective. Detective!”

His eyes opened.

“Tibs, are you ready? The Chief wants to see your report about the murder ASAP.”

He took a deep breath, looked at the body one last time and nodded. In the background he could overhear the Chief. “Yes sir. Tiberious is our best investigator.”

Barely turning his head he told his colleague, “I’ll be right over.”

“We’re still on for fish tonight?”

A gleam came to Tibs’ eye.

“Yes. Fish.”

He laughs.

Die, Fishy, Die

With her eyeballs wide open, Greta was watching television on her couch in cold comfort when her balmy existence was turned upside down as the man of the house walked in. Their home was tastefully decorated, it should be mentioned, with a certain artistic panache. He, her lover, friend and husband, glanced over at his dilatory wife. Their eyes met. At that laborious moment they were both overcome, for just a second, by how much they legitimately loathed one another. She gave him a sarcastic smirk as she inelegantly chewed on s’mores and slowly directed her eyeballs to the television set.

He breaks the silence. “Traffic is just getting worse. I was cut off five times today.”

Keep in mind this is all here say. For all we know he cut off six people himself. For the sake of this horrible story we must assume he is telling the truth.

Greta ignored his lament. “I’m having a hard time at work. I may have to quit,” he said with his back turned to her as he walked away. Rather than bite her bitter lips she answered with a blunt remark. ” Well, you’d better shape up ’cause I am not going to live with no deadbeat.” It was then the steam shot out of his salient ears. You could also hear something snapped in him. It sounded like a twig.

“It’s always about you, isn’t it? Never about me!” he sobbed into his hands. “You never cared for me or my dreams!”

His wife met the opening of his heart with a stoic roll of the eyes. “Stop steaming. You’re fogging up the windows.”

“Don’t push me, Greta!”

She did not heed the warning and provoked him with a “What are you going to do?” look. She then added, “You’re weak and you’re pathetic. I shouldn’t even fuck you anymore. I should fuck that friend of yours. Now there’s a real man.”

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Once upon a time they were the most envied couple created out of bigamy among their friends and colleagues. But something disappeared long ago. Time can corrode the best worthless intentions.

Suddenly and without warning, in a moment of natural rage, he took hostage of her fish bowl. The bowl included 3 gold fish and a special little black gold fish called Montgomery. He took whatever he knew she loved.

Writer’s Note: Montgomery was Arnold’s favorite pet black gold fish on Diff’rent Strokes. I don’t know why I chose to honour him. Not Arnold; the fish.

“You always loved this savoury submerged species more than me!” This was clearly a broken man. What man could possibly consider describing goldfish as savoury?

“Honey, p-put the fish down. We can talk this out. But I can’t concentrate with you holding that toothpick!”

“You don’t want to talk. You just want to shut me up. I swear. I’ll stab them one by one.”
“You wouldn’t have the balls you gutless ferry.”

It was a poor diplomatic move on her part. He picked one off clean. It jittered on the stick for a few seconds and died. “Die, fishy, die,” he yelled in a cold sweat. His parents often expressed concern but his German was just fine. Staring at her lifeless fish filled Greta with dread as she screamed in disbelief. She thought about dandelions. She’s always loved dandelions as a child. She also realized that she forgot to thaw sausages for supper.

“I will place their heads before me just as Vlad the Impailer had done,” her husband giggled. It is safe to say that the lascivious part of their lives was now gone.

The absurdity, the horror and madness was too much for Greta to accept. “You will pay. So help me, God.”

“God? God? What do you know about God? Fool! You have no soul. You’re Catholic!”

“And you’re a murderer!” Greta shouted.

“Murderer? Against these pointless things?” He grinned and looked at her. He stabbed another. “They are under the law. No one can convict me of any crime here. It’s not my fault. I will deny everything. No court would rule against me!”

Greta called the police nonetheless. You can hear the laughter on the receiver from where he stood. He looked at her with a satisfactory smile. She came back dejected and with her head bowed. “Please don’t.”

“Things will change ’round here. I want a plane and $200 000. Go to the bank”

She stared at him curiously. ” He yelled, “Now!” “But…” Just then, she realized he was losing his mind. “And bring back some bacon bits!” he bellowed off the top of his lungs,

But what was Greta to do? He was holding fish, of all insignificant things, hostage. He wanted Greta to withdraw his own money from the bank? How will she sign, as it wasn’t even a joint account? Does he even have $200 000?”

The stark brutality of the whole moment was too much for her. She let out a yelp and stuck a toothpick that was used to kill one of the fish in her neck. The blood squirted out but it was not enough to kill her. In her pain, she noticed him talking to the fish. He was now building a castle with some legos. A feeling of faint overcame her. Greta’s face and neck swelled. She was having an allergic reaction! She was suffocating. He scarcely noticed. She fell to the ground…and died! How tragic!

The thump jostled his mind back into reality. He was filled with sudden anguish. ‘But I loved her! Why must you do this God? Why?! I denounce you, damn you!” He killed off every other fish, including Montgomery. “Now to finish this act.”

He quietly turned and left to end his own life discreetly. An existence of eternal pain waited him in hell. Montgomery lay listlessly floating. What was that? Oh my, eggs! Montgomery had been pregnant! A new generation of black goldfish had been hatched among the carnage. Will these fish inherit the madness? Will they be mutant fish who talk and walk? No one will ever know for sure. Unless…..

Red Fury

It has been ordained upon me to convey a story of grand importance to you all. It is a shocking story. A stupid story indeed, but one that needs to be told lest we all make the same mistake. It is a fable about a man, his stuffed peppers and one mean red pepper.

Mitch had been happily perusing the produce section in a local grocery store. He had just been promoted at work and felt like making his favorite meal – stuffed peppers. He was examining and considering a pack of peppers: one orange, one red and two yellow.

Peppers at the time were very expensive. Only the green ones seemed to go on special. But never the other colours. In the pack he saw value and decided to buy them.

“Congratulations, sir! You picked the secret family pack! Smile!”

It was a promotional scam but Mitch didn’t care.

“Here’s your picture.”

He looked at himself holding the peppers and he liked it.

“Your name will go into a grand prize draw at the end of the month!”

He remained oblivious.

He could not keep his eyes off the peppers while they sat in the carriage. The perfect smooth contours and their bright colours excited him. The family of peppers stared back at him.

“Ooo, I could just eat them up now!”

On the way home, he watched the peppers in his rearview mirror. It was a difficult ride for him.

It is obvious at this point during my story that Mitch had an unhealthy obsession with peppers. Who are we to judge?

Carefully, he placed his peppers on the counter. With the precision of atailor he began to weave and cut the top of the peppers. He smelled them with glee.

Normally Mitch cooks four peppers but for some reason on this day he decided on three. He figured he could use the fourth in a salad the next day. He glanced over to the sky, which was orange, and continued to prepare his meal.

Soon he was eating in ecstasy. Later that night he went to bed. He forgot to put the last pepper in the refrigerator. Let this be a lesson to you all. Never leave a pepper to roam free.

The next morning he noticed the pepper was still on the table. He did not realize it had moved three steps to the right from its original position! He was about to wrap it up but the phone rang and distracted him.

“I’ll be right over.”

He grabbed his coat and hat and left in a hurry.

There sat the pepper.

Suddenly and strangely the pepper spoke. “He murdered my family. I shall exact my revenge.”

His tone was fiendishly evil. This pepper was scorned. It looked around the kitchen and noticed an eggbeater. He also spotted some knives, a wooden spoon and a marble rolling pin.

“Any of these will do,” he chuckled.

The pepper moved but fell awkwardly to his side and was angered by what he saw. That is, the half-eaten corpse of his yellow brother. He could barely contain his emotions. He recalled the time when they were picked as a family by the farmer to be packaged off. They thought it was to be the start of something beautiful together. Instead, it ended in debauchery.

“Revenge is a dish best served cold. Not micro-waved,” he said.

Mitch came back home one hour later. Once again, not being attentive, he had not noticed the pepper had moved again. Let this be another lesson. Be alert. Society and nature punishes the dimwitted.

Mitch went to bed that night with an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. He brushed his teeth and removed his pink slippers. He stared into the mirror and wondered. He did not notice the angry red fury of the pepper in the background.

“Damn, those peppers were delicious,” he reminded himself as he jumped into bed.

Minutes past. The pepper waited for his moment.

“Rapid eye movement. REM. When he’s there I will take his life.”

With Mitch in deep sleep, the red pepper quietly and disturbingly began his ascent. He moved up to Mitch’s chin like a rolling kamikaze.

“Hello!” he shouted.

Mitch opened his eyes and was soon engulfed with fear. He began to scream. Like this, “Arghh. Arghhh.”

“W-who are y-you? Wh-what d-d you want?”

The little red pepper mimicked Mitch’s nervous stutter. “S-s-shhh,” he answered with a giggle.

Then, nothing. Blood splattered everywhere as the red pepper furiously cut Mitchell up. The blood could not be distinguished from the red pepper as the two meshed. It was a warped Dali scene.

The little red pepper held Mitch’s heart in his hands. Holding the organ seemed hilarious to him.

The cold knife lay peacefully between Mitch’s eyes. Minced meat and rice was scattered all over the body. The little red pepper looked back at Mitch’s corpse with a smile and a tear as he quietly left the room.

He headed for the kitchen. “I got nothing,” he uttered to himself.

He sat up on the counter and looked straight into the trash compartment in the sink. He looked up for a moment and jumped.

The picture taken at the grocery store lay crumpled on the table.

Beaver Alienation Reaches Puberty

Timmy was standing on the sidewalk holding his father’s hand when out yonder – maybe half a block – a commotion caught his tweenaged attention. Escorted by a parade of police cruisers and motorcycles, the parsimonious but patriotic protesting beavers had come out of the their rivers and taken their grievances to the streets.

“CANADA IS OURS!” read the caption held by one beaver. “We have been used for too long by Canada and we won’t stand for it anymore” explained the head patriarch beaver. “We built every damn dam in this country!”

Timmy looked up at his father. “Oh daddy, why are the beevies doing this? Don’t they know their place?”

“Well, son, sometimes all things must come to an end and it looks like the beavies have had enough.”

Beaver Nation alienation had been growing for some time. Its roots could be found as early as the 1970s when Canada engaged in compassionate social engineering.

The muddled marchers stopped right in front of Timmy as he looked on with a mixture of horror and interest. A hoary beaver stood on a few others and began to shout into a megaphone.

“For hundreds of years we were an integral part of the Canadian economy. The Coureur de Bois and The Bay became millionaires off our pelts. No more. The Beaver Boat Units are mobilizing and preparing to attack!”

“Attack?” Timmy cried to his father.

“Who are they going to attack, daddy?”

“Oh come now son. They’re beavers. They ain’t going to attack anybody.”

Meanwhile, back in oblivious Ottawa where obfuscation was the norm, Canadian officials remained defiant if not in downright denial. Timmy and his pimpled-faced pompous papa watched from a television in window.

A spokesperson for Defense (defense is used lightly here) Canada, Normie-Gordie Burntstrudel tried to reassure the nation. “This is Canada. Everybody loves us as we love ourselves. We are a peacecreating, peacekeeping, peacegiving, peaceeverything country” When pressed if the Canadian military is prepared in the event of the attack he continued with a confident smile “If we are attacked, which is asinine, we are appropriately ready.”

One reporter asked how appropriately ready they were Mr. Burntstrudel answered, “All of Canada will unite and defeat the uprising to preserve our unique existence. We’ve also put in a call to the Inuit. A kayak unit is ready to be dispatched and if dispersed shortly the estimated distance means they will be here in four or five days.” When asked if Québec will take part in the defense of Canada all he would comment is, “they are decidedly distinct and thus have distinct choices to make regarding their well-earned distinct territory.”

Timmy was now nervous and confused. “Paw-paw. I do not understand. I thought Canada was perfect! Will I have to go to beaver school as well as learn French and various Native tongues?”

“Maybe so, son. Maybe, so. It’s the Canadian way,” Timmy’s father responded in a proud tone.

None of this surprised the beavers. “Canada always has its head up its ass. We’re forewarning them and they still won’t budge. They’ll see our anger is real and our wrath swift and lethal.” Even the Québec division is ready. They don’t speak English too well but we are united in our cause.”

Anger on what has become known as the ‘Canadian street’ is mounting. The average Canadian is outraged at the thought of even putting one lousy loonie into the listless military in defense of this country. “We need to put it in more important places. Like public health,” screamed one person. Another quipped, “What does beaver meat taste like? Is their fur, like, still popular in Europe?”

With the Canadian identity suddenly under attack, Timmy squeezed his paw’s hand as they turned and walked away.

In the Boredroom of My Mind

“So when you break down the broken numbers and express them in percentages in the prospectus you get a lot of numbers.”

11:02am. I hope he doesn’t go on and on and on….and on.

“When you examine them it really works out to 12% for income from attrition…”

Attrition? World War I Trench warfare? That couldn’t have been pretty. Dig your own grave.

“Discretionary payments add up to 33.34%…”

My discretion is to make-out with the lady next to me. She looks good for her age. She reaches for my pen and gives me a smile instead of an official ‘may I?’ I nod approvingly as I lower my pants.

“Income from matured plans is 42%…”

Mature. Now there’s one word I have a hard time with. I’m trying hard but this mature thing is not working out. Bending my boss over on a table; that’s about as high on the maturity scale I’ll go. How can people trust their money with me? Did she glance at me? I bet she did. She looks good in mahogany.

12:14pm. Eye contact is on the rise. Nervous ticks become more apparent. “I guess that’s it for toda…wait one more thing.”

There’s always ‘one more thing’ that usually drags forever. At least mighty mouth is keeping his mouth shut. Maybe we’ll have a shot at leaving early. I’m starving. I have to go buy a cantaloupe.

“Are there any other quest…”

Oh fricken no. No!

“Um, yes. Um could you please review the donations from the general fund and how they relate to past figures?”

I…can’t….believe it. He actually asked the most useless question he’s ever asked. The boss won’t bite will he?

“Sure….approximately half of a quarter of the donations come from the EAP which itself comes from the foundation and this in turn all leads to a return in the form of dividends that dates back to 1974. Let’s go over each year…”

What I really hear is, “let’s smoke pot and read the prospectus. I’ll order pizza and shish-taouk. After that, I will offer my wife in a ritual corporate gangbang. If you are one of us you will pander to our smut indulgences! Randy will pass the steroids to enhance your sales. Don’t inject! We are not animals. Just rub it in.”

I’m losing my mind. I’m gonna jump someone. Should I just walk out? I think I’ll walk out. When the right moment presents itself I will bolt. 12:42pm. I’m in position. Give a few serious look of intense pondering and vanish.

“Ok…1982…”

1982? Falklands, ‘Hurts so good’….death of Gilles Villeneuve…I’m outta here. I wonder if she’ll follow….

Table for Three

The hostess politely asks: ” Table for one?” The tone of the question is one of those murky open-ended ones that permits a person caught in Spider Man’s web of alienation to confirm if they are, in fact, alone. I looked to my right and left. An inept busboy carrying a plate of knives trips. As they fall all around me and pierce some people I answer her while biting into a granny smith apple, “Three.”

I don’t know why no one sees Dan and Gad. It’s not like they’re lost or imperceptible. Dan especially since he likes to wear a napkin as a mask. He thinks it’s charming. She has a look of bewilderment – like the one my childhood psychologist gave me when I drew a murdered unicorn lying in a pool of blood – but seats us nonetheless as those on the ground struck by the knives are tended to by an infirmary of Samaritans. I am most grateful. “Thank you, Flo. And tell Mel to speed it up.” We all laugh at the off-the-cuff reference.

A stare is coming right at me from a kind gent at the table next to me. “Who you looking at, brother? Yeah, you best be looking the other way.” She returns with a menu. “Excuse me,” I tell her. “We require three menus. Sharing will just waste time.” With a stupid puzzled look she responds, “But…but you’re alone.” “No I am not, Alice! Bring me three menus!”

My tone softens with a dignified but unyielding, “Please.” She returns with them, carefully places them on the table and leaves abruptly. Her perfume smells like the doctor who once examined me when I was a teenager. I imagine making insanely ardent love to her. Shake my bones, baby. Shortly thereafter she comes back to take our orders. Before I ordered I asked her what perfume she was wearing. She answered “Smoke.”

I was not amused. I ignored her insult and rationally decided to speak for Dan and Gad who both went to the washroom at the same time. They, in their loving incoherence, always do that. It’s a predictable joke they have. They think I don’t know, but they fail to realize in their buffoonery that I engendered like a magnificent maestro their fabulously fleeting actuality. I’m a step ahead of them today. “Dan will have the roast stuffed pike with the skin on and Gad will have the oven-braised teal. Bring the beak on the side.” Heh,ha. Dan always orders flummery. Gad prefers snipe.

I have always been treated, like tainted fluoride, as an outcast – always on the periphery of life. Society, that elusive word that means nothing to me, has deemed me unfit. I don’t sleep. Sleep is a mere nuisance. I prefer the dark forbidden contours of the infinite but anticipated night. It thinks to be so omnipotent. It’s not so tough. We all know the sun will rise, night! Be gone! The Angels are trying to convince me otherwise but I defy. The inkblot experts who practice psychology always wanted me to explain why I excessively love and distrust sleep but I didn’t know why. They needed my quotes to put in their picture books. I’m nothing but a painting in their museum of nothingness. I know this. Just like how I know about Dan and Gad’s little routine.

“Can we have some water, please?” I initiate a hollow conversation with my friends, bursting with inner self-combustion to see the look on their faces when the orders come in. A man drops a card on me. “Dr. Youp – Psychologist? Now that’s the fifth this week!” Unfazed, we laugh, we argue, we cry.

It was a perfect lunch if not for that tin toy soldier staring at me. Oh, that gaze! The one my imaginary step-mother gave me! It’s penetrating in its accusations! Its gaze was beginning to warp my sense of reality. Tick? What tick? Why do I have a sudden tick? Oh, tic on my arm. I asked the waitress to move the tin soldier who was by now drumming at a furious pace. In her marvelous and sensually boozled stare, she tells me she could not. I tried to make the best of the situation. I slice my cantaloupe, which I pronounce cantaloop. I don’t know why. I just do. Dan and Gad tell me to let it go and ignore the toy soldier but I can’t. It’s just too much.

I get up and walk towards the tin solider singing the Songs of Roland. I was a virtuous vigilante descending upon an officer in all its uniformed glory. I hack it to bits with a mini- axe I carry in my inner pocket. Waiters, of all genders – and the inept busboy who had one ear – all gather like conniving conspirators in unison to make a call. Never do they remove their green, blue and brown eyes from me.

“Sir? Sir?” The clouds in my brain pass and after a couple of quick glances I spot Dan and Gad. She looks in their direction and says, “Sorry for the delay.”

I get to my table. The service is good here. The food is not bad, either.