Wednesday, June 23, 2004

The taste of democracy.

The Armchair Garbageman tickled me pink when he anointed Steam Whistle Pilsner the pint of democracy.

Like a politician, I'm reading more in to his gesture, but as my blog will attest, I am particularly fond of dramatic statements.

A mighty wind.

Yesterday my fiance and I were enroute to Focaccia to sample their Summerlicious effort, when a man served up an amuse bouche of homme en chute al dente to whet our appetite.

At Yonge, just south of Hayden St., a man literally sneezed himself off his own two feet, landing face first in the gutter. I immediately thought:
Jeepers! I'd hate to have allergies that bad!
And seriously considered helping him up.

He stood without my help, but just barely, and weeved his way south on Yonge. The 'heel-toe' crossover he was using to walk robbed him of any elegance. I immediately thought:
Jeepers! I hate to be that drunk on Scope!
But something told me he didn't mind being that drunk on Scope.

Saturday, June 12, 2004

WASPiest Jew in Kensington.

The other day I was strolling though Kensington Market in a vain effort to find sharkskin suits that fit me. Most were either former closet dwellers of 'fat men with short arms', or 'tall men with long arms'--happily, I fall into the 'average men with mid-length arms'.

I was distracted from my search by a man sitting on the curb of Augusta Ave.; with no job to keep him chained to a desk, he was taking little advantage of the sunny day by sitting in the shade.

A- "Got some change?"
B- "Sorry. Not today."
A- "Are you Jewish?"
B- "No."
A- "You look like you have a bit of Jew in you."
B- "Nope. I'm about as WASPy was they get."
A- "You could pass for a Jew."
B- ". . .thanks?"

I thought, originally, that the man was paying me a compliment. I'm trying not to sound like a boor, but he looked more Jewish to me than, say, my identical twin brother. I assumed that he was paying me a compliment, however strange, by suggesting that he and I were cut from the same cloth. Assuming that he was Jewish. And that I look Jewish. It wasn't until I related the story to my brother, who promptly branded the man "an anti-Semitic ass" for suggesting that my thrift regarding panhandlers was related to some 'religious stereotype' typified by thrift, that I too thought the man an ass.

Had I realised where he was going, I would have drawn from my proud Christian tradition and burned him on a stake.

Monday, June 07, 2004

The next best thing.

After sliced bread, the next best thing ever conceived was a miniture, self-inflating WHOOPIE CUSHION!
And I did just as the advertisment directs--I squeezed farts right out of the palm of my hand. What awesome power!

On escaltors! On elevators!
On Jewish Seders!

I tooted wherever, and whenever, I pleased.
And I usually followed the "Bronx cheer" with a few very audible sniffs while casting an accusitory glare meant to implicate any passerbys or fellow passengers.
In elevators I recommend the following procedure:
1. Toot your mini whoopie cushion.
2. Give a digusted look at one passenger (A), who will no doubt try to ignore the goings-on.
3. Look at another passenger (B), smirk, roll your eyes, indicate the first passenger(A) with either your eyes, or a head nod in their direction, and "discretely" wave your hand beneath your nose. Make sure that (A) catches you doing this.

The absolute best time I ever had was lying in wait in a public washroom at The Bay on Yonge St., hidden in a stall, biding my time until nature called someone. Just as my victim began to relieve himself at the urinal, I let my mini Whoopie Cushion off its leash--toot--and followed it with the most agonizing moan of "Ohhh, God".

Immediately A stopped mid-stream for a listen.

I waited silently until the waterworks started up again, then--toot--followed by an even bigger moan, trying to make this one sound more worried and weary. I took my inspiration from seeing (and hearing) a cow giving birth in the middle of the farmer's field across from my house.

Immediately A stopped his relief for a listen.
What morbid curiosity!

I let out another, smaller toot and was tempted to call for my "Mommy", but resisted.

A zipped up and fled, in his haste neglecting to wash his hands.
I stood in my stall, exited, and after an approriate amount of time, exited the lavitory. I suspected A of being cut from the same perverted cloth as I, so while I was exiting I quickly glanced around to see if anyone was paying special mind to the inhabitant of the can who had crapped himself within an inch of death.
A guy perusing frames glanced quickly at me, then back at the frames.

No guy is that interested in frames.

Saturday, June 05, 2004

Goo Goo G'SPLAT!

A few years back I worked in the mighty Wisconsin North Woods at Chippewa Ranch Camp (an all-girls camp) and met a Texan.
The Texan was the width of two axe handles across his ass, and easily one of the dumber specimens in the zoo of my life.
I called him "The Walrus".

By the end of summer, he hated my guts, and had gambled his entire wage away on bartop Monte Carlo machines in a place called "Sportsman's Bar". He owed the camp two hundred dollars by the end of August. He was just an amazing beast.

On Canada Day my parents came to visit, and we were outside exhibiting our hearty Canadian spirit by standing and talking quietly and politely to one another, enjoying nature, and considering whether to go to the Rhinelander Rail Museum (we did).
The Walrus was in a jolly mood, swinging merrily on a rustic, tree-hung, swing, chatting up some pre-teen girls.
A loud CRACK!.
The sound of little girls crying.
The sight of the Walrus, flat on his back, his chubby legs sticking out from the leaves of a broken tree branch now lying on the ground.

No one was hurt.

I think the girls were crying because the "old tree swing" was broken beyond repair.

My father summed up the event just as Lorne Greene might have reported it on CBC radio--
He turned to me, and in a grave tone said:
"That fat guy just broke the branch off that tree."

He sure did. Broke it real good.

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

Perversion: A success story!

With a title like that, I'm afraid that the payoff won't satisfy.

I am proud to report that when I wrote the following lie I fully expected it to bear fruit. . .

"Alexander Graham Bell invented the Slinkey

In 1957 Alexander Graham Bell was flying a kite in a thunderstorm while enjoying a Coca Cola. When the kite was unexpectedly struck by lightening, the Coca Cola can that Mr. Graham Bell was holding blew to ribbons. Shaken by the experience he strapped the tin ribbons to his feet and bounced home in a hurry. Arriving at home, drunk, he fell down the stairs. Though Alexander's numb body lay limp at the terminus of the stairway, his shoes continued into the kitchen, then on to the den. Legend has it that the tin-ribbon shoes came to rest perfectly at his fireside lounge, though many historians believe this story to have been fabricated by marketeers trying to sell Slinkeys."

. . .and it has!

Two innocent Googlers so farhave happened upon my perversion of the great Yankee history books, and it is my hope that the number will climb to as high as five!

Hey, if it's okay for Americans to write their own history surrounding the War of 1812, then I see my action as simply following in the footsteps they left in the horseshit.