Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: I'll have another barkeep.
Miranda: This isn't a bar.  And you haven't ordered anything yet.
Harvey: I'll just get the usual then.
Miranda: You don't have a "usual."  In fact I'm pretty sure you've never ordered the same thing twice.
Harvey: All right, just give me the special.
Miranda: This is a variety store, we don't have specials.  What do you want?
Harvey: I just want the soup of the day.
Miranda: Fine.  It's minestrone.

Wild speculation

On the discovery of sarcasm:

Man 1: Welcome back.  Is it nice outside?
Man 2: Well, it's blustery cold and windy and raining.
Man 1: That doesn't very nice at all.
Man 2: Are you retarded? Yes, in fact, it's a wonderful day outside.
Man 1: Hm.
Man 2: I didn't mean it Gerald.  The weather is quite poor.
Man 1: I see what you did there.
Man 2: Quite.

It's not me, it's you

It's hard to be objective about music.

Sometimes, to obtain a more personal perspective on an album, I like to pretend that I dated the artist in high school and that it ended really, really badly. Like you-continue-to-fuck-her-on-the-sly-for-five-months-after-and-her-parents-catch-you-mid-throes-and-then-her-sobbing-bitterly-and-you-trudge-to-your-car-the-cold-cold-night-and-ask-yourself-aloud-what-the-fuck badly. Then she e-mails you three times a day for a year, trying to get back together.  She calls you in the middle of the night and all you hear is her breathing and sometimes her soft crying.  And you swear that it's her driving by the coffee shop where you work, trying catch a glimpse of your face through the storefront glass.

And then one night, you've had it.  Fueled by vexation, you scribble down every hateful thing you can think of saying to her, and, fueled by white Russians, you seal it with a stamp and plop it in the mailbox at four in the morning.

The next day, your throbbing head considers that four double-sided pages might have been overkill.  But it is done.  The e-mails stop.  The phone calls do too.  She is finally gone.

And the next time you see her is years later, smiling on television.  She has a record deal, a music video, an entourage, fame, money, and most striking of all, a life without you.  The girl that once made your phone buzz all night with text messages, now glares at you smugly from the cover of Rolling Stone.

Armed with this backstory, I popped in Lily Allen's It's Not Me, It's You.  ('Cause really, I wouldn't be able to digest it otherwise.)

Like her debut album, this one is equal helpings of upbeat pop and West London snark.  Everyone's at It is a cynical dance-anthem about drug use that gets the album off to a good start.  The Fear is a standout track; self-aware lyrics and crisp production. The thickly-produced album stays true to Lily's style of hep blog-quality slander. I might consider being offended by Fuck You, but I'm familiar with Lily's sense of hyperbole.

But Who'd Have Known takes me back.  I remember that driveway on a Winter's night, watching my breath float over the dashboard, waiting for the car to warm up.  You stood at the bedroom window and you were crying.  When you put your hand on the window, my eyes darted down  to the empty passenger seat.  The engine was cold; I couldn't wait any more.  My gloveless hands gripped the steering wheel and the car crunched soberly away in the thick snow.

Fag Hag is an embarrassing track.  What the fuck, Lily.

As a whole it's not as impressive as her previous outing, but what sophomore effort ever is?  The songs are a bit more self-conscious and introspective, but I would have hoped that three years later, they would have matured accordingly.  I mean, you still haven't found someone who can fuck you properly?  Who gives a shit?

On my "As if you were my ex-girlfriend music ranking system" I'd give this a Wistful, i.e., decent without pushing me into full-blown regret.  I'll can listen to this voluntarily, but I won't be jerking off despondently to the liner notes.

Scale:

• Shitty (just like our relationship)
• Not bad (but we're not getting back together)
• Three stars (meh)
• Wistful (we had some good times)
• Dammit (I made a terrible mistake)

Wild speculation

On the creation of the zebra:

God: Hey, bring that horse over here.  It needs some tweaking.
God's P.A. Tracy:  Sir, that animal was completed months ago.  It's been mass-produced already.  It's ready to be ship.
God: Just bring it here.
Tracy:  Sighs.  OK, here.  Just try not to change -- Oh, wow.  I'm not sure I would call that a 'tweak'...
God: Nice, eh?
Tracy:  This is going to take forever.

Words I hate

Having had enough of my BlackBerry suggesting "ducking" when I want to convey "fucking," I decided to clean up my custom dictionary.  (For those that don't know, this can be accessed via your Options menu, but I'll be Goddamned if I'm going to tell you how.  What is this, Howard Forums?)

What I found was a lexicographical nightmare.  To my shame, I had a cache of loathsome non-words each added by Yours Truly.  I can't honestly say I was drunk when adding every one, but I'd like to think that I was.

For educational purposes I am publishing my findings.  I consider these terms deprecated.  I hope you will do the same.

• biggie
• boners
• bonerz
• bonkers
• boyee
• boyeeeeeeee
• cocksuckerism
• drupal
• dping (as in "double-penetrating")
• dunner
• froxen
• hottie
• killah
• Mariah (I have no idea)
• Mississauga
• probs
• sestina
• travis
• wendyswendys
• whattup
• wots
• zut
  

I'm particularly embarrassed by the inclusion of Drupal.  Everyone knows it's all about WP.

Wild speculation

On the creation of the number zero:

Mathematician 1: I don't get it, where does it go?

Mathematician 2: Obviously, it comes right before one.

Mathematician 1: But nothing comes before one!

Mathematician 2: Precisely.

Mathematician 1:

Mathematician 2: Hmm?

Mathematician 1: Ahhh... I get it.

Drink more milk

Those dairy clowns are at it again.  Never satisfied with our level of milk intake, the Dairy Farmers of Ontario have put together a helpful list of ways to jack-up the amount of dairy you're consuming.  For example:

Add two containers of yogurt to your lunch box: one for your snack and the other for your lunch.

One yogurt isn't enough for these people.  Have two.  We're already eating yogurt.  They're just politely asking us to double our intake.

Insert a wooden stir stick in individual containers of fresh cheese and freeze them to make delicious frozen snacks.

I'll get right on that. I'm sure these homemade cheese popsicles are as delicious as they sound.  Why can't I just eat the cheese as is?  Who does this?

Opt for a yogurt drink to quench your thirst.

Nothing quenches your thirst like the viscous glug of a Yogurt drink.  That's why we see so many athletes chugging yogurt after the big game.  So refreshing.

Stir in a bit of skim milk powder to your cooking and baking. An excellent way to add calcium to all your dishes!

Oh, is that all? Just keep some powdered milk handy and add it to everything I fucking make.  Thanks for keeping it specific and limiting your reach to my "cooking and baking."  I guess I won't stir it into my orange juice or jell-o shooters.

You know, I think I might go for a run and then pound a couple of Yops.  Then I'll go down on a container of Sour Cream. You'd like that Big Milk, wouldn't you?  You sick fucks.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Miranda: Well I haven't seen you for a while.
Harvey: I quit!
Miranda: You did? No wonder. When?
Harvey: Oh, it was about... three years ago. Right before I got the job I have now.
Miranda:
Harvey:
Miranda: How does that explain your absence recently?
Harvey: Oh, no, it doesn't. I was on vacation.

Just because you're born in a parking lot...

...doesn't mean you're white trash.  You are however, probably some form of trash.

Baby born in parking lot.

Okay, fine.  She looks adorable.  But I'm not changing my policy on babies born in Windsor, namely, they are probably some form of trash.

Animal conversions

The use of horsepower is a little outmoded right?

Wrong.

Personally, I appreciate the use of animals to measure the output of our machines. I can't believe you could think otherwise. (I'm disappointed, frankly.)

But it's worth asking, does it allow the level of granularity we need? I recently discoved that a garage-door-opener is 0.5 horsepower. Surely we have smaller animals to measure lower power engines. I did some research and according to my findings: we do.

After several days modelling complex calcluations, I have made some determinations. I propose the following conversions:

1 horse = 5 great danes
1 great dane = 5 sharpfin barracudas
1 sharpfin barracudas = 10 meerkats (or trumpeter swans in England)

So one horsepower would equal the power of 25 sharpfin barracudas or 250 meerkats. I think that sounds reasonable, right?

On the other hand, we have machines that can produce thousands of horsepower. Perhaps we can use some larger animals to fill the gaps here. For example:

4 horses = 1 giraffe
10 giraffes = 1 saltwater crocodile
3 saltwater crocodiles = 1 Pleistocene era ground sloth
15 ground sloths = 1 Sauroposeidon (S)

You get the point. I've tried to keep the conversions as simple as possible for quick calculation. Trying to measure the power of an commercial mineral-boring auger? It's about 105 saltwater crocodiles or 35 Pleistocene era ground sloths.

Your family lawnmower? 443 sharpfin barracudas.

The space shuttle is 37 million horsepower or, more conveniently, 20 555.55 Sauroposeidons.

Now those are numbers I can wrap my head around. Look, it's a good system if you give it a chance. They all laughed at the metric system too.

Reasons for committing suicide

Suicide is the sincerest form of self-criticism. Please consider these reasons for ending your life:

• Dropped the acid (literally)
• Can't find the cap to this pen (I had it just a second ago)
• Name-dropped Ann Coulter
• Butt of too many jokes
• Give credibility to your homespun religion
• To prove those damn scientists wrong
• Because of something you heard in a Blink 182 song
• Waited all day for the cable guy
• Reading too much Nagel
• Claimed wallet in car, knew better, left huge pile of groceries at checkout
• Tuvan throat singing
• Basically any reason whatsoever

Religion reform #14

Arguably the most imporant passage in The Toucan's Book (3rd Ed.) is from the third chapter, page 137:

And the Toucan spake, the breath of His hallowed caw warming the skin of the unclothed people sitting on the grass.

"Ask of me your questions!"

But his people did not ask, for they feared His wrath, and wanted not to question any facts of their existence lest they insult Him. In silence time would pass and the yellow sun would rise above their heads, and the people left the hill, knowing that the Toucan had returned to the cosmos, satisfied with the quiet gratitude of His children.

One day, on the coldest day of the coldest Winter the Toucan asked,

"Ask of me your questions! Seriously, don't be shy."

And a man stood up. The people cried out for they were shocked. They beseeched him to sit and be quiet, but he remained standing.

His wife watched her husband quietly. The ruthless winter had failed all of their crops. With their two small children and no food, it was likely they would not survive. Her husband was a pious man, but like him, she was frustrated, and cold, and afraid. She folded her hands on her lap.

The man looked to his wife, and to the sky:

"Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

And the Toucan answered so quickly, it was almost as though he had not answered at all. The people were surprised and overwhelmed to hear Him, and many had missed what he said. They had expected Him to deliberate, but of course, the Toucan being wise and all-knowing needed no time to think on human inquiries. He merely said in response:

"Lovely weather you're having."

And the man sat down, next to his wife, and she embraced him. And the sun slowly rose in the in sky, and the warm breath of the Toucan evaporated, leaving the naked men and women sitting on the grass, shivering in silence.

And yes, the man and his family totally died.

The death of pink

Pink is a ridiculous colour.

As apparel it turns men into Douchebags, makes women look like shameless Lolitas, turns little boys into hopeless faggots and turns little girls... well, little girls generally emerge unscathed.

And for anything else, it really shouldn't be an option. If you chose to have a pink laptop from all the available colours, you shall not escape my judgment. Nor he who dons a pink tie because it's "fun." Supporting breast cancer? Go fuck yourself.

If this sounds harsh it can be explained as backlash fuelled by regret and a strong aesthetic bent I developed recently that I can't really explain. In short: I'm over pink. It's enveloped this blog long enough, and I'm dumping it like a girlfriend that everyone hates. To wit:

"What was I thinking, bro?" I say, downing my third PBR.
"I know dude, we tried to tell you,"my stalwart pal replies.
"Let's get fucked up! Woooo!" And the two of us high five.

From now on the design of this site will be white with a little hint of blue. Like a girlfriend you bought from a .ru web site. If I need to see pink again, I'll buy a Hustler.

Words I hate

I'm not sure which is a worse abomination: is it the liberal use of PS? In speech? In the middle of speech? Repeatedly in the middle of speech? For example:

Bib: PS don't you think it's time you threw out those shoes?
Bub: Remember where I got these shoes, PS? And PS, who's talking about shoes, Ms. BOGO slut?
Bib. P.S. Whose the one that drove us to the mall in the FIRST place!

Or is it the brutally inept use of AKA?

Kate: I was talking to John that other day
Max: AKA rapist king
Kate: AKA the best rapist of life
Max: AKA i like to rape guys because i'm a closet case?

I can't really make a positive case for either, so I shall focus on the purely negative aspects of each. These are legion. For starters, the use of initialisms in spoken is english is rarely necessary. The obfuscation often caused by these linguistic shibboleths frequently outweigh the benefit of the time saved by eliminating information.

But also, it's just retarded. PS? It's stupid enough to use PS in written communication, let alone conversation. Anyone who ends a letter with a PS is either a) living in a time period where they used quills or b) incapable of adequately planning for small-form projects such as written correspondence and should thus be deemed a candidate for elimination from the species.

To use PS in electronic communication -- which allows almost unrestricted power to revise -- is at best horribly prententious, and at worst needlessly cute.

To use it in spoken communication as a cheap filler word, is a crime against humanity.

On the otherhand the abuse of AKA is also severe. Yes, it does translate to AKA, so it's use is not precisely incorrect. But like the infamous "literally", it's used too often and "not correctly enough" to escape censure. In the example above, AKA is used to denote a sort of divisive punctuation between related thoughts AKA a comma.

It's being used as a comma. You wouldn't say the word "comma" would you? (Would you??) As such, don't use AKA.

P.S. Don't use P.S. either.

Spiral staircase: step 1

The top's a lovely place to start,
When rhyming names of erstwhile tarts,
So let us start this tired song,
The premiere point is called "The Thong."

(That's the floss that 'caused the trouble),
Look: life's confusing in a bubble,
I thought let's get my girl a thong;
We hadn't even dated long.

A fortnight only we had come,
Clearly I was after some.
So -- no -- she didn't like the gift,
Nature's forces b'gan to shift.

And she surmised the upper hand,
Thus I from lower-regions banned,
But look it's Christmas: gifts are tough,
I could never do enough.

"Fuckit -- this thong her gift shall be,"
To be enjoyed by her and me,
'Course that's only if she decides,
That I merit a panty ride.

"A musty romp in proverbial hay,"
Where I succeed at getting laid.
But lo, alas, 'tis not to be,
My gift prov'd fatal, unfortunately.

This top step of love's staircase,
Begins my journal of disgrace.

Renaming my porn collection (while high)

So one evening while perusing my collection of adult-oriented -- fuck it. The title says it all. Behold:

• Girl getting jackhammered, steamrolled, and regrouted.mpg
• Lovely lasses taking classes.mpg
• The Manchurian candidate.avi
• Takes one to blow one OR: how I learned to love the bomb.mpg
• Girl on webcam on girl.flv
• The evidence of my shallow existence.mpg
• Not porn (do not open).avi
• Jesus Christ Superstar - 02 - Heaven on their Minds.mp3
• Are you there cock? It's me, pussy.avi
• The myth of pus-syphus.avi
• The fox and the graphs.mpg
• Porn Prescription Part 9: to be taken ORALLY.avi
• highly pixelated sexual footage.flv
• Life is not a highway strewn with flowers.avi
• Girls gone askew.mpg
• Two cups one girl.mpg
• Palindrome of sexxx.mpg
• Good will humping.avi
• Ross and Rachel erotic fan fiction.txt
• The clock strikes dong.mpg
• Dirty Dicklickers -1: the prequel
• Two cups one tablespoon.mpg
• Djembe lesson 92.mpg
• Footage of fat girls putting on shoes in Payless Shoes.flv
• Girl getting the business from a fresh gentleman.avi
• Welsh comedy legends.mpg
  
• DVDA (yes for real).mpg
• Lust in the year 3000 the porn musical.mpg

It took everything I could to not mention "Star Fuck: the Erotic adventures of the USS Enter-ASS", but in the end I could not resist.

Welcome back

Well, well, well.

Look what the cat dragged in. And where exactly have you been? Gallivanting around, no doubt. 'Off to the coast, you know,' and whatnot. Clearly. Look at those arms. Like a couple of burned sausages. My God, you're as swarthy as the gardener, I can't believe it.

Well, hope you had a good time. Mm-hmm, of course you did. Must have been wall-to-wall excitement for you; didn't even have a chance to write. I mean, it would have been nice to hear from you. Nothing major, just drop me a line, tell me you're OK. Oh, don't bother apologizing. It's OK. I'm just twisting you up.

Besides, you didn't miss anything much. Well, Reg and me are getting divorced and Martha's son Nathan -- remember him? He was supposed to start law school last year, and was engaged to that pretty girl, what-was-her-name? It's something French. Renée.-- well, he committed suicide. We were all pretty surprised. Well, everyone but me. I saw it coming. I think he was a closet... you know.

Oh, and those irises on the walk-up are new. Did you notice them? So pretty, but they're gonna die on me. I know it.

It's been a long time you know. Do you know that? It was spring last time I saw you and you were about to meet a new girl. How did that work out?

Oh, well it doesn't matter. I'm just glad to have you back, wherever you were. I swear, I don't know what gets into you. When you disappear for so long, I mean, I know it's morbid but





I just thought ---








I just thought --















I just thought something might have happened to you, Harvey. Oh, hush. Don't worry about that. You just do me a favour and write, OK?

* * *

And though she didn't really need an apology, I said it again. And again once more, in fact -- and then I teetered there awkwardly. I wasn't sure what else to say. What to say really; I hadn't really said anything yet.

But I stayed quiet, as though hoarse from the months of silence. And she disappeared. And I was in my room again.

I consider the open notebook on my desk. The pages are full, and I flip them idly; why didn't I write? I look at the clock on my desk, encircled in a robot's chest. The ticking doesn't bother me; why doesn't it bother me? I ponder my arms; how did they get so dark in this rain-soaked summer? I didn't go anywhere. So where have I been?

In preparation for a date

First dates make me nervous. I hear second dates are less nerve-wracking, but I wouldn't know. A detailed breakdown of my pre-date ritual and the time taken for each step:

1. Prepare and consume buttered toast and Earl Grey tea. 9 minutes.
   
2. Clear space on my floor to do push ups. 22 minutes.
   
3. Do push ups until exhaustion. 14 seconds.
   
4. Disrobe. 15 seconds.
   
5. Flex muscles in mirror. 2 seconds.
   
6. Lower eyes, shake head with sense of with self-loathing. 1 second.
   
7. Turn on shower, find temperature "sweet spot". 2 minutes.
   
8. Shower. 15 minutes.
   
9. Wash face, apply lather and shave. 6 minutes.
10. Apply after shave, wince in pain. 1 second.
    
11. Point at cleanly-shaven self in mirror with head cocked "charmingly". Wink. 1 second.
    
12. Lower eyes, shake head with sense of self-loathing. 1 second.
    
13. Sigh. 14 seconds.
    
14. Apply deodorant. Put on socks, underwear and jeans. 3 minutes.
    
15. Lay fourteen T-shirts on bed and begin selection process. 22 minutes.
    
16. Put on T-shirt and review in mirror. Take off shirt in disgust, ponder canceling date and pace around bedroom frantically. 5 minutes.
17. Take off T-shirt. Lift lid of toilet. Vomit and cough violently. 8 minutes.
18. Brush teeth. 2 minutes.
19. Look in mirror and sigh. Lower eyes, shake head with sense of self-loathing. 2 seconds.

Inkhorn terms

Just once, I'd like to walk into the Subway restaurant by my house wearing the outfit of an eighteenth century Englishman -- replete with a noble powdered wig, crushed velvet breeches, and walking stick -- and say:

"Sirrah! What wond'rous evening this! Though mine appetite grows inhospitable and turbulent. Prithee tell, are your savourous sandwich breads freshly baked? Then grant me thy favour, and let us begin with a King's foot of your Parmesan ore-gah-no. Aye, cheese without question. Hmmm? Methinks tonight, twixt the moment of night's curtain and the falling sun, I opt for the BLT.

"Clamperton and shandy! What day brained questions vex this hungered soul. Has come before you a man than wants not a toasted sub? Aye, toast it!"

And thirty seconds would pass.

"Mark thee this: tender cleavings of green pepper, and the coldest tomah-to, sliced as thin as cold winter's breath on window pane, and lettuce, firm and plenty. And cousin, douse that supper with oil and vinegar. Thou art cupshot! I said douse! As though wretched by flame, and by desperate hands thou art to extinguish! Hurry man! My spirit like burnt embers cools, and by my troth, I wouldst consume an equine whole at this moment.

"Beshrew me, no cash hath I. Do you take debit?"

Let's weigh the options

Pros:

• Arnold Palmer
• Lying on your stomach
• "And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room"

Cons:

• Three card monty
• Conrad Black
  
• 'Dileeza Rice

Nostalgic post

Have you noticed the return of No Name's original package design? I was grocery shopping the other day and there was no mistaking it: Don Watt's iconic boxes of yellow and black are back.

I guess the re-branding is meant to refocus consumers' attention to the simplicity and low cost of No Name products. I picked up a carton of crackers and the change was striking. All colors, images, pizazz: gone. I suppose it's not a bad way to lure increasingly frugal shoppers in today's ever-sinking economy. If it looks cheap, thinks the financially-strapped consumer, then I must be saving money.

But for reasons unrelated to the state of the economy, it warms my heart to see the return of black Helvetian text on fields of yellow. It reminds me of my childhood.

I grew up across the street from a No Frills store. (I believe it was Scott's, but who the Hell cares.) I was fascinated by it. It was just a giant yellow brick prism that I could stare at from our living room window.

"What does "frills" mean?" I recall asking my mother. She told me something about pleating on dresses. I didn't get it.

Saturday afternoon we would trek to the grocery store. My mother would unfold her grocery cart and take me by the hand, and we'd cross the busy street, pass through the seemingly magic automatic doors, walk past the musical coin-op pony, where my feet would drag and my mother would insist "come-on", and then through the turnstile, and into a land of savings. Signs proclaimed that No Frills would not be beat on an assortment of staples, and I believed them.

And though I actually didn't enjoy nor participate in the shopping, I loved No Name products. Not only did the boxes match the intense nuclear yellow of the store façade, but the bold, black print on the boxes was entrancing. My young mind (then devouring a solid six hours a day of television) understood the concept of marketing and I could not ignore the extraordinary purity of the descriptive labels. No Name described their contents in way that none of their neighbours on the shelves did; with banal and pristine accuracy: "Bran Cereal", "Unsweetened Orange Juice", "Frozen Peas", "Women's Pantyhose".

There were no marketing euphemisms, no advertising slogans, no misleading imagery, no jazz, no frills, nothing. Nothing beyond a rote description in our two national languages.

To me, No Name represented the promise a very simple and accessible world. A world where one walks into a perfectly yellow cube, fills a cart with smaller geometric solids, equally yellow and accordingly labeled, pays, and leaves. A world with no brands, but only goods cherished for their intrinsic value. Where consumerism means nothing more than picking the cube that suits your needs and leaving the store. A world only a child could treasure really. Uncomplicated and serene. And bright fucking yellow.

(My fantasy has a certain communist charm to it, I'll admit. But I'm not a pinko.)

Eventually, as the Neon '90s gained momentum, the No Name non-brand ethos became a brand itself, and irony died of a coughing fit. The pseudo-Soviet curves of black Helvetica melted into script and serifs. Other (non-yellow) colours and pictures(!) crept on to the packaging, and No Name because indistinguishable from other store brands. Somehow in trying to become less generic, No Name became generic completely.

In an economy overrun with options, preferences, personalization and selection, it's refreshing to see simplicity return to the grocery shelves. But oddly, while they might be the only honest form of advertising in the store, to me, they also represent a lie I've held on to since childhood. Namely, the manifestation of a false utopia, simplistic, and saffron, and shielded from the vagaries of the free market.

An experiment

Can someone please explain pedophile moustaches? You know what I'm talking about. It's impossible to ignore the wispy, usually lightly-coloured, stripe of peach fuzz perched on the upper lip of a boy-lover. And while they're all too common, has anyone ever really thought about this phenomenon? They're too distinct and prevalent to be an accident. Of course, not all people who lust after 'tweens wear these pencil-thin lip caterpillars, but if I'm not wrong: only pedophiles do.

So this brings up a few questions. For starters: what came first? The 'stache or the pederasty? Is a cookie-duster something you grow after you develop a fondness for virgin boy-arseholes, or the other way around?

In the few organizations in which pedophiles convene (NAMBLA, PIE, the Catholic church, et. al) shitty facial hair is not a prerequisite for entry. As far as I know. I mean, it would be counterproductive for a group that (presumably) wants to keep its intentions clandestine. And why would a sexual attraction to young'uns suggest the need for (poorly formed) facial hair? Logically or aesthetically it doesn't seem to make sense.

But the opposite explanation, that having a spotty mustachio causes pedophila, seems preposterous. Even controversial. But as the great Sherlock Holmes wisely noted, "when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Could moustaches cause pedophilia? Let's ask science.

My experiment therefore, was to see how the cultivation of a poorly formed 'tache affects sexual feelings toward adolescents.

Now, I would have used myself as a test subject, but my natural virility allows me to grow a hearty non-pedo crumb catcher in minutes. For this experiment, I needed someone with lacklustre pituitary inclinations. Someone whose facial hair growth levels plateau at "fourteen year old Filipino kid". I called my friend Darryl.

The experiment:
Hypothesis: growing a poor moustache causes detectable pedophilia in males.

Method:
Have subjects grow moustache for period of 30 days. Measure daily emotional response to pictures of adolescent males cut out of the following magazines:

• Teen beat
• Tiger mag
• BOP
• J-14
• Teen People

A control group will also review the same pictures sans soup-strainer. After 30 days the results will be compiled, graphed and examined.

I enlisted my friends Steve and Jim to also participate in the experiment as they also have less-than-stellar push brooms. They understood the nature and aim of the experiment immediately. Darryl on the other hand:

Darryl: Why are you trying to get me to jerk off to teenage boys?
Harvey: Christ, no! How many times-- damnit, listen. First, I want you to grow a moustache.
Darryl: OK.
Harvey: Then, while you grow that moustache, I am going to give you some pictures from various teen mags, right?
Darryl: Uh, OK.
Harvey: Then I want you to tell me, how attractive you think the boys are on a scale from one to one hundred.
Darryl: OK, but I'm not a pedophile.
Harvey: I know, this is an experiment. Just follow along. And be honest with your results.
Darryl: But this is kind of gay.

In fairness Darryl was right, but he relented. I asked another chap, Abraham to act as the control group; he reviewed the mags moustache free. For 30 days I kept a tally. The results?



Results:
The results are odd. Actually, they were kind of fucked up. Statistically speaking: Abraham, Jim and Steve's responses were non-significant. They hovered around the 50 percent mark for the duration of the experiment indicating both indifference to the images they were shown, and no effect of moustaches growth on their responses.

Darryl's results however, were fascinating. Not only were his initial assessments of the teen boys significantly higher (around 80 percent) his preference for teen males actually went down over the 30 day period.

It went down?

This certainly blew my hypothesis out of the water, but I was now interested in this strange effect on Darryl. Our discussion went as follows:

Harvey: So the results are in.
Darryl: Cool, did I pass?
Harvey: Darryl, this wasn't a test. I just wanted to see what effect growing a moustache would have on your preference for little boys.
Darryl: I told you, I'm not a pedophile. Growing a moustache is not going to make me gay.
Harvey: I know. The results indicate quite the opposite actually.
Darryl: See?
Harvey: Yeah, but you seemed to rate the pictures quite highly early in the experiment.
Darryl: So?
Harvey: Well, it suggests that the moustache was actually having a negative effect on your preference for boys.
Darryl: I don't have a preference for boys.
Harvey: Well, you were rating them pretty highly at the outset. And the drop off was pretty steady.
Darryl: Well, you kept showing me the same magazines.
Harvey:
Darryl:
Harvey: So you would have preferred more variety?
Darryl: Kind of. And probably more pictures of Zac Efron.
Harvey: Look, I gotta go.

Actually, they could have been lesbians

It can be really hard talking to my friend Darryl:

Darryl: Omigod. Look: lesbians.
Harvey: No. That's clearly a woman and her mother holding hands.
Darryl: Omigod, incest? That's even hotter. Right?
Harvey: No, Darryl. Incest is taboo.
Darryl: Oh my God. That's disgusting!
Harvey: Yes. At least it would be, except that they're just holding hands.
Darryl: Oh, sweet. Lesbians.
Harvey: I gotta go.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: I can never remember, is apple a fruit or a vegetable?
Miranda: You can't keep track? It's always a fruit.
Harvey: I don't know. It's one of those tricky ones. Like pickles.
Miranda: A pickle is neither fruit or vegetable. Pickles are made from cucumbers -- which are vegetables.
Harvey: Are you sure? I think pickles count as vegetables.
Miranda: You're wrong.
Harvey: No way! They're green. Name one edible thing that's green that's not a vegetable.
Miranda:
Harvey:
Miranda: Good point.

Bigger is better

In case you were wondering, this blog* can also be reached by using the following, easy-to-remember, Huge Url:

http://www.hugeurl.com/?MDQxMDQzYWRiZjZkZTU4MzhjNWU0MzI2N2Fm
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TFlUQXhSVkpzVGxaU2JFWXpWVVpGT1ZCUlBUMD0=

For the cocky touch typist with a photographic memory and a penchant for alphanumeric strings.

Enjoy.


*Ha! More like slog, am I right? Eh? Aw, forget it.

Out like a lamp

I've had an absolute shamu of a time trying to dredge up some fresh, exciting, vital content for this site. Recent history has found me knee deep in nude male ass (not literally, I'm learning to life draw), and ass nude in male knee deeps (not literally (obvs), I'm learning to mix syntax -- and prescriptions).

And speaking of prescriptions, I think it's time I made some decrees with regard to the content, that you, dear reader, rely upon to prevent the plunging of Katana into your chests through vicious acts of self-hatred and/or boredom.

I vow:

1. To produce something -- God-damnit-anything -- worthy of publish by the thirty-seventh minute of the twenty-third hour of the fourth day, starting from Sunday (the Lord's day, obvs) every week. Every. Single. Week.
2. To never again use the shitty rhetorical device of, "Word. Period. Word." Except for demonstrative purposes, as just shown.
3. To produce, at the request of omnipresent, illiterate, imbeciles, "more pics (sic)".
   
4. To make fuller use of the blog medium by waxing introspective, posting song lyrics, and whining about "the holidays".
5. To reduce the prevalence of AIDS by 15% by the year 2030.
6. And, related to 5) To stop making promises I can't keep.
7. And, related to 1) To lower my personal standards regarding "worthy of publish".

And that's about it. Hope all is well with you. Hell of some good weather we're having, eh? Yep. But you know what they say about March. In like a line, out like a lamb. What's that? Lion? Christ. That makes way more sense. That expression always confused me before.

Still smoking

Recent research has described the hazards of third-hand smoke. Being that smoking is our second-favourite form of slow motion suicide (after popping crank (or ice, or tina, or shabu)) we have decided to provide for you, gentle reader, an ordinal catalogue of the degrees of danger of this decadent and deliciously enjoyable drug.

(We have also formed a commitment to the first person plural.)

The degrees of smoking:

1st hand smoke: breathing in smoke from a cigarette.
2nd hand smoke: passively inhaling vapours in a smoke filled environment.
3rd hand smoke: coming in contact with smoke residue in furniture and clothing
4th hand smoke: shaking the hand of a smoker
5th hand smoke: breathing in second hand smoke through a HEPA filter
6th hand smoke: eating a dish prepared by a smoker
7th hand smoke: eating a dish prepared by a former smoker
8th hand smoke: giving oral sex to a smoker
9th hand smoke: enjoying a hot tub or sauna session with a smoker
10th hand smoke: reciting poetry including the words "smoke", "cigarette", or "nicotine"
11th hand smoke: catching an unlit cigarette in your mouth
12th hand smoke: engaging in intercourse with a smoker
13th hand smoke: holding a pen in your mouth as if it were a cigarette
14th hand smoke: smoking a cigarette through a straw four miles long
15th hand smoke: having a dream where you are a smoker
16th hand smoke: eating tobacco flavoured ice cream

The list goes on really. Further down:

37th hand smoke: getting a handjob from someone who just quit smoking three months ago

And:

134th hand smoke: leaving a voicemail for a former second hand smoker

And obviously:

283rd hand smoke: licking the bottom of a bus shelter.

Tobacco-caused diseases of the heart and blood vessels kill more than 17 000 people a year in Canada

Wild speculation

On the creation of language:

Homo neanderthalensis #1: Uhh... (grunts)
Homo neanderthalensis #2: Hmm... (grunts)
Homo neanderthalensis #1: Uhh... hi?
Homo neanderthalensis #2: Hmm... (grunts) ...what?
Homo neanderthalensis #1: I said, "hi."
Homo neanderthalensis #2: What's that mean?
Homo neanderthalensis #1: What's "mean" mean?
Homo neanderthalensis #1: Whoa...
Homo neanderthalensis #2: Dude, I know.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Miranda: So, did you watch the inauguration?
Harvey: For what?
Miranda: For president...?
Harvey:
Miranda: Of the United States?
Harvey:
Miranda: ...of America?
Harvey: Oh, lord no. Who won?
Miranda: (sighs) It was a tie.

Religion reform #13

It would help if the Christian God wasn't such a flaming homosexual. Don't believe me? Read Genesis.

So God creates this enormous universe (it takes him forever too, like, six whole days) and when he's done he only puts one dude in it. One single man. And also he makes him a pretty little garden. (Genesis 2:8)

Doesn't this sound like a scenario a gay guy in love would describe to his boyfriend?

"Luke, I am so in love with you. If I was God, I would create a whole world for us and it would be perfect and it would only be you and me."

That's exactly what God did! He created a universe for a single man. Named Adam. And I don't know if you know this, but that is on the Official List of Gay Names. (Numbers 3:2) (c.f. Masters of the Universe.) You're probably thinking, "but I have a friend named Adam, and he's not gay."

Fact: he's gay, even if he isn't. Trust me.

But anyway, God should really tone it down. Just saying.

Big milk: an update

Those fat cats peddling the white stuff are still at it. From www.dairygoodness.ca (what a sick URL by the way):

The More Milk You Drink, the More You Can Drink

Studies show that the more milk you drink, the less lactose intolerant you can become. Most people with lactose intolerance can recondition their digestive systems to accept dairy products, without discomfort, by drinking small quantities of milk at a time, for a period of a few weeks, then slowly increasing the amounts. Try it - you'll find the results really worthwhile.

Seriously boys, step off. Recondition my digestive system? Maybe it didn't occur to you, but I don't feel like putting my willpower and digestive stamina to the test every time I reach for something to drink. I'll have a Gatorade, thanks. Or some delicious Sunny Delight.

And for the record: I don't have a problem digesting milk -- but I do check the dairy farmers of Ontario website from time-to-time (every month) and this high-pressure sales pitch is starting to make me a little intolerant.

Don't even get me started on the egg council.

Pepperoni prom

Ad fag #1: Here is the proposed layout for the new product launch.
Suit #1: Hmmm...
Suit #2: You think is the right approach to market our new sausages?
Ad fag #2: Oh, absolutely. What better than a giant party to celebrate all of your different sausage offerings.
Ad fag #1: It's a sinister idea.
Suit #2: Do you have a name yet?
Ad fag #1: We're still working on it. We're bouncing around a few ideas.
Ad fag #2: Wiener-bash?
Ad fag #1: Or maybe Bratwurst Ball?
Ad fag #2: Bangers 'n' fun?
Ad fag #1: Kielbasaklatsch?
Ad fag #2: Frankfurterfest? Wait a minute. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
Ad fag #1 and #2: (in unison) Sausage par-
Suit #1: Get the hell the out.
Suit #2: Seriously guys, you're fired.

Real letters from real freaks

Dear Summer,

I miss you. To say that I am miserable would be to gravely misspeak. Life is hell; and my soul has been utterly ravaged since I last felt your close embrace.

Those many months ago flood my memory even now: our jolly picnic lunches in the sunny grass, walking in the warm breeze in the evenings, reclining in the shade on a hot day watching the landscape shimmer in the rising heat.

But without you, that flood of memories is a frozen lake, and I am suspended like a drowned manikin in the glacier of my psyche.

Walking home today I took off my mittens to correct my untied laces. The gelid wind permeated my fingers in a way I can't describe. It was like the very blood in my veins was transfused with ice water. My hands were enfeebled; could they speak they would cry your name; instead they retreated hastily into my mittens, coiled in fists, where they silently and bitterly cursed the onset of foul Winter.

I have electric blanket to warm my bed before I sleep. I sometimes lie on top of it and imagine that I am supine, on a beach of white sand, my body beaded with sweat and absorbing the energy of a cloudless azure sky. But it is a futile effort. With a mere turn of my head, the cool of my pillow betrays the truth of Winter, ever around me.

She is nothing like you. She is cold, and hostile, and mean. She is not one to chuckle at jokes or sigh contentedly: she is capable only of fierce glares and venomous scowls. Her breath is biting and frore, her cheeks dried and sallow, her thin lips blistered and raw. She is not merely ugly my darling, she bears the visage of death itself.

How I miss your spirit and vim. I miss the touch of your smooth and soft skin, the glisten of your warm eyes, and the thump of your beating heart against my ear.

And your hands, your wonderful, delicate, life-giving hands. When Winter touches me, she squeezes painfully with her icy fingers. I miss your touch, your motivating pull; you make me feel capable of doing anything.

I miss you, Summer. Like a dying plant needs water, I need your love again. I will never understand why you left, but I know you had to. Though it goes without saying, I am completely faithful to you. You may truly never know how grateful I am for you.

To you I am bound not merely by fondness, or nostalgia, or but by the purest love of which I am capable. Please come back to me, Summer. I am awaiting you always.

Yours forever,


Harvey Kornbluth

To the cereals I have eaten

Cheerios, you were my first. I used to douse you with sugar, and chase your floating circles around the bowl with my spoon. I learned a lot about breakfast when I was with you. But I was young and fickle. It embarrasses me to say this, but I left you because I thought that your Os were too prone to falling out of the bowl. (You know what I mean? Like, as soon as the milk starts pouring, you gotta watch the rim for any Os that are trying to escape. And then you try to coax and tilt the bowl but it only seems to make it worse...) I was immature to let something like that bother me. I always wonder about you.

Crispix, you were hot. Your hexagon two-toned, double-grain mesh was a sight for sore eyes. You tasted amazing right out of the box, and your texture against my tongue was like heaven. And with milk, you were easily one of my favourite cereals. But tragically, you couldn't stay crispy. And that honestly isn't the kind of thing that bugs me, but your commercials said you would stay crisp for a long time. Insisted, really. The opposite is more the case. I wasn't upset, but I guess felt kind of lied to.

Shredded wheat, where do I start? I knew I needed a healthy break from all the other junk I was eating, but you took the cake: you were almost literally a bowl of straw. Even with blueberries, it was hard to ignore that I was eating a fist-sized chunk of fibrous roughage. To be brutally honest: you tasted terrible. But at the time I needed you, and you helped keep me in check. I was just the wrong person for you.

Cap'n crunch: you were sugary, crunchy and sweet. Milk only seemed to make you crunchier (or maybe it just amplified the sound). And you were intriguing. I believed you when you said the crusade against "the Soggies" was a metaphor for the human condition. For a youth-oriented cereal, you were surprising cerebral. I actually liked you a lot, but you were seriously rough on the roof of my mouth. It felt like I was eating sandpaper rocks.

Vector: you were so smart, and made sure everyone knew that. Yeah, yeah, you were created in a lab with the participation of over 15 scientists, engineers and doctors. So what? I liked you, but I never felt good enough for you. And just so you know, I had you with 2% milk, which I'm sure cancelled out a lot of your benefits.

Froot Loops: I ate you in my youth. In fact, I can remember when you were only three colours. The yellows were my favourite. Now you're up to six. You were amazing. I smile at you when I see you at the grocery store.

Apple Jacks: you are forever an enigma to me.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: Wait a minute. This package of pitted prunes says, "may contain pits".
Miranda: Yeah, so? You can't expect them to get every one, can you?
Harvey: Why not? I mean, that's the basic idea behind this product! That's really all there is to it. It's like saying "educated man may not be educated" or "peppered steak may not be peppered" or "2% milk might be 1%". This is unacceptable. It's not like I'm asking them to do much here. Just remove the pits from--
Miranda: Will that be all?
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: You know, I should get a discount if I find one with a pit.
Miranda: You got it, bub. You can bring it back here for a full refund on that prune.
Harvey: ...well, all right.

The gentle lapping of beer on the hull

A joke in Haiku:

Two men were adrift
Dramatic escape from a
Burning freight vessel.

Rummaging madly
Through the boat's supplies they found
A dingy old lamp.

Secretly hoping
A genie'd appear, one of
Them polished the lamp.

And one did come forth
This particular genie
Stated quite clearly:

That she could only
Deliver one wish, and not
The usual three.

With barely a thought:
"Turn the ocean into beer!"
The man blurted out

Clapping her hands with
A deafening crash, the sea
Was plainly transformed

And truly the sea
Had become the finest brew
Sampled by mortals

And at the same time
The genie vanished to her
Freedom from the lamp.

The gentle lapping
Of beer on the hull broke the
Stillness in the boat

The two men sat and
Considered their circumstance
When one of them said:

"Great, now we have to pee in the boat!"

Twenty oscar niner

The new year is upon us like a fat lover. Unlike most years, I actually enjoyed (didn't hate) this past one, so I embrace this upcoming year with a bit of ambivalence. In fact, I'm going to resist it as long as possible. This protest will take the form of writing stale-dated cheques and constantly referring to the Vancouver Olympics as "two years away".

It's not that I fear the future, but more specifically: events in the future. In fact, my prediction is that 2009 is going to suck. Mark my words, this will be a year full of:

• Terrorist or terrorist-related news stories
• An unpredictable financial market
• Deaths of noteworthy people (both expected and unexpected)
• A medium-sized disaster of some kind
• Car accidents
• Lists
• Et cetera
  

But I don't know what the future holds for me. After seven consecutive weeks of convalescence (and sobriety!) one's outlook becomes dimmed, like the view from underneath a fat lover. Here are my resolutions for 2009:

1. Make the content on this blog interesting for a change (maybe?)
   
2. Replace my skepticism with a combination of asceticism and mysticism
3. Refer to myself in the fourth person (whenever it figures out what that is)
4. (Finally) sign up for those Esperanto classes
5. Start smoking (so I have a resolution for next year. In billiards this is called "setting up your next shot".)
   
6. Get a girl preggers then 'bort that shit/Then I'm a write it all down and rap 'bout it
   
7. Start a drunken fight in a bar but get out of it using a cockney accent and a lead pipe
8. Grow my religion; apply for tax credits
9. Run (the interesting part of) a marathon
10. Perfect the omelette

It's a good start at least. To the century, I mean. The naughts have been hot, I must admit. Let's hope we can round this decade out with a modicum of dignity, as doubtful as that prospect is.

Happy new year!

Reasons for committing suicide

Even more reasons to end it all:

• Zigged when you should have zagged
• Tried ordering a "Chazo Tai" at Starbucks
• Partially responsible for global warming
• Shoelace broke
• Can't find that damned pen anywhere, and seriously, it was right here a minute ago. Are you sure you didn't take it?
• Used an expired coupon
• Faced fears and lost
• Completely misinterpreted the teachings of Confucius
• Used an expired condom
• Left the world's worst voice mail
• Ate questionable dairy

S.O.B.ituary

It is with a noticeable amount of regret and mild sadness
The Kornbluth family and Kellogg's of Battle Creek
Announce the sudden passing of
Harvey Kornbluth
Harvey kicked it on Monday, November 10, 2008
Kind of peacefully, but you could hear it
After a short Illness
That seemed to last forever
Even though he went to the doctor three times and they gave him antibiotics
Still, nothing
Jeers and cheers are to be held on Tuesday, November 18 from
18:00 - 18:02 at St. Jude's Parish
Low-sodium snacks will be served
BYOB
and
The funeral service / PowerPoint presentation of Harvey's Life (entitled: Maverick: The Life and Times of North America's Greatest Maverick) will be held on
Wednesday, November 19, 2008 from
11:00 -11:33 with a reception to follow
at the Toronto Jewish Community Centre
Free holishkes and kasha
Prizes for best animal costume
All ages
Feat. DJ seals-the-deal, and Arianna
Breakdancing competition to follow reception
Seder to follow breakdancing
No overt displays of emotion please
BYOB

All proceeds will be donated to the estate of Harvey Kornbluth

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: I think you should know that I am officially off the market.
Miranda: Off the market?
Harvey: Yeah. I'm through looking. I'm sick of personal ads, blind dates, getting set up, singles events, bookstores, grocery stores, clubs, bars, prostitutes, all of it. I am done.
Miranda: That's not "off the market". That's called "giving up".
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: Sigh. Just this box of facial tissues.

Religion reform #12

The Toucan on night and day:

It's pretty simple so listen carefully. There are two brothers: Alf and Boxcar. One's a turtle and the other is a... I think he's a ferret. How are they brothers then? No one knows, they just are. And no, I don't know which one is which. So the first one, the turtle (possibly Alf, possibly Boxcar, I'm not sure) showed up shortly after the Earth was formed. "Damn," he said slowly (because he's a Turtle) "it's pretty dark around here," so he reached into his shell and pulled out a flashlight. One of those expensive kinds that take C batteries. And he held it aloft with one arm, and illuminated the sky.

But then the ferret shows up (Boxcar I think, but again, I'm not sure), late, as is typical of rodents. And as you probably know ferrets can't stand flashlight light. So he says to the turtle, "Boxcar, get out of the fucking way," (I guess that settles it) and the turtle says back, "I'm sorry, what?" But the ferret, Alf, is a bit of an asshole, so he starts to slap Boxcar around, and being tired from being up all day, Boxcar's arm drops and the sky becomes dark with night.

Exhausted, the turtle uses this opportunity to sleep while Alf minds the night sky. Alf is a big fan of the stars, and often heard to exclaim: "Sweet Toucan in heaven those stars are gorgeous."

But eventually Alf too grows tired. And when the turtle wakes, he is full of energy and has vengeance on his mind. He swiftly headbutts Alf in the chest, who collapses in pain and relinquishes control of the sky to Boxcar. The turtle raises his torch and it is daytime, once again.

It's really that easy. In the winter, Boxcar has to drive his kids to school so it stays darker longer. That is the story of night and day.

Real letters from real geeks

The world's worst resignation letter:

Dear management:

While I'm more or less grateful for all the years of employment (and paycheques) the time has come for yours truly to shut 'er down. Yeah, I gotta quit. Look, I know it's cliché but let's not fuck the babysitter here: it ain't you, it's me, you know?

This company is growing faster than a tumour and I couldn't be more excited. Our stock has increased steadily and investors are shitting themselves like the lunch crowd at the Legion. But related to this growth seems to be an increase in my workload and responsibilities. And to be honest, I'm not really feeling that.

Plus, no one gave a shit about my ideas. My suggestion for a larger fridge in the breakroom was met with guffaws. And when I suggested a Tropical Thursday where we crank the heat and wear bathing suits all day, I was told I was "out of line." It's not like I raped someone. Yet. (Jokes!)

This isn't about money, yo. Put that shit away.

Now, I will sincerely miss everyone. (Even that slut Michelle that everybody hates.) And I hope that my departure doesn't cause too much grief and heartache. Though I have only worked at Mr. Sub for two months now, in that time I feel like we've become a kind of family. I know I'm going to be bummed for a couple of days after my last shift, but don't worry: I'll be sure to visit lots and hit y'all up for some free subs.

Thanks again for the opportunity. I look forward to the free subs.

PEACE,

Harvey Kornbluth

The deliberate march of the ancient Chinese

The Grange does teem of elderly Chinese
Might even say "infested" should you please
But that'd be racist -- so let's say instead
Distressed I am! Behold their languished tread
One never sees them at the gym or pool
Old lives bereft of work or play or school
Can merely pad about the hallway floor
And circumscribe the condo's corridor
And pondering my own time come to that
Pajamas, slippers, solitude, a flat
And mired in constitutionals, oppressed
Our footsteps drag death's hand into our chests
No thanks to walks I shan't the will to live
For that's just holding water with a sieve

Haterade: is it in you?

According to Googlism:

hate is learned and can be "unlearned"
hate is no laughing matter
hate is growing
hate is what resulted in the death of 167 people
hate is truth
hate is hate
hate is wrong
hate is not my rap
hate is hot
hate is a many splendored thing
hate is a union
hate is just a four letter word
hate is not
hate is a strong word

Hate is a strong word. I am frequently reminded of this. Whenever I say things like, "I hate children," or "I hate waking up with a chicken bone in my mouth," or "I hate you, Lucy, I really, really do," someone is quick to point out that, hate is such a strong word. Especially that bitch Lucy.

Apparently "dislike" is more appropriate. That's bullshit. When I say I hate something, I hate it. I know it's a strong word: that's why I used it. I hate eggplant. I hate the teachings of Karl Marx. I hate that Matt LeBlanc appears in movies. I don't merely "not like" these things. And what's worse: I'm supposed to blithely replace "hate" with "dislike"? Why? That's just euphemism. For example:

"I really dislike that the man who raped and then murdered my wife is walking the streets."

Does that make any fucking sense? Folks, we should be free to hate what we hate. Do not accept that we must merely "dislike" or "find distasteful" or "prefer otherwise." Hate! Hate is hate! Fuck me, what else do I hate?

• Softball
• Mac devotees
• Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace
• Roman numerals
• The term "ramp up"
• Poorly wrapped pitas/gyros/shawarma
• French rap
• Eatmore chocolate bars
• Commercials for yogurt
• Illeism
• Fart jokes
• Hearing about your fucking puppies. Lucy, shut the fuck up!
• Patriotic art
• Restaurants where the waiter writes his name on your table
• Pews
• Holier-than-thou attitude of modern homosexuals
• Animals wearing hats
• When post-it notes lose their stickiness
• Cockblockers
• Reality shows starting with "The"
• Lanyards
• One-woman shows
• Barack Hussein Obama
  

Just kidding, that man means Change.

(I also hate change.)

Wild speculation

On the origin of blue whales:

God: Fuck, we have a lot of blubber left over.
God's personal assistant, Tracy: (Sighs.) Yes, sir. We knew we were going to have an excess after the belugas, remember?
God: Right. All right: we're going to build another whale.
Tracy: Sir, with all due respect, we've been making a lot of whales this month and --
God: Fuck it. I'm not getting stuck with all this blubber. We're making a whale and we're making it huge.
Tracy: Yes, sir.

She enters the calculations into her Macbook.

Tracy: How about this? It's significantly bigger than the other specimens.
God: No, no. Make it bigger.
Tracy: Sir?
God: Bigger.
Tracy: OK... how's that?
God: Bigger, damnit.
Tracy: Sir? We've never made an animal this large. Not even the dinosaurs --
God: What part of "bigger" is giving you trouble? Step aside.

God takes the mouse.

Tracy: Uh. Wow. That's... really big.
God: That's what I'm talking about. That's a big fucking fish.
Tracy: Mammal.
God:
Tracy: I beg your pardon, sir.
God: Any ideas for colour? That's not really my department.
Tracy: Blue? I don't know --
God: Done. Blue whale. Name it, make a hundred thousand, move on to birds. I gotta grab some lunch, I'm starving.

Ceci, n'est pas un tee-shirt

We were sitting on the grass last summer, high as balls, people-watching, vodka-out-of-water-bottle-drinking, self-loathing, and chilling. My pal Kessler was there too, similarly fucked, but self-tanning instead of self-loathing. While sitting and watching the Dumb Summer Hordes pass by, we got to thinking. And as always happens when people think: we developed those things called ideas. In particular, stupid ideas. For tee-shirt slogans. For example:

• I'm without stupid
• My other shirt is a pair of pants
• I'm not that gay
  
• I went to Darfur and all I got was this humanitarian catastrophe
• Pink is the new asshole
• Irony on tee-shirts is gay
  
• Irony on tee-shirts is not that gay
• Michaelangelo > Raphael > Leonardo > Donatello
• Ask me about this tee-shirt
• Emotionally retarded (and single!)
• Do you know the way to San Jose?
• Ceci, n'est pas un tee-shirt

And so forth. The ideas were truly of the low quality expected after an afternoon of beer and sun exposure, but after much discussion (and a detailed flowchart, a summary paper and expert testimony), we realised that it wasn't our fault. Simply put: the medium has circumscribed our ability to fulfill our remarkable potential. Because, let's face it, the tee-shirt is a shitty medium.

It is just a cotton canvas scarcely held aloft by a slacker's slumping shoulders. It's not a forum for deep thought. Textiles generally lack the gravitas to convey meaningful ideas. Especially those made of low-quality cotton or worse, some kind of synthetic blend.

The sun went down and our water bottles were empty. Switching to hastily-rolled joints, Kessler and I decided -- nay, decreed -- that really, we should keep all forms of self-expression off tee-shirts. Instead (and this is where things got kind of fucked up), we sought to unite in protest of tee-shirt aphorisms. We rejected the notion that an item of clothing, a scant fibre ledger, can adequately express any portion of the complex content that is the human condition.

I mean, what is a tee-shirt slogan anyway? Usually a meaningless meme. An attempt at individuality that reveals only a desire for conformity. A throwaway tattoo; it's like a vacuous Twitter, or a Facebook status update, or an ICQ away message (for the ancients among us), or simply: an unheard shout among a million similarly unheard shouts from a million "unique individuals".

And this cry for help on this store-bought rag is an emblem of how pathetic we are. So desperate we are, that we don't define ourselves by the clothing we wear. We let the clothing define us. We are the accessory to the brands we wear, and not the other way around. As far as individuality goes, it's a failure. Collectively, we stand defeated waving an American Apparel brand flag of surrender.

So our (drug- 'n' booze-addled) protest took the form of a uniform shirt. A single design to be worn by those who feel contempt for the notion of catch-phrase fashions, and for sound-bite styles. An anti-tee-shirt. Proclaiming nothing for life is nothingness. And, I remember thinking, after a good four minutes of coughing, this is a shirt that we truly wear, it does not wear us, man. Our shirt was simple, and pure, and honest. It's merely a white shirt, with black block letters (Helvetica, of course), that reads:



Well, that's the tough part. I completely forgot. I've tried to remember and recreate it but I keep drawing a blank. I thought maybe it said "White Power" but that doesn't make any sense. Something about white though. Or power? I don't know. It might have been "Fuck You". It was pretty awesome at any rate.

But Kessler hated it I recall, and we argued about it for forty-five minutes before we got really hungry and went to a pub for wings. We told the idea to a couple of guys we met that night, but one of them was wearing a "Don't Vote for Pedro" tee; it didn't really go over that well.

Stolen property

Jack and Jill were driving home.

"Is that a new hat?" said Jill.

"This? It's Kevin's."

"I thought so. That's his favourite hat. He let you borrow it?"

"Yeah, I stole it." Jack replied smugly.

"Jack! He's your son! And you know he's going to be angry", Jill started.

"Nah, I've got it all figured out. Here's what's going to happen. We walk in: Sadie's already denied taking the hat, being primary suspect anyway. So then he asks us. We deny any involvement. He's confused. Then he thinks about where he might have left it. But he knows he only wears this once in a while. So he suspects foul play... perhaps an intruder. One of the neighbourhood kids might have come in; or one of his friends borrowed it last time the were here. Meanwhile, we use this opportunity to lecture him on how keeping his room clean and putting away his stuff properly can prevent this type of thing. He'll probably clean his entire room just to find it.

"And if we gently stoke the idea in his brain that one of the neighbourhood kids might have his hat, we might convince him to go door-to-door asking for it. And while he's going door-to-door he can finally take Sadie to sell her Guides cookies like he said he would do two weeks ago. That's killing two birds with one hat."

"Wow," Jill said dryly, "you've thought this out."

"You just might be married to a criminal genius."

Jack and Jill pulled into the driveway, unloaded the truck and made their way up the steps.

"Just play along, OK?" insisted Jack as he fumbled with the house keys.

"Sure."

They stepped through the front door, kicking off their shoes with bags of groceries in their hands. Kevin was home, and came racing down the stairs.

"Hey, dad?"

"Yes, son," smiled Jack.

"Why are you wearing my hat?"

Words I hate

Supper. Plain and simple.

Reasons for committing suicide

If you're trying to decide whether it's time, consult this handy list.

• Were mortally embarrassed at cocktail party.
• Gang raped by idiots.
• Been eating the crew all along.
• Feelin' down.
• Got a D in Early Modern Philosophy
• Finally made a lunch but then left it in the fridge
• Lost at Connect Four
• Need to improve album sales
• Too many bloody English about
• Been pronouncing it "supposably"

More to follow.

Real letters from real freaks

Dear Mr. Finnegan,

Contrary to the guidelines laid out in the Oasis Restaurant Employee Handbook, I have decided to pursue a extra-professional relationship with one of our day servers: Jessica Fletcher.

Even though she has only just started Jessica has demonstrated excellent judgment at the tables, and has conducted herself professionally with the hosts and kitchen staff. She is also balls hot. God, I want to fuck her.

Of course, I am aware of the pratfalls inherent in such an undertaking. The fact that we work together could complicate things. Then again, she does have this petite body that is curved (just so) and long blonde hair, and a brilliant smile.

She has killer breasts also.

So in conclusion, I hope I can secure both your support and the support of corporate in this challenging endeavour. I feel that the time has come in my career with Oasis Restaurants to take some risks and pursue some new ass. She is available (and let's face it more-than-willing) and I am not going to squander an opportunity like this simply because we share an employer.

Yours very sincerely,

Harvey Kornbluth


------------------------------

Dan Finnegan, Manager
Oasis Restaurants

RE: Your request to engage in extra-curricular activities with Jessica Fletcher

Dear Harvey,

She's sixteen.

Best regards,


Dan


P.S. You request to change availability has been denied. We're still going to need you to close on Saturdays.

Ice whine

Try to picture a crippled man wearing a hospital gown, poised between two parallel bars, struggling to get to his feet. His hands grip the bars with all his might, and his arms are shaking like trees in a hurricane. His determined face is wincing from the strain of his whole body weight. He is sweating, not from heat or fatigue, but desperation and fear. Every muscle in his torso is burning, but his legs dangle weakly. He is learning to walk again.

What's strange is that at night, in his dreams, he can walk and run. His feet move beneath him without a trace of effort and concentration. As though his subconscious mind doesn't know about the accident that paralysed him; about the fall that brought him frozen legs.

Each day nurses at the hospital coax his legs through tedious physiotherapy. Some days his progress is remarkable: for a few moments he can stand. Sometimes he can walk a short distance. But on most other days he must sit; and curse the feeble rate of his progress, and wonder when he will walk again.

Frankly speaking: this is how I've always felt about Toronto weather. The God damn icy winds, evenings that start at 4 pm, the coal-coloured snow caking the edges of streets, numb fingers and rivers of runny noses, and awkward trudging over unshovelled walks, and the heart-pounding realization that your car tires have forgotten the surface of the road, and the fact that everything takes longer in the winter, everyone is dumber in the winter, every God damn thing is one thousand times more difficult in the winter, and yes, it's much harder to stay warmer than get cooler you clods, and no, I don't think gentle snowfall in the evening is pretty, but a harbinger of a fucking season of death; a piercing, slow death, where the empty branches of trees reach up to the sky like skeleton hands, beginning for euthanasia, or a scarf, or chapstick -- in such conditions I can barely stand on my own two feet.

And summer, like the dream of being able to walk again, seems hopelessly distant. Perhaps I am being a bit overdramatic, but still. Winter blows.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Miranda: Just so you know, we're having a sale on mustard.
Harvey: Oh, thanks, but I'm trying to quit.
Miranda: You're trying to quit... mustard?
Harvey: It has an unforgiving hold on me. It's yellow cocaine.
Miranda: Well, you do tend to buy a lot. But are you sure you need to quit?
Harvey: Enabler! I have a problem. Why can't you respect that?
Miranda: It's buy two get one free.
Harvey: I'll take twelve.

Goblet rant

I hate wine glasses. I've broken three this week (three!) and frankly speaking, it's not my fault. Seriously, save it; I'm not doing anything wrong here. It's just that these things are way too delicate for the kitchens of the twenty first century. Or my kitchen, anyway. Look at their precious stems. I touched one with my elbow and it exploded into a thousand pieces -- like a rolling propane truck. I mean, seriously? Do they have to be this fragile? Another one cracked because it fell over in the kitchen sink. A basic topple; nothing more. If a vessel can't handle a simple ninety degree transformation -- fuck it. I'm hitting straight from the bottle.

And while we're on the subject. I hate tumblers. (I also hate the word "tumbler." And I especially hate the word "tumblr.") What is a tumbler? Is this a glass that tumbles? Am I meant to roll it haphazardly at my guests? It's stupid. Drinkware that are glass, are glasses. (I'm confident context will prevent confusion with the synonymous eyewear.) Drinkware that are plastic: go fuck yourself. I'll just drink out of my cupped palm, thanks. I can't even bear to say "tumbler"; the association with frosted (or non) plastic novelty cups from McDonald's is too strong.

Apparently in Britain the equivalent term is "beaker". I'll deal with that another time.

Drinking out of fishbowls is stupid. I drank one and one half Long island Tced Teas via fishbowl and got drunker than a Kennedy. The results were questionable. I told a girl I had just met that she looked "all right for a heavy chick", and that wasn't even true. (In downtown Hamilton, no less.) It was good times though. I suppose fishbowls aren't that bad.

I would also like to hate snifters, flutes, coupes and highballs. If a drink can't be appreciated in a pint glass, then I don't want any. (Stella Artois is a noteworthy exception to this.)

And don't even get me started on martini glasses. The glassware equivalent to high-heeled shoes. Those damn things drive me to drink.

Cheers!

Breakfast

I descended the stairs groggily, surprised at what I saw in the living room. Gerry and Marianne were fucking on the couch.

Now I guess this isn't all that shocking. The sexual tension between those two had been on the rise for some time now. Marianne was cute; her slender limbs were porcelain from never seeing the sun, and her mane of curly dark hair shook when she spoke in excited tones. (Which was often, because she studied sociology: the science of getting excited by recognizing basic patterns.) Now Gerry wasn't all that much to look at if you ask me. He was lanky dude with a blond mop for a haircut, a square jaw, and a serious common sense deficiency. He missed his first day of engineering because he didn't realize his classes were in different buildings. But he's a decent enough guy, I guess. We all moved in together in second year, I and I noticed the connection between those two even then.

I mean, it was hard not to notice: the casual flirting when they were preparing their dinners in our small kitchen, or the secret smiles to when we watched TV on the couch, or the emergence of tawdry innuendo on alcohol-fuelled nights. They probably didn't know it, but what was unfolding this morning, as I was about to grab breakfast and head to my first class, was inevitable.

But what was surprising was the squalid tableau: there they were, both porcelain limbs and lanky, wet with sweat, engorged with lust, smelling of sex, and most importantly: covered with what appeared to be peanut butter and chocolate. Marianne was wearing a violet-coloured strap-on also.

Half-empty condoms lay gasping on the coffee table and floor, punctuated by wrappers for Reese peanut butter cups. The stairs, as they always did, announced my arrival with pronounced creaks.

I could see Marianne's grip on Gerry's shoulders tighten as I made eye contact. Gerry's slowly raised his head towards me like a lead balloon. He wore an expression of fatigue and pain and guilt. As their mechanistic fucking slowed to a nervous and self-conscious muted thrusting, I made my way past the couch to the kitchen to fetch breakfast.

The couch springs had been silenced. The room that was erstwhile filled with moans, grunts, and the slap of sex toys against sphincters, was now overpowered by trivial noises spilling from the kitchen: the scrape of ceramic bowls sliding apart and the rustle of a cereal box against the counter. Listening carefully, you could even detect the heavier strike of raisins amidst the flakes of bran as they fell into the empty bowl.

I poured the milk, found a spoon, and lifted the bowl.

The two hadn't moved an inch. Now I normally eat in front of the TV, but I thought it better to leave these two alone than to enjoy my breakfast to a vista of peanut butter, chocolate and sex.

As I passed the couch, I looked directly into my bowl and pulled a spoonful of cereal to my mouth.

"We're breaking up, Marianne."

As I climbed up the stairs to finish my breakfast all you could hear was a sigh and the telltale creak of the steps.

On rejection

Why rejection is awesome:

• Valuable external assessment of self-worth
• Prevents elephantiasis of the ego
• More free time to pursue hobbies, eat ice cream
  
• According to Buddhism desire leads to sorrow. Freedom to desire is the path to enlightenment. Apparently.
• Keeps things "real"
• Provides fodder for acerbic lists
• I was going to dump her anyway. No really, this is totally for the best.
• God, I'm such a shithead.
• Think it's too soon to call?
• Don't call, you'll look like an idiot.
• But what if she's waiting for me to call? Then I'm going to blow any chance of us getting back together.
• Not that I necessarily want to, I'm just saying. This isn't my fault.
  
• Why do I always do this? God, Harvey, can't you keep your mouth shut for just one Thanksgiving dinner?

I'll finish this off later.

Real letters from real geeks

Dear purveyors of Budweiser,

Hey boys.  Long time drinker, first time writer.  Just wanted to say: saw your television commercial about that dude who drinks your beer and then is like, transported back in time to Salem, Massachussets where everyone's all "you're a witch", and he's like, "no, dude" and then his cell phone rings and again everyone's all "you witch!" and he's like "no, man, it's a text message".

Well, I gotta say, I got ya. Because for starters they totally didn't have cell phone towers that would be able to relay the message to like 200 years ago. So he totally could not get that text message.

But second, and more important, even if he could get that message, do you know what the consequences of inter-time communication would be? Don't even joke about that shit, man. It would be fuckin' insane.

Just imagine that that guy wasn't tied to a stake and about to be burned, and that he was able to reply to the text message.  Dude!  His friend in the 21st century could totally text him lottery numbers and shit!  And if his friend was writing a history exam, the dude could just text his friend the answers; from actual history!

That put my brain in a headspin.  I know you guys are about beer first, and that time-travel stuff isn't your forté.  No problem, I'm looking out for ya.  But seriously, you don't want to joke about this stuff.  The consequences are serious.  Imagine if the dude killed the guy who invented Budweiser beer.  Then there would be no commercial.  Wait, but then the guy couldn't kill the inventor of the beer.

Whoa.

Wicked beer guys,

Harvey

Religion reform #11

In the beginning, there was only the void: a realm of no matter, temperature, or time. And there was also a Toucan of many colours. And He squawked. And from His beak came light -- which spread in all directions and pushed through the endless void.

Thus was created time, heat, and light. Those are first three elements of the universe created by the Toucan. The Toucan was remarkably cavalier about the whole thing, and said:

I squawked and the universe came into existence. No big deal.

As the light spread the Toucan tried to enter the forming universe. But He was too large. The Universe was still no wider than the bristles of His feathers. The Toucan, just so you know, is gigantic.

But the Toucan is also patient, so He waited for the universe to expand. And waited. And waited for billions of years. Until one day, He became restless:

This fucking sucks.

And He decided to plan a way to keep entertained as the universe grew. The Toucan leaned His giant beak over the burgeoning cosmos and sneezed. This truly was a gross thing to do.

But the moist dew of his snot was alive with quarks and particles. And almost instantly -- billions of our years, actually -- in the swirling pool of the baby universe there was matter, and noise and life. The Toucan was satisfied. As the circle of light grew, the universe began to crawl with life.

And that's pretty much it. Anything else you need to know can pretty much be described by coincidence or arbitrary laws of the Toucan's concoction like:

- Matter cannot be created or destroyed or,
- You shouldn't wear socks with sandals

But I wouldn't read too much into it. For the Toucan clearly states:

There is but time, and light, and heat, and matter, and noise, and life. And honestly, beyond that there isn't a whole lot to do. (And I would know.)

Whatever dudes.

Inappropriate things to say to a man who just had his penis cleaved in two

For starters:

• Pal, no need to go off half-cocked.
• I'll just have half a hot dog, one is too much for me.
• Well, call me Suzie and chop my dick in two.
• (Sung in the voice of Scott Weiland) Well, I'm half the man I used to be.
• Hey guys. I just got back from my Large Penis Support Group meeting.
  
• I heard you got your penis chopped in two. You know that makes you 50% eunuch right?
• Hey Demi!
• Lovely weather we're having isn't it?

And also:

• Of course. I'd chop my penis off for another slice of tiramisu!
  

And obviously:

• Did it hurt?

I found this scrawled...

This note has been pinned to my cork board for a while now. I wrote it in seven minutes before going to sleep one night:

Think O.J. is bad after brushing your teeth? Try during. * Trying to save time during your morning commute? Bac'n'eggs smoothies. "I can taste the pancakes!" * Oh no! I spilled grapefruit juice on my shirt! You need INSTA-SHIRT: shirt in a bag. Open bag, remove shirt -- instant shirt! Thanks, INSTA-SHIRT! * What are you having for lunch? Baloney. Again. Have you tried BALONEY WONDER? What's that? Ha, don't ask dumb questions. BALONEY WONDER. * I don't care for comedy. Too much thinking. I prefer violence against the elderly. You KNOW how to feel about that. * Ever lose a quarter in a urinal? Tough decision isn't it? * Get in the car! Why? Do I always have to give you a reason? But I've never seen you before in my life! * Instead of giving to the poor, why don't we just NOT take from them. It's a little easier -- and it's a good thing. * This holiday season, get her drunk. * What's for dinner? It's CHURKEY! Chicken from Turkey! * Chicks dig comparisons that don't make sense. They're a lot like Belgians that way. * Trying to lose 50 lbs? Your leg is about 30. * Guilt-free desserts: unlike ice cream that kills.

I'm as confused as you are.

Girls, like opportunities

Should be jumped on immediately.

I know a guy...

...who sometimes pronounces analogies, "anal, oh-ghees". Like they were "ogies". That were somehow anal.

It's a disgrace.

Words I hate

Bugaboo. This stupid-sounding term pops up ever so occasionally, like the scrape of your hubcaps while parallel parking. And it's just as enjoyable.

As adults, I think we owe it to ourselves to talk like grown-ups.

(I understand it shares a root with "Bogeyman". This only lowers its value to me.)

Religion reform #10

In this very special Religion Reform, we ask the Toucan tough questions about life.

Is the only constant in life the pursuit of pleasure?

Of course. If you're doing anything contrary to the goal of getting PAID, then you're doing something wrong, son.

Will meat-eaters get into heaven?

No, but neither do most people over the age of fourteen. It's actually pretty lame up there.

What is the ultimate fate of the Universe?

Probably the same as the origin of the Universe: who gives a shit?

I love my husband, but my boyfriend understands me. What should I do?

Play them both until you get found out.

Why do hot dogs come in packages of ten and the buns in packages of eight?

For that, my son, you will have to wait.

Get a load

Am I the only one appalled by the Milk council's highly suggestive new slogan, "get a load"? I can't be the only one. This entire campaign has left me sickened.

The website implores me to "make a mooovie". Yeah, you'd like that wouldn't you? You freaks.

Observational humour about patently false things

For one thing, gay sex is everywhere. I mean it's in movies, on TV, it's in my porn. The stuff is ubiquitous. I encountered it in my damn kitchen when I got up yesterday. Dad, Eric, get a room!

But if it's not buggery, it's Pepsi. I've had it with this drink. Didn't coke win the cola wars like, eight years ago? Give up already: no one drinks Pepsi. The last time I tried to order a Pepsi, the waiter didn't know what I was talking about. He looked at me like made the whole thing up.

"It's dark, sweet, fizzy..."
"Coke?"
"No, but it's virtually identical. Some people have trouble telling them apart?"

I'm switching to beer.

And beer ads are getting ridiculous now, right? I mean have you seen this one ad? The one that's just a loop of graphic BDSM? I don't need half a minute of dungeon porn to convince me to buy beer; I would have got it anyway. We get it beer moguls: beer sells itself.

I'm switching back to coke.

Coordinational vortices

It can be really, really difficult talking to my friend Darryl:

Darryl: Harvey, I thought you for one would understand this.
Jim: Darryl, what you're saying doesn't make any sense.
Darryl: Harvey! Back me up here.
Harvey: So... what's your argument again?
Darryl: OK. When you're fighting one dude, it's man-to-man right?
Jim: Yes.
Harvey: Go on.
Darryl: And that's tough, right?
Jim: Of course.
Harvey: I guess.
Darryl: Well, it's tough because of the coordinating of fists, right? It's what called a "coordinational vortex".
Jim: Uhh...
Harvey: It's not called that, but go on.
Darryl: Anyway, the confines of the coordinational vortex are four dimensional, right? So that requires expertise. When you're manoeuvering --
Jim: Wait, four dimensional?
Darryl: Fuck. Harvey, you know what I'm talking about right?
Harvey: No, not really. But go on.
Darryl: Guys! Listen: you are fighting in three dimensions but you have to also battle your opponent in the fourth dimension: emotion.
Harvey: Of course.
Jim: Wait--what?
Darryl: And that's why it's easier to fight more than two people at once, than it is to fight one or two people. The dimensional splits result in... well, I don't need to get into it here.
Jim: What? What the fuck is he talking about Harvey?
Darryl: Jim, it's obvious. Have you ever tried to fight a group of guys? It's way easier than trying to take on only one or two.
Jim: I -- that just doesn't---
Darryl: Lookit, it's easy: less directive channeling along the forth dimension, coordinational vortices are lined up... I mean... do I have to draw you a fucking picture?
Jim: Harvey. Help.
Harvey: I gotta go.

Stream-of-consciousness recipe for banana pancakes

Ingredients:

• 1/2 cup marzipan efflorescence
• 1 tsp. bilingualism
• 1 cup marina water (briskly poured)
• sponges
• 1 whole box bis-quick
• banana jacks and jack's banana

Method:

1. Beware the scions of the early death's semester before embarking on said recipe.
2. Grease. Mix all ingredients in clay or metal lathe bowl and beat with vigor and determination. Let the birdlike smiles and simile destruction corrode alibi ramparts with drama all mine.
3. Heat frypan o'er flame where kissèd sun and malevolence fly. The victim and deficit breaks.
4. Add eggs to mix and pour liberal circles on heated frypan. Flip when edges are brown.
5. Recline in the miasma of breakfast aroma.

Serves 2-3

Eight word poetry

One line four words
The next four also

Don't revise don't edit
Just spit it out

A basic day make
Feed death drink eat

Splatter sauce screen door
Dinner aroma reunion picnic

Summer does fall into
Winter will spring away

The tempo of retox
Is come is gone

A moving living room
With airbags and belts

Racism is a way
Of turning back pages

Drugs are really only
Lonely is an excuse

The boyfriend is lost
But she is too

My addiction saves lives
When I torch beehives

Corruption is like friction
And friction like morality

Last year I wasted
Like I'm doing now

Eight short words can't
Even hold my plight

Expressions I hate

"A tit bit nipply".

Too dumb to comment on.

Religion reform #9

Offer low-sodium Eucharist. Jesus would have wanted you to keep tabs on your blood pressure.

An Atkins approved wafer would be nice too, but that ship has sailed has it not?

After spending time with Eve

Adam was walking in the Garden with God. He told God how much the newly created woman means to him and how blessed he feels to have her. Adam began to ask God questions:

Adam: Lord, Eve is beautiful. Why did you make her so beautiful?
God: So you will always want to look at her.
Adam: And Lord, her skin is so soft. Why did you make her skin so soft?
God: So you will always want to touch her.
Adam: She always smells so good. Lord, why did you make her smell so good?
God: So you will always want to be near her.
Adam: That's wonderful Lord, and I don't want to seem ungrateful, but why did you make her so stupid?
God: So she would love you.

Adam pondered this for a moment.

Adam: That doesn't make any sense.
God: Now go, cultivate the Garden, and keep it safe.
Adam: No, no, hold up. Was that supposed to be some kind of an insult? Like you're trying to be clever or something?
God: Son...
Adam: Because, you know, you created me too, so I'm not exactly sure how that's an insult.
God: She is only human, Adam. She is of bone taken from your bone, and flesh from your flesh.
Adam: That doesn't explain why she's retarded. And look, if you didn't want us to eat from the tree of knowledge, why did you create it? Am I missing something? Honestly God, I really don't understand how you operate sometimes.

And God rolled his eyes, having experienced man's philosophy for the first time.

God: Listen, my work is done; deal with it. If you don't mind, I'm going to go take a long nap.

Foot in mouth syndrome

And as our lips parted...

Harvey: Wow.
Lydia: What is it?
Harvey: I just, I can't believe that I'm going home with a girl like you.

She laughed.

Lydia: Why?
Harvey: Well, let's face it, you're a little out of my league.

Lydia's eyes narrowed. She looked confused. I backtracked.

Harvey: No, no-- I mean I'm out of your league.

Oddly, that also didn't sound right. Her hands slid away from my hips.

Harvey: No, no. Listen, I had it right the first time. What I'm trying to say is: I shouldn't even be near a girl like you.

Lydia's eyes remained wide and still.

Harvey: In a good way! Right? You get what I'm saying? I'm the riff raff, here. You know? I'm not explaining myself correctly.

My forehead moistened.

Harvey: What I mean is that you are in a superior league to my own, one in which I should not play, er, not because I don't want to, of course --of course-- I really want to, you have no idea. I was just saying, commenting really, idly, I wasn't even trying to-- I was just saying that it's funny--

And then nervous laughter on my part.

Harvey: --that you and I even got together tonight you know? Considering the insurmountable... er...

Lydia stood before me now, arms at her sides, mouth agape, eyes bemused.

Harvey: Anyway, enough talk. We should--
Lydia: I should go.
Harvey: Of course.

Words I don't hate

Blunderbuss! You'd think I have cause to execute its use more often. I'm putting it on my to do list. Right below:

• Empty recycle bin (on desktop)
• Invent and implement metric time
• Get part-time job at Walmart, form union
• Redefine prog rock for the twenty-first century
• Pick up 1% milk
• Use "niggardly" in a sentence
• Embrace the summer: buy a firearm
• Engage in "jiggery-pokery"
• Reduce quotation mark "usage" by 30%
• Apologize to you-know-who for you-know-what
• Use "blunderbuss" in a sentence (preferably accusatorily)
  

I know it's a short list. I'm efficient.

It's a living

Steve: Hey Dave, what’s up?
Dave: Hey, what’s up Steve?
Steve: I want you to meet my friend James, he’s a child porn dealer.
Dave: He what?
Steve: He sells child porn. So what?
Dave: Well, I just—
Steve: Go on. I know what you were going to say. You were going to judge him, just like everyone else does. James is too nice to say anything but he’s put up with shit like this for too long.
James: Uh, Steve, I --
Steve: No, James. Please. Let me finish.
Dave: Steve, not again, this is crazy --
Steve: The only thing crazy here, is the sheer hypocrisy that James endures every day. All he’s trying to do is feed himself, and you won’t allow him to do that. Am I the only one furious at this double-standard? All he does is sell-underage porn. What is so terrible about giving young people an opportunity to work and make a name for themselves in the entertainment industry? Did you ever think of the opportunities available through this work -- to go on to bigger and better things? Instead, we regard hard-working people --like James here--

James cringes.

Steve (cont.): as social pariahs and worse: we treat them as criminals. You know he's not even involved in the creative process and he's still vilified? For what? Selling a product with a demand? Vendors --

Steve gestures. James begins to protest but he is drowned out.

Steve (cont.): are condemned by society. Not to mention his lack of presence in the creative process! Are cigarette vendors unethical for selling cigarettes? They just give people the option to choose for themselves. That's what democracy is all about, man: choice. This country was built on it. All James does is allow people to choose the porn the most desire, even if it is in the form of pre-pubescent sluts.
James: Um...
Dave: Are you finished?
Steve: Yeah.

Dave turns to James and eyes him carefully.

Dave: Weren't we in the same basketball league last season? I think you were on my friend Dale's team.
James: Oh, yeah. We almost took you guys out in the playoffs.
Dave: You don't sell child porn, do you?
James: No! Not at all. I work at Circuit City. I'm not sure what all this was about.
Steve: Look it doesn't matter if he works at Circuit City. I'm talking about his rights --
Dave: Don't mind Steve. His father put him and his brothers through college selling kiddie porn. He's just trying to make a point.
Steve: Fuck off, man.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: Life's funny you know.
Miranda: How's that?
Harvey: Well, look at us. Every day fussing over dollars and cents and our morning coffee when there is an infinity beyond us overhead. Life truly is: "A brief flash of lush foam/On a cold stone/In a vast and soundless void."
Miranda: What's that? A poem?
Harvey: Oh, that? I just came up with that now.
Miranda: Lovely.
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: So...
Miranda: No! Not a chance. You buy breakfast here every day; you know how much it costs.
Harvey: Fine, take back the muffin. I'll just take the coffee.

You perish ignited

Indeed, I uttered to merry Jane
It will be long so let's play a game
So while I sit fuming merrily
You perish
Ignited
Between my teeth

I lift you up off the yonder plate
Ensconced by fingers your fragile weight
Our breaths transposèd amidst our kiss
Your sweet death
By my hand
Your slow dismiss

But lo! And this is where you came in
Before embarking on mortal sin
I was a suicide referee
My sweet death
By my hand
My own marquee

Alas, I could never sign the mark
The note expected to flame the dark
Instead I fold you and speak your name
You perish
Ignited
You take the blame

Morning meditation

My eyes unclose to a wash of
Cool white sun through thick clouds
The light rolls along my face, I
Muster to meet the day
I appoint my fingers to the
window; my drowsy eyes
Follow them to cold dewy pane
Streets below are froze dead

Despite all reports that she's gone
Winter's love clings like sludge
This tardy spring has not sprung, I
Muster to meet the day
As my fingers leave the damp glass
I ponder: will it end?
And I ask, aloud, to God, as
Streets below stay froze dead:

"What the fuck is wrong with this country?

Words I hate

The term, "wobbly pops." As in:

"So I says to him, I'm explaining to the cop, 'yeah, maybe I had a coupla wobbly pops; I'm just waiting for my daughter, and she doesn't finish school 'til like three-thirty. What am I supposed to do for three hours? Right? Well, I musta said something wrong, or he ran my plates and saw my priors, 'cause next thing you know I'm face down in the mall parking lot and the asshole's cuffing me. I was pretty blitzed so I didn't bother wrestling the guy, besides I got an appearance in a month and this wouldn't help -- but Gooner, riding shotgun, pulls a broom handle outta nowhere. Whatever. Long story short, it was a clusterfuck. I should plant some coke on the ex, so I can just get custody and not have to worry about this bullshit anymore. It'd be fucking easy. So yeah: Mondays."

Religion reform #8

Sometimes, even I am brought down by the burden of free-thinking and the ennui of too-much-free-time-not-praying -- and it gets to me. It occurred to me that I went all yesterday without even once pondering the nature of my existence or whether my creator was satisfied with what I have been doing with it so far. Especially considering all I did instead was analyze clips on Redtube, and play with a whiffle ball and hair dryer for forty-five minutes.

So, know what? I'm diving in: I am going to join the flock of God's children in their drowsy march through Religion's glorious machinations. And damnit, I'm going to do it better than everybody else. I'm going to pray your fucking face off, God-lovers. Just try and stop me.

I will fast, I will light candles, I will pepper idols with appropriate gewgaws, I will make offerings, I will cry incantations, I shall get on my knees and pray -- and mostly -- I will pad my weekends with wholesome filler. And avoid Redtube. And drinking scotch with my Raisin Bran.

But let's face it, on the briefest inspection all the options out there suck donkeys. With the sole exception of Rastafarianism (Scientology of the Stoned) I'm not sure I could sign on to any of the Top 10 without succumbing to pangs of nausea or fits of awkward laughter or both.

So in classic hipster-douchebag DIY fashion, I will create my own religion.

Already code-named "Toucan", the new religion must and will include:

• a commitment to comfortable clothing.
• an inclusive attitude towards all peoples, beliefs, customs, lifestyles and political values. Except filthy Poles.
• a drink only adherents know how to make; its secret passed orally to the most ardent and senior followers. (For the record, it shall taste a lot like a long Island Ice tea, but I don't think there'll be as much rum in it.)
• the ability to pray from the comfort of your own computer.
• a kick ass logo. (I'm thinking sideways checkmark.)
• Fajita Fridays.
• an Esperanto dictionary and Dvorak keyboard.
• heavy censure on the miraculous bullshit.
• mandatory hugs/high-fives/low-fives/ass-slaps.
• The Toucan equivalent of X-ian rock: Toucan Rock.
• A holy land the size of Virginia. Perhaps even, Virginia.
  

I think that's a good start. I just need to flesh out my role as prophet, and sort out some tax things, and I'll be well on my way.

But is it art?

Roger: You won’t guess who’s designed the Place Mats for that new restaurant on Elm Street.
Clive: Why you? How did you acquire that plum job?
Roger: Well, I haven’t yet. But I will. I’m showing them my work tomorrow.
Clive: Roger, it is my understanding in-house artists are responsible for that kind of thing.
Roger: Clive, my designs are infallible. They are, to grossly understate the case, sublime.
Clive: It has been well put by myself and others Rog; visual arts aren't really your thing.
Roger: What are you talking about? I am a natural in all things image.
Clive: A natural? I remember that "elephant" you drew in grade three...
Roger: You always bring that up.
Clive:...it looked like an upside down melting pyramid. Where is the elephant in that?
Roger: (sighs.) Did you ever consider the elephant within? Or that maybe one has to look further than the limits of the uninitiated mind? That perhaps, contained in the geometry of the shapes you didn’t – no, refused to – understand was the inchoate Idea of the elephant? What would you prefer? Let me guess, Archetypal Pablum -- the capital-E Elephant bedizened with clichés -- all Trunk, Floppy Ears, Thick Cylinder Legs, non? But of course. You and your cabal of Intellectual Thought Police. “However will we tell what it is?” You are a victim of the acritochromacy of Reason, sir. Your world is Black and White, and I daub from the variegated palette of Free Thought. I am a rara avis in your work-a-day world/prison/life, and I refuse to stare fixedly at the ground while the Powers That Be dictate the intendment of my work. For art is the craft of implication; of aesthetics derived from a creative promenade through the artist’s psyche -- should you be fortunate enough to warrant invitation. My elephant wasn’t merely represented by that “upside down melting pyramid” as you call it. It was Manifested by its geometry and form, and lack of form; a pachydermal tesseract that transcends traditional notions of Depiction.
Clive: I see.
Roger: Irregardless, that was the third grade. I have much improved.
Clive: Have you?
Roger: Quite.
Clive: Well, these Place Mats sound positively cosmic in scope. Can I see one?
Roger: I think not.
Clive: What? You were just waxing magniloquent about your Art. Let’s see one. I plan to eat at this place, and I want to know what I'm in store for.
Roger: No, I don't think you will appreciate it.
Clive: Let’s just see it.
Roger: Fine.



Clive: An... elephant?
Roger: It’s a steak sandwich. Please Lord, deliver this tortured poet from the folly of his sightless brethren.

Fables with modern morals

A boy and his cat

young and foolish child was amusing himself among his father's effects, though he was forbidden to do so. He came upon a fat ball of twine and decided to play a game.Taking his family's cat outside into the sun, he tied one end of the string around its neck and shooed the cat away. As the the family pet ran, it pulled the string behind it and the child laughed as the ball of twine shrunk, spinning in his hands.

But soon the cat was out of sight and the child was left holding a long yellow string. He cried for the cat's return, but it did not come. Growing tired the little boy began to pull the string back toward him to fetch the cat. But after tugging the entire length of string, the cat was gone.He was sobbing when his parents returned home and they rightly scolded him, saying "what a naughty and foolish thing you have done!" The child cried at his folly, and the cat was gone forever.

Moral: keep your pussy in sight, and on a short leash, dude.

What's your favourite brand of underwear?

The only thing worse than insipid questions asked at parties are the appeals to get you to answer them. Don't giggle and tell me that you and your bobble-headed friend are doing an "impromptu survey," unless you want to be on the receiving end of a lifetime of enmity. Please also don't preface your flawed statistical endeavour by saying you're doing "research" or a "scientific investigation." I already hate you and your amateur data collection. Appealing to the spirit of scientific progress won't help.

Nor is adding the senseless condition: "what if you had to choose?" This often follows the Would You Rather (WYR) family of Fun Questions to ask at mixers and other social gatherings:

Bib: Would you rather have sex with your dog, or murder one of your parents?
Bub: Both seem pretty abhorrent to me. I think I'll pass on both.
Bib: No, no: what if you had to choose?

What the fuck? Now look, I understand the intricacies of these dilemmas, and I'm not oblivious to the entertainment value in dissecting them. (An aside: a girl in our circle once revealed that she would sooner fornicate with a horse than with her first cousin -- in marked contradistinction to the other respondents. I immediately dubbed her Horses Over Cousins (H.O.C.) and she became a pariah overnight.)

What I take issue with is :

• the kind-of-insulting notion that I might actually someday, somehow, be forced to confront such an asinine issue, and
• the use of imperative-language addenda as a strategy to encourage a response to a question some doesn't want to/can't be bothered to answer, and
• the fact that I am forced into a bizarre Kubrickian thought experiment to suit the content of the inquiry.
  

(I suppose I don't really have to bother with this last bit. But I do.)

It was a simpler question, and not a WYR, that prompted one such thought experiment last weekend. It went like this:

"So?"
"I don't actually have a preference."
"Sure you do. Everyone does."
"I don't. In fact, I really don't give a rusty fuck."
"C'mon. What if you had to choose?"

Fuck me. I picture myself... as a secret agent perhaps. Not James Bond, though. No, this mission won't be so easy. Instead of a tux, I'm almost naked -- in ripped pants and bare feet -- crouched on the floor of a Turkish prison cell. My wrists and ankles are bound tight with thick prickly rope and I'm soaking wet. The guards douse me with a bucket of water almost every hour. I haven't been dry since the moment I got here, three days ago. At least I think it's been three days. It's hard to tell. There aren't any windows, only a few bare bulbs dangling dimly on the other side of the bars. My stomach growls, but I've already eaten the parts of the bread not black with mold.

I wake up to the rapping of a nightstick against the cold bars of my cell. The mustachioed guard yells my name, and some other words I can't understand. I raise my eyes slowly to meet his. He is gently laying boxer shorts by Tommy Hilfiger on the stone floor on the other side of the bars. Another guard walks up behind him, a bouquet of Jockey briefs trapped in his thick muscled fist. I watch the guards in a daze. I am covered in sweat and my ribs ache from the nightly beatings. I ponder the plastic capsule tucked in the recesses of my anus.

"Fine, Fruit of the Loom." I took a long sip of my drink.

The Turkish prison was wiped away, and my thoughts inevitably filled with stock images of grown men in fruit costumes, cavorting without shame. And just as automatically, my memories floated back to the discount stores of my youth, to bins overflowing with boxers and briefs and what-have-you. And for some reason [drugs --Ed.] I amused myself with the thought of a beast slowly arising from one such bargain bin of underthings: a monster of unmentionables. Standing in the bowels of Biway, me and the other customers feel a low rumbling under our feet. The pile of undies ascends, and the rumbling grows louder, finally escaping as a roar, through a hole near the monster's bulbous head. Dozens of puckering mouths form in the writing body of the beast, a protoplasm of gussets and elastic waists --

I blinked, reminded of FTL's low quality elastic.

"Wait, can I change my answer?" I asked out loud, but the girl was gone. I took another long sip of my drink, but it was gone too. I absently swirled the ice at the bottom of my glass.

The second last temptation of Christ

A rare nugget of spiritual teaching from my childhood:

Harvey: Daddy, where did the Easter bunny come from, and why does he leave chocolate eggs for me to find?
Dad: Son, long ago there was a man named Jesus Christ. The prophets foretold his birth, and that he was the Messiah. He was God's only son, and he came to Earth to redeem man and die for his sins, which he did when he was crucified by the Romans--
Harvey: Daddy? What about the Easter bunny?
Dad: I'm getting to that, son. You see, Jesus was nailed to the cross, where he bled to death. And as he was dying, he was growing delirious, and weak, and he cried out: "There will be bunnies! And they shall leave chocolate in orbs. Come to the chocolate, and find it. The Kingdom of God will wait for those with eggs. On Judgment Day you will need those eggs. And there will be cream filled varieties as well."
Harvey: Really?
Dad: Yes. And then he died, but they lost him or something, and now he's in Heaven with God. Or somewhere in the Middle East. Now go to bed, son.

Of mosquitoes and meat (canned)

Many summers ago, when I was a child, I remember asking my older (and wiser) cousin just what the point of mosquitoes was.

"So the birds have something to eat," was his calm and learned reply.

And standing in the hot sun --scratching my forearms and neck with vehemence-- I suddenly understood how everything, including pests, seemed to have a function in life. No matter how irritating or obscure, everything had a purpose, though perhaps beyond the comprehension of my tiny child mind.

But being older (and wiser) now, I'm not sure where spam fits in. I don't mean the lunch meat from Hormel -- which serves to feed poor Britons -- but rather unwanted electronic mail.

For what birds are these pests nourishment? Most of the time my Bulk Unsolicited Mail (BUM) takes the form of Faulkneresque streams-of-consciousness, or at the opposite end of the spectrum, cold calls for Viagra in pidgin English. Today however, I received this pointed missive in my box, addressed to me and six other lucky recipients:

I hate to be the bearer of bad news but if you
are not making at least $1500 or more per week
from your own place then you haven't listened to
my message yet so shame on you...but you can make
a wrong right by giving me 2 minutes of your time.

This is so easy is crazy. As long as you have a phone
you too can do this. Best of all..

No Selling
No Cold Calls
No trying to recruit your friends and family.

So quit wasting precious time and call to listen.
866.727.89O8

Huh. I sure don't earn a grand and a half a week sitting at home. Come to think of it, I earn nothing. Am I wasting precious time? I asked myself rhetorically. No, no, wait. I'm sure I'll have to sell something to make this work.

What's this? No selling? No cold calls, even?

I call the number.

Voice of Opportunity: Good afternoon, thank you for calling Marshall—
Harvey: Good afternoon to you. I'm looking to speak with Kent?
Voice of Opportunity: I'm sorry, who?
Harvey: Kent. Kent .

I emphasize the name in the same manner one might say, "Television? Perhaps you’ve heard of it?"
Voice of Opportunity: I'm sorry sir. We don’t have anyone here with that name.
Harvey: Unbelieveable. He told me to call here about an amazing opportunity. Also, I think I owe him, like, three grand. I just want to know how to send it to him.
Voice of Opportunity: Uh, sir, how did you get this number?
Harvey: Can you take a message for Steve?
Voice of Opportunity: Steve?
Harvey: (Exasperated) Steve is the same as Kent. Can you take a message?
And with a surprisingly cordial air he said:
Voice of Opportunity: Of course. Go right ahead.
I proceed as if leaving voicemail:

Harvey: Kent, this is Harvey, Harvey Kornbluth. I want you to know that I am ab-satively pos-olutely revved up to hop on board. Give me a shout so we can pull the trigger on this bitch. Hit me at at XXX-XXX-XXXX again, that's Harvey Kornbluth at XXX-XXX-XXXX. We met on the beach in Oahu? I am looking forward to your call at your earliest convenience. Please do not call me before eleven in the morning.

As I pause in completion the man on the other line starts to talk. I can’t hear him because I am busy pressing pound for more options.

Voice of Opportunity: Sir? Um. Sir?
Harvey: Kent is that you?
Voice of Opportunity: No, it's still me. I will forward your message for you. Is there anything else I can help you with?
Harvey: Yes, damnit. Can you please tell me about this opportunity that will change my life?

I would tell you here that he spoke at length about Ponzi schemes and reselling Beanie Babies, but in truth I called the number twice and just got a disconnected tone. Fine. Maybe I called more than than that.

Sunday nights can be dull you know.

I wonder how the other six fared.

Ships, Passing

Palms flat on the front door of her apartment, her ear hovering close to the painted wood, her soft grey eyes--encircled with lines that crinkled when she was concerned or laughing--were unfixed and wandering.

From the opposite end of the long corridor, her across-the-hall neighbour, Harvey, approached. He smiled, inwardly; the sight of Celica was sweet recompense for a difficult day. He was fond of his neighbour -- too fond, in fact, but he hid it well.

They met on the first day of school, on exchange in Rotterdam. They both lived in the student apartments on campus -- a dormitory for grown-ups. Having only arrived the night before the first day of classes, Harvey had returned from his first day exhausted and loathe to begin unpacking. Celica returned to find the long-closed across-the-hall door finally opened, with the promise of life within. She walked into the apartment. Harvey heard her voice and turned around.

"Hi," she had said.

Harvey was on his knees surrounded with bric-a-brac, seemingly embarrassed for owning it.

"The mess..." he winced, "er, this stuff isn't really mine. I hate it all. I only bring it with me because I love luggage."

Celica laughed. She had settled in month ago and was an experienced veteran compared to Harvey. Though she was a complete stranger, she made him feel comfortable in his new surroundings. He remembered standing up to greet her, and offering his hand. But Celica had a warmth that made the gesture seem awkward and unnecessarily formal. They had clasped hands amused at the distinguished action.

Harvey was disgusted with his pile. "I hate all this stuff," he said. "the only thing I actually need is a stereo and that's the one thing I didn't have room for in my luggage.

And Celica's eyes ignited with inspiration. "I'll be right back".

Celica disappeared through the front door of Harvey's apartment. Before Harvey could process that she had left, she quickly reappeared with a large grey radio in her arms, its power cord dragging along the carpet behind her.

"Now, the CD player doesn't work. The tape player does, but I'm sure you don't have any. But you can use the radio. The radio stations here are pretty wild."

"Thanks," said Harvey taking the large radio from her arms. He placed it gingerly near his mountain of belongings. "I'm Harvey."

"Celica." The she heard someone call her name from outside the apartment.

"I'll talk to you later," she said, and flitted away.

Harvey continued down the Hall, still thinking about the day he met Celica. Celica stood in the hallway braced against her apartment door. Perhaps she had forgotten her keys. He tried again to catch her glance; to get her attention. He said her name,

"Celica,"

With a half-whispered shout down the hall. She didn't hear. He grasped for her wandering gaze, but she looked instead to the ceiling; her fingers tensed against the surface of her apartment door. Then strangely, she echoed dryly,

"Celica,"

Quite matter-of-fact. And Harvey, nearing, and confused, repeated,

"Celica?"

His voice inquisitive and softer. He slowed his advance, slightly, as if to elongate the corridor along which he walked.

Celica leaned her head against the door, as though trying to hear inside. While she listened, at last, her eyes met Harvey's. She smiled.

It would turn out that Celica and Harvey would have a few classes together. She was a year older than Harvey and hailed from Indiana. She thought Harvey's Canadian accent was intriguing and was forever exhorting him to say "about". He certainly hated this, but liked just about everything else about Celica. She was blond, and wise, and warm.

Back in the hallway, she spoke again,

"Celica!"

Loudly. Harvey's confusion further slowed his pace. She pronounced again,

"Celica!"

Even louder. And her eyes rolled to the door, anticipating. As Harvey neared, he spoke in a normal voice. He began to ask,

"Isn't that your name?"

But Celica, startled, moved a step back from the opening door. A tall and drowsy man swayed in the doorway. Frank looked down at Celica with a blurry gaze.

"Hey, you," and after pausing to rub his half-closed eyes, "I was sleeping."

He yawned for a long time. And in the time it took for Frank to exhale, Harvey had traversed the remainder of the long corridor. Harvey found himself standing across from Celica and Frank, fumbling with the keys to his flat.

Celica sighed and chuckled slightly at the oafish Frank drowsily teetering in her threshold. "Go back to bed," she said with a sigh, and gave his big chest a gentle push. Frank retreated into the darkened apartment. Celica turned around to face Harvey, and smiled at him in the afternoon light.

And Harvey, with his keys in his lock, smiled back sheepishly. He was fond of Celica, though he hid it well.

* * *

I got a postcard from her about a year after that. She and Frank were teaching in a village of about 1 000 people. I wrote back. And so did she. And thus began a correspondence that would pull me between the wings of a plane, into the jaws of Texas, through the arms of Celica and on to my legs in retreat.

It seems the power of correspondence is also its fatal flaw: the interlocking of dialogue and ideas, like the teeth of a zipper, is nothing but the blueprint of a beautiful ship. It's ether. In reality, when all is said and built, we suffer the creaking hull and frown at the sails sagging in the weak wind, and wonder what the hell happened.

It turned out we were on different ships altogether. And when they passed, they passed closely, the hulls nudging gently with a dull watery thud that cracked every surface of my vessel. She waved goodbye as her ship shrunk in the horizon, but I stood arms-folded, my legs growing cold with the rising water.

Christmas in your mouth

It can be really, really difficult talking to my friend Darryl:

Darryl: Have you ever tried to... you know?
Harvey: What?
Darryl: You know...
Harvey: Hm. Nope. I think you have to be more specific.
Darryl: Go down...
Harvey: Yes?
Darryl: On... yourself?
Harvey: Christ. No, not ever.
Darryl:: Bullshit, you obviously have.
Harvey: What? How common is this practice?
Darryl: C'mon; you wouldn't suck your own dick if you could?
Harvey: I would not.
Darryl: Once again, bullshit. You give yourself handjobs don't you?
Harvey: No, Darryl. Those aren’t handjobs. No more than looking at yourself in a mirror is voyeurism.
Darryl: What if you could just suck your own dick – just once. Would you?
Harvey: That doesn't sweeten the deal, Darryl. What are you getting at?
Darryl: I did it.
Harvey: Christ in heaven.
Darryl: Last night, I finally did it.
Harvey: Well, congratulations. Was it everything you hoped it would be?
Darryl: In fact--
Harvey: Actually: shut up, dude.
Darryl: Don’t you wanna know what happened?
Harvey: You twisted your body to allow your penis to enter your mouth. Anything further--
Darryl: No, man. It's so much more than that.
Harvey: Please don't elaborate.
Darryl: It was like landing on the moon.
Harvey: I'm sure that's an apt comparison.
Darryl: No really, the thrill of just barely getting it in--
Harvey: You have to stop talking.
Darryl: Well, I'm sorry if the idea of being able to blow myself makes you uncomfortable.
Harvey: Christ.
Darryl: It was skydiving from the top of Mount Everest.
Harvey: Really.
Darryl: It was like Christmas, man. Like Christmas fucking Day.
Harvey: I don’t really celebrate—
Darryl: It was like when your mom brings you breakfast in bed when you’re sick from school.
Harvey: Dear God.
Darryl: Um.
Harvey: I gotta go, Darryl.

On dilly-dallying and procrastination

Let's face it, I'm presently blocked like a bran-less uncle. Instead of writing, I've squandered the past few weeks straightening out my trinkets, drinking, recovering from drinking, finding and using opportunities to play Guitar Hero, and not-vomiting. There is also some casual drug use thrown in there. But no writing.

And almost as though with purpose, I have snatched each free moment from the task of writing and doled it carelessly to some other lesser duty --like the aforementioned drinking and trinket-straightening. I face the blank page like an erstwhile lover and think to myself: I never really loved you, did I? Damnit, how am I gonna get back my stuff?

Well, enough is enough. Here are some of the ideas percolating in my head, that we can expect to see in the near future:

• Definitive recipe(s) for general success at everything
• Autobiographical rap
• Libretto to comic opera: "The Vainglorious Defeats of Freddie Fred Frederickson, Champion Bowler."
• Rant equating Steven Malkmus to the Devil
• Short story about a dwarf entitled "Short Story"
• Listery and other compilification
• Theory of everything
• Libel
  

This should in some small part motivate me off the soft drugs, and into the soft folds of creative endeavor. (Not quite sure what that means.) I just have to get some not-vomiting out of the way, and I'll get right to it.

Boxed in

I revisited an old piece I wrote called "On the merits of graph paper."

I remember my first graph paper -- though I'm sure you don't. I was a little boy of about five years old, and my mother (who thought it best that I avoid the pratfalls of the playground) got me a ream of quad-ruled graph paper and a new carton of black crayons. I was thrilled: black was my favourite colour, followed closely by white. (Even at a young age, my conservative values were evident.)

Now, I was happy to skip the out-of-doors and draw all afternoon. But this paper before me was curious. I spent a few minutes cross-legged on the hardwood floor inspecting it. I had only ever experienced construction paper and wallpaper as media before and the possibilities contained in this new, line-y paper excited me. I didn’t understand the purpose of those little blue squares, but they were pretty neat.I lay prone in our living room armed with my new stack and the carton of untouched crayons. I was excited: for an indoor cat like me new crayons are second only to new socks. I pried open the carton with a level of care not typically befitting a five-year-old. Not that I was precocious or anything; I also remember testing a few fresh crayons with a bite.

The waxy-good taste notwithstanding, I set to work. My first drawings were clearly oblivious to the perpendicularity beneath. Just fat black circles. A few triangles too, but mostly wildly drawn loops, big ones, redoubled and thick. The minority of triangles were thin and erratic and resembled little huts.

And then I noticed the blue lines.I put down my dulled crayon, its wrapper peeling, and touched my fingers to the page, as if I expected the gridlines to be warm or have some texture or something. But there was nothing. The lines were just there. My young mind couldn’t see a point to the grid. After all, I had not yet learned how to write and plotting graphs was an activity I would wait much longer to enjoy. I unleashed a crayon and started to experiment.I began by tracing a single blue line. I pushed the crayon along as though guiding a soldier to safety. I was careful, steady, and exact. After a few centimetres of travel I looked at my handiwork, satisfied. For probably the first time in my short life I had drawn a straight line. I tried again, this time at right angles from the line just drawn. To the graph paper Gods (possibly) watching, my intention must have been clear: I was drawing a box.

I was soon a box works. With almost maniacal fervour, I was smothering each leaf with dozens of four-sided figures. Some were rectangles to be sure, but most were cute squares. For the rest of the afternoon that's all I would draw. It was deeply satisfying ending a line, turning sharply and beginning again. And nothing could beat the thrill of meeting a perpendicular line head on at the corner. I drew squares in every way I could, each one perched gingerly on that textureless grid of blue. Eventually, I think I had gone through thirty pages.

And as I immersed myself in the craft of box-making, I lowered my head close to the page, my eyes chaperoning each line drawn (at what my mother would no doubt consider too close a distance). So close to the grid, I imagined myself standing in its midst, watching giant crayons float by like ominous zeppelins. And my legs would shake, along with the whole expanse of my paper world, as the colossal crayons converged with the land and dragged along the gridlines like gliding black elephants. Of course, I was safe; standing far from the edge of any blue lines. But it wouldn’t be long before a short wall of flaky black wax would materialize beside me. Then I would run. I always managed to rush out of each box just before it could close around me; before it could trap me in forever. But nowhere on the page was safe. They followed me everywhere. The massive crayons were unstoppable.

Nor could I stop. I considered drawing triangles again, or anything else, but it was too easy and pleasing to follow those lines. I drew more and more squares. And though I tried, there were no other shapes in my head. Orphaned ideas sat crumpled by my side and the suns and tepees that had littered my floor were covered by a blanket of perfect black squares.

* * *

Twenty years later I get a package in the mail from a faraway friend: a pad of quad-ruled graph paper wrapped in twine. (Clearly, she knows me well.) The gift is meant to inspire, but it can't. I try to write a story, a poem, and even try to draw a simple picture, but it doesn't come.

Not barely a ream, and the pad sits before me, blank, save for the orange glow of the setting sun outside; and I am stuck inside. I follow the lines with my pen absently. Once again I'm boxed in. And though I've outgrown the gridlines on the page, I can vaguely feel the presence of the black monsters looming overhead.I'm blocked.

Every attempt at creativity brings to mind the image of a whirling circle, or stabbed-out triangle obscured by pages of black squares. Like a dense snowfall has enveloped my house: and I am trapped inside.I look at my pad on my desk, and at the unravelled twine, and at the last remaining glint of the setting sun through my bedroom window, and sigh. The crayons are looming and I cannot evade them. I barely manage to scurry before another descends to trap me in. I put down my gift, my pad of graph paper, and retire. I am boxed in.

At the buzzer

I'm going to squeeze in a couple of quick resolutions before this year skids away like a garbage truck on an icy cul-de-sac. I've already made a few public resolutions (learn to swim, lower my sugar intake, curb my enthusiasm, etc.) that basically pay lip service to that hackneyed idea of self improvement. But that's not what resolutions are about. They're about damming the floodgates; a new year's resolution that works Slams On The Brakes more than it Gently Accelerates to a better you.

What I really want to accomplish this year:

• Stop (that is, cease) fucking 20 year olds, if only for the dearth of post-coital conversation.
• Abandon the idea of becoming a modern (pronounced in that fey, British way) renaissance man. Pick a lane and drive in it.
• Make the effort to let people know that my air of callous indifference is the product of laziness and not malevolence.
• Stop scowling. It does not make me look (that) sexy.
• Stop complaining and start com-play-ning! (I don't know what this means.)
• Seriously, for the last time: lose the parentheses.

And what I quietly resolve every year: turn down some road not yet taken, with eyes wide open, and make it though the bumps and slapping of splintering branches with my wits and spirit intact.

Maybe that last one is a bit of the old gas pedal. Sue me.

My conversation with God (already in progress)

Harvey: Look, I get it. But don't you want us all to be happy?
God: That's not --
Harvey: Just answer the fucking question, dude.
God: I will not be interrupted.
Harvey:
God:
Harvey: OK, sorry about that. What were you saying?
God: It doesn't matter anymore.
Harvey: No, come on, I'm sorry. I'll let you talk. Please go on.
God: I was going to say: that's not important to true happiness. You must realise Harvey, that there is more to your existence than pleasuring women, and having money, and Dance Dance Revolution.
Harvey: Really?
God: Yes.
Harvey: Yeah, right. Like what?
God: You must try to find peace amidst the chaos--
Harvey: Bullshit dude you-- oh, shit. Sorry about that.
God:
Harvey: Dude. Please go on.
God: You have closed your mind to understanding.
Harvey: Look, clearly this conversation is just stressing us both out. Can we change the subject?
God: Fine.
Harvey: Are you mad? Look, I'm sorry.
God: I am not angry.
Harvey: Are you sure? You seem angry at me.
God: The creations of this world are holy and blameless in my sight.
Harvey: Right, so we're good. Sweet. So what are you up to later?
God: I am a timeless being, Harvey. I cannot experience the passage of time.
Harvey: Oh, here we go. I'm just making small talk! Why do you have to pull this omnipotent being shit all the time?
God:
Harvey: Are you still mad because I interrupted you? Christ -- uh, I mean... Criminy...?
God:
Harvey: You're still mad, aren't you?
God:
Harvey: You know what? Fuck this, I'm outta here!

I slammed the door to my dreams and sat up with a start. I was at my parents’ place, on a thin mattress laid out on the living floor. "Dude?" I asked out loud, but only the click of the furnace answered me.

But wait: he's dead, I realised, my thoughts beginning to focus. He's dead and we're alone in the universe.

I went back to sleep, tired and feverish. I get this way sometimes. This is what happens when you snort NeoCitran.

It's the thought that counts

No, I did not rip this off from MAD magazine c. 1963. Blecch, as if. Anyway, in the spirit of Gift-o-Rama 2007 (a.k.a. X-mas, a.k.a. Santa's Birthday), here's a piece on gift-giving I like to call: Gifts Gone Wild: Live from Miami Beach (a.k.a. Don't look-mouth a gift in the horse.)

On sex for free:

Jane: Wow! Diamonds! John, you really shouldn't have.
John: It was no trouble. With all the sex we've been having, it would have cost me much more to pay a prostitute.

On fucking your neighbour's husband:

Myrna: This one's for you and your husband.
Ethel: A gift certificate for an adult store? How risqué! Do you think Barry will be up for it?
Myrna: Definitely. He's a sex-starved man, Ethel. I can just... tell.

On the in-laws:

Husband: I know you thought you weren't going to be able to see your folks this holiday, so I got you a first class ticket home!
Wife: Oh, thank you! But this is a one-way ticket. And there's just one...
Husband: Yep.

On not-being-a-failure-in-spite-of-what-your-fucking-father-thinks (whoa, breathe):

Billy: Yay! A Night Soldier Combat Kit! Thanks Daddy, you're the best!
Father: OK, son. You're welcome. Just don't turn out gay, OK?

On the job:

Boss: James, because you've been doing a great job this year, I'm giving you a $5000 Christmas bonus.
James: Oh, Mr. Freeley, thank you! That's so generous!
Boss: Well, considering you're not going to get that promotion you were after, it's the least I could do.

On friends that care:

Frank: A... gun?
Kurt: Yep. You can do whatever you want with it. It's your life. Take it wi-- I mean, in your own hands.

On bundles of joy:

Dr. Lambert: There you are Mrs. Mahoney. You have a healthy baby girl.
Mrs. Mahoney: Oh, she's beautiful!
Dr. Lambert: Let's not get carried away.

On public schools:

Mr. Plass: Janine, you're my brightest student in my fifth grade class. I asked you to stay after school so I could give you this present. The other kids wouldn't understand what it is.
Janine: Thank you Mr. Plass. Um, what is this? It looks like a fat pen.
Mr. Plass: It's called a 'vibrator'. Let's show you how to use it.

On relationships:

Craig: A Chia pet? I -- I don't get it. Is this a gag gift or something?
Cheryl: Craig, I want a divorce.

On "selfless" gifts:

Kara: So, instead of getting each of you something you don't need this year, I've decided to give a gift to everyone, by making a donation in each of your names to the Earth Fund. They help preserve the rainforests in Belize -- which makes the World a better place to live! So you should thank yourselves for giving the Earth the gift of a healthy rainforest!
Friends and family: (Confused mumbling, muttering, and scattered utterances of "stupid cunt".)

On intimate gifts:

Brad: A blowjob? That's exactly what I wanted! How did you know?
Susan: A mother always knows.

On being forced to question your boyfriends sexuality:

Belinda: Jim, I just didn't know what to get you, so I got you a gift certificate to that electronics store that you really like.
Jim: Oh, well, thank you. Boy, I'm so glad I put so much effort decoupaging this picture frame for you. But I guess a gift certificate is just as good.

On weird aliens from outer-space:

Alien 1: I brought you a silicone-plated skull of our sworn galactic enemy.
Alien 2: You know, I was kind of hoping for a mango pitter.

On racism:

Occidental: I got you a gift certificate for that Chinese food place you like so much.
Oriental: But I don't really like Chinese food.
Occidental: Well, fuck! How was I supposed to know that?

On re-gifting:

Linda: Didn't we get you and Maggie this serving tray last year?
Desmond: Oh, no. It does look similar but it's not the same one.
Linda: I'm pretty sure it is. See here on the back, where we had it engraved "For Desmond and Margaret on their 25th Wedding Anniversary?"
Desmond. Huh. What are the odds of that.

Mayday

Craig leans over the armrest and looks deep into Meg's eyes.

"So, you know how when planes are going down, people start having, you know, last-minute sex, and blowing each other and stuff?"

Meg glares back intensely.

"No, they don't. They usually just think quietly to themselves and pray."

"Right," and Craig leans further, lowering his voice, "But I was just thinking --"

"No!" Shoots back Meg. "I'm not going to have sex with someone I've only known for four hours. And isn't that your girlfriend right beside you?"

Rejected, Craig leans over to the arm rest on the other side.

"Hey, Jen--" he starts to a pair of crossed arms, but she doesn't let him finish.

"Don't even talk to me."

Bilaterally rebuked, Craig slumps back in his chair. Through the tiny window, he gazes at the turbine-in-flames dangling from the plane's wing, and ponders the steep angle of the horizon as the plane continues it's steady and speedy descent.

He thought quietly to himself and prayed, but it was in vain. Craig would die a virgin of high-altitude love-making.

Meta melee or: an overdue why

A confidential letter to my audience of one,

Hey.

Since you are reading this, my diary of my personal ramblings and partially-digested creative concoctions, I can safely assert that you are on some level, a creepy lurker. Of course by the same token, the fact that I know that you are here probably makes me just as creepy (and lurky). Considering all this, it's a wonder we're not better friends.

Writing something this overt is somewhat cringe inducing for me -- especially considering this blog's narrative conceit. And I apologize for the face-warming sense of embarrassment that reading such a missive may cause; laundry lists about things I hate are far more palatable, I know.

But at least this post is unique; for what may be the first time in my writing I am trying to make a point. But I'm not sure what that point is.

The fact is, the moment our relationship crumbled from an virtual epistolary into meta e-lurking extravaganza, things have not been the same. And those short but sweet moments of contact in the Real World, though awkward, were actually -- OK, they were awkward. Let's leave it at that.

But oddly, after all this time -- here you are. Pondering that, I realise that maybe I'm not trying to make a point at all, but rather trying to clarify one.

You are (still) here, and reading this jumble of half-truths, bizarre belles-lettres and bulk incongruity, and I don't mind at all. I just don't know why. For the witty dialogues and poetry about soap? Surely not.

So I am left bemused, and possibly writing to a spectre, and asking the long overdue "why"? It really is my favourite question, but it's the hardest for me to ask. (I'm easily stunned by contradictions.) By the time I get around to it, the end credits are rolling skyward and the audience has begun its slow shuffle into the aisles.

So why are you here, my gentle reader? And to close with an opener: how have you been?

Yours truly,

Harvey


P.S. Those were clearly rhetorical questions. This letter is obviously about God.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: What would you do if you got pregnant?
Miranda: Honestly, I don't know.
Harvey: (exasperated) Well, you should know.
Miranda: Fuck you, pal. I don't know. And I'll never be able to say until I am in that position; until I am confronted with the entire situation. No woman can. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to you and herself.
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: Fine. Just this box of facial tissues.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Miranda: Sir, two dollars will not buy you toothpaste around here.
Harvey: I don't buy that for a second. Here's two dollars.
Miranda: I'm sorry: it's actually a function of both government regulation and market forces.
Harvey: You're just out to screw me aren't you?
Miranda: That's the price. We don't set prices here.
Harvey: But that's so steep. $2.99 for toothpaste?
Miranda: It's $2.99, dude.

But I'm thirsty now

Sometimes I wonder: will there be enough bottled water for future generations? (And what about limes? Some of our children's children wouldn't mind a slice for flavour.) As I sit here sipping a glass of Toronto's finest I can't help but ask: is anyone doing anything to make sure our descendants will be adequately hydrated?

You'd better believe it.

Water Tomorrow
Since I became involved with Water Tomorrow, I have been dedicated to promoting the sustainability of drinking for future generations. Top scientists predict that given the rapid rise in world temperatures and population, in 30 years it will be 1.5 times more difficult to drink just 50% the amount of water we consume today. This could mean a difficult future for the parched global citizen.

Water, Water, Everywhere?
It might be hard to see the significance of this problem. "I just got twenty-four bottles of Dasani from Sobeys!" Some people might say. "We have plenty of water, right?" Wrong. Each year every person on the planet consumes more than 60 L of water. And that's only five cases of Dasani. And on the planet there's more than a billion people. If you do the math, it's as clear as the water we drink: things are going to get thirsty and soon.

The effect of this shortage doesn't just affect water drinkers either. Imagine a glass of the favourite childhood staple, Kool-Aid, without water. Or trying to mix frozen orange juice from concentrate without water. The effect on the drinking world of water shortage cannot be understated. Do you enjoy your scotch with a little water? Or use water to help swallow important life-saving medications? Keep reading.

How Can I Help? I Want to Help Now!
Water Tomorrow has spearheaded a number of initiatives to ensure the future is not thirsty. Here are just some of things you can do at home to help our cause:

• People need containers to drink out of: stock up on tumblers, mugs, and stemware
  
• Every day fill one 2 Litre container with water and store in your basement or cellar for future use
• Collect rainwater and bathe in it
• Make some ice cubes, in case someone likes their water with a bit of ice; I know I do
• Add 10% less water when preparing foods or beverages, to conserve for the future
• Do not spit or ejaculate except for the purposes of procreation
• Water houseplants with a 50/50 mix of water and urine
• Prepare frozen pre-cut limes and lemons to add to beverages at a moment's notice
• Boil pasta in hydrogen peroxide
  

Is There Any Hope for the Future? Any Hope at All?
It is easy to despair at this mounting problem, but not all hope is lost. Today, dozens of volunteers are working with Water Tomorrow to ensure that there will be plenty of bottled water, ice, limes and cups for the drinkers of tomorrow. Water is such an important drink (if not the most important) that we need everyone's help to make sure the future is a well-hydrated place.

The words in my head

There were a few words floating through my head as my bike's front tire smashed into the just-revealed inside of a car door. I was thinking about the word "snazzy"; which is itself a snazzy word. Actually, I once heard of a distinction between words that seem to describe themselves (like "loopy", "bit", "magniloquent") and those that don't ("abbreviation", "pulchritude", "French"). I believe they were referred to as "autogeneous" and "heterogeneous" respectively. Part the fun was trying to determine what type of word "heterogeneous" was.

I also remember thinking about that old joke:

What do you call a stolen candy bar?
Hot chocolate!

At just the same time as the metal bar at the top of the car door pressed into my chest. I thought: does the target audience of this joke really understand the word "hot" in this context? Seemed a bit slangy to me. As I child I remember having to ask my parents about that one.

But the words in my head were quickly vacated by the stars in my eyes. I doubled over in pain on Shuter street, leaning heavily on my handlebars, and completely out of breath. I pulled the cold morning air into my lungs, and let my vision slowly return. A few moments later I was upright -- my head-done-cleared like an Etch-a-Sketch. Or more poetically: my thoughts as still as a mountain-side lake. And like the first glint of the morning sun on said lake, a single word materialized in my head:

Motherfucker.

Words I don't hate

Here's a short list of words I actually enjoy:

• Fragglesque
• Rococo
• Phooey (only when yelled)
• N----r!
• Clusterfuck
• Bric-a-brac
• Scuntalicious
• Bookish
• Twit
• Nincompoop
• Boisterous
• Scrumping
• Glandular

But I never use them. Just don't have the time, you see.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Miranda: Would you like anything else with that?
Harvey: I gotta get some 2% milk, actually, yeah.
Miranda: We're all out of 2%.
Harvey: I'll just take the homo.
Miranda: Pause.
Harvey: And some-- what?
Miranda: It's all good, dog.
Harvey: Oh, true. And some bugles.

The aroma of Neutrogena

Hail the aroma of Neutrogena!
Saccharine breath of glycerina!
Thou rock me like a hurricane,
And taste of noxious sugar cane.

Ambrosia sent by Gods of lye,
O heavenly lather in my eye,
Resplendent goo of gingered brown,
In thy surge I eagerly drown.

Pour thy sugar on me, love,
Thou fit me like a sudsy glove,
A brick of origin tureen,
And yet thou always make me clean.

Sorrel soap! Thy glorious song,
Is what I long for all day long,
How dost thou do, that which thou does?
And why are you so expensive?