Six universal rejoinders

There are a few comebacks that are applicable in almost any situation and it can be useful to keep them at hand. You might find yourself upbraided by a smarmy superior at work. Or perhaps caught off guard in a theological debate. Or maybe a passerby has called you a "pole-smoking, boot-wearing, fuck-face".

In many of these and similar cases, you often lack the adequate time or opportunity to concoct a witty and appropriately harsh response. Next time you need to save face, a prepackaged and simplistic barb -- like these "chestnuts" below -- might do the trick:

At a loss for words? Try:

Your face.
Though barely a sentence "your face" draws attention to your adversary's face, making him/her feel self-conscious and, it is hoped, feel stupid also. About his/her stupid face. Take that, stupid face.

No, you.
By using this quintessentially ad hominem rebuttal, the point of contention is U-turned like an about-to-flip eighteen-wheeler-after-a-sleepless-night and aimed squarely at your adversary. It's bold, short, simple and direct. It says, "why don't you re-examine your position before making a point like that, shithead?"

Eat a dick.
Crude, and not to be taken literally, "eat a dick" effectively draws the wind from your opponents sails with some solid, downtown, frat-boy rhetoric. There is no one (except maybe for homosexual cannibals) that wants to be told to eat a dick. The suggestion is absurd and demeaning, making it an excellent universal rejoinder.

Your mom.
This one "takes it personal, and makes it personal", by going straight to the source. Mama. Particularly effective on the coloured.

I hope you die.
That's some harsh tokes, dude.

You're ugly.
Effective because there is truly no good response to this. It's virtually impossible to deny such a charge with credibility; most that hear it can't help but reflect dolefully on the statement's unambiguous message and ponder its validity. Feelings are sure to be hurt. It's a show stopper.

Next time you find yourself slandered and without recourse, consider these six universal rejoinders your rhetorical grenades, primed for immediate use. The more you familiarize yourself with this list, the better prepared you will be for an emergency situation. Because you never know when some roller-blading faggot is going to harp on you for littering. Or something.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart!
Miranda: Where?
Harvey: Down in my heart!
Miranda: Where?
Harvey: Down in my heart!
Harvey: I've got the peace that passes understanding, down in my heart!
Miranda: Where?
Harvey: Down in my heart!
Miranda: OK, get the fuck out NOW.
Harvey: Down in my -- oh. All right.

Rub hydrocortisone on my heart

My friend Kessler is pretty bad with analogies:

Harvey: Well, she is pretty cute.
Kessler: I am not interested.
Harvey: Why not? She obviously likes you. Can you not smell the desperation? I know that smell.
Kessler: I'm just not, man. I'm through with relationships. Andrea was a clusterfuck. I'm not going through that again. Falling in love is like getting a horrible skin disease.
Harvey: How so? Because you're embarrassed about your appearance so you never leave your house?
Kessler: Not exactly, bro.
Harvey: Oh, you mean because you're itchy all the time? Itchy with infatuation?
Kessler: No, dude.
Harvey: Oh, it's because everyone can tell that you're in love by your face, which is covered with figurative splotches? "Lesions of love", you might say?
Kessler: You're retarded.
Harvey: Oh, oh -- because no matter how much cream you put on, the burning never stops!
Kessler: Shut up, man.
Harvey: Whatever, dude.
Kessler: Anyway, I don't want to talk to her. I'm really not interested.
Harvey: Gotcha.
Kessler:
Harvey: Scarring! Because of the scarring! Right?
Kessler: God! Just drop it, will you?!
Harvey: Pfft. Fine. It's your analogy.

Book reviews

Jerry: How's that new book you're reading?

Harvey: Ugh. Have you ever known a girl that started as just-a-friend but then you found yourself starting to become attracted to her, and then before you knew it you were taking her out all the time and buying her things and listening to her all the time -- hanging on her every word -- and she unfolds her life stories... but then, as time went on and things remained platonic you found yourself unsure of where you stood and what exactly was going on? So then you you try to feel things out, scan for clues, drop hints, listen, wonder and wait; and it's strange because you are so comfortable around her and she you, and she doesn't seem to be interested in any other guys and finally when you screw up the nerve to confront her about it: it turns out that you're just dating platonically and that she has no -- and never had any -- interest in you whatsoever.

And then, precisely at that point of realization: your tolerance for listening to her prattle on about her overbearing mom, and her job, and her trouble understanding boys, has evaporated -- and it takes everything you have to keep from beating the shit out of her as you leave her standing in parking lot of the Kelsey's at Erin Mills Town Centre, never to speak to her again?

Jerry: Uh, not really, no.

Harvey: Oh. Well, that's Memoirs of a Geisha for you. It's a tad prolonged, kinda interesting, though basically unfulfilling.

Memorandum

Gentle readers,

It is my pleasure to inform you that yours truly is finally moving from the amniotic stranglehold/comforts of my parents' basement into my own digs in the Big City. I know this will come as a great relief to my current neighbour, Mrs. Johansson, whom I chastise regularly with accusations of being a whore, slut, and filthy home-wrecker. (Poor thing; she's never quite got the joke there.)

But anyway, it also comes as a relief to me as I have spent far too long languishing under my parents' roof; eating their food, and soiling their towels. So, in spite of my family's concerns, housing costs, and what my shrink calls a "down reaching and obdurate sense of agoraphobia and misanthropy", I have decided to take the logical next step and move out.

What does this mean to you, gentle reader? First, it means more access to yours truly, as I am no longer bound by my curfew or vehicle access issues. And second, specifically for the females: you can once again scream during sex. I'm all ears, ladies.

Of course, I will not be hosting cocktail parties or the like because I continue to detest the majority of you. My new place, a bachelor apartment above a Persian restaurant, will be open only to "sluts" and those who bring me Chinese food or any combination thereof.

Please forward your hate mail accordingly.

Big city bound,

Harvey

P.S. Though I am not throwing a housewarming party, I am accepting housewarming gifts. Some stemware would be nice, but I really actually need some light switch covers and possibly a George Foreman grill.

Religion reform #6

Praying pretty much sucks the fun out of most religious activity, like a portly and spoilt child sucks cream from a chocolate éclair. Instead of prayer, could we not substitute any one of the following?

• T-ball
• Competitive cooking/baking
• Beat boxing/glossolalia
• Slapping contest
• Air guitar shred-off
  

Perhaps you can see a common theme. Modern religion being community-oriented seems to have forgotten, or perhaps has attempted to suppress, our natural inclination to compete; especially in ridiculous events suited largely for adolescent teens, attention whores, or carnies (or all three).

Perhaps we can add to this list:

• Lipsynching
• Karate
• Building a mousetrap-powered vehicle
• Disco dance marathon
• Skip rope for heart
• Rock, Paper, Scissors Presents: Best Two out of Three
• Root beer chug
• All American pie eat
• Noogies
• Archery
• Friendly rough-housing, "clowning around", etc.
• Dragonboat, Dragonball, Dragonski, what-have-you
• Reading a book aloud, one chapter at a time
  

Anything, and I mean anything, has got to be better than repeating psalms. Am I right?

The logic of the lonely man

The logic of the desperate man is seldom sound. Let's review a typical case:

Vigor, a male in his 20s, is standing in his tiny bathroom with a towel wrapped around his hips. He has just nervously wiped a stripe of condensation from the bathroom mirror and is now admiring his handiwork.

While showering, Vigor used his mother's disposable razor to shave the shape of a "V" into the hair on his chest. Wiping the mirror again to clear the renewed fog, Vigor thinks: I hope this fucking works.

Now, there is a purpose to this seemingly random and unnecessary act, however contrived and demented it may seem. On behalf of Vigor, permit me to explain.

Vigor is a man suffering from an involuntary bout of celibacy. It has been some time since he had seen a woman naked, or done lewd things to such a woman, or had such things done unto him by the same. He was concupiscent; ruefully so.

After careful research and introspection, Vigor narrowed the possible causes of this drought down to one: luck. Because of his terrible luck, Vigor reasoned, he was unable to obtain that which we wanted and needed: a sturdy fucking.

So Vigor proposed a solution: shave a "V" into his chest. Though this may not seem to follow logically, I assure you that for Vigor, it does. I elucidate the process below. Vigor thinks:

1. My luck is terrible.
2. People with bad luck are prone to embarrassment.
3. I am prone to embarrassment.

So far this is a consistent argument and, this narrator would argue, a sound one. He reasoned further:

4. The probability of my getting laid is directly proportional to the probability of a woman voluntarily seeing me naked.

Uncontroversial. Now, because of (3):

5. The odds of a woman seeing me naked will increase as I increase the risk of personal embarrassment.

That is to say, because of Vigor's bad luck, he is more likely than not to happen upon or encounter embarrassing situations. And conversely, if he were to set up a potentially embarrassing situation, it would be more likely than not to occur. And:

6. Having a woman discover that I have shaved a "V" into my chest is embarrassing.

Which is true. So, combined with (4):

7. I should shave a "V" into my chest.

To Vigor, this line of argument is quite compelling. In short: shaving his chest will increase his probability of getting some, because his bad luck will lead to the circumstances most beneficent to his having intercourse, only where the probability of great personal humiliation is highest.

In the narrator's opinion, this plan should be fairly successful on average. (Unless of course, the lights are on, and the site of a hairless "V" on Vigor's chest grinds the goings-on to sudden an irreversible halt.)

So this is why, on Sunday afternoon, while high, and drunk, and all alone while his parents were out grocery shopping, Vigor shaved a "V" into his chest with a pink Bic razor. Iron clad logic, or the clumsy rationalizations of a lonely man? You decide.