Kicking it on the 502

It costs $1,297.80 to charter a TTC streetcar for three hours.  Each additional hour is $306.60  So five (let's say) hours on a streetcar is $1911.00.  With 46 seats, I figure half that amount of people could mingle comfortably.  That's $83.08 per person.  Add the cost of a bottle of hard liquor, it's barely three figures for a person to get shitfaced, on a private streetcar, for an entire evening.

That said, for $3.00 and the cost of a bottle of hard liquor you can do the same thing during rush hour.  But you'll have to be less choosy about your company.

I think the choice is clear: charter a rocket today!

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: Where do you keep the milk?
Miranda: Where do you think?
Harvey: I assume you keep it refrigerated.
Miranda: You assume correctly.
Harvey: So...
Miranda:
Harvey:
Miranda: So... check the refrig-
Harvey: Refrigerator! Yes, yes, I know.  You don't have to tell me.

Words I hate

Cuppa.  As in "cuppa good soup" or "pass me a cuppa" of anything.  If I understand it correctly, the British use this word for tea as in "I could use a cuppa."

That's it.  That's where the sentence stops.  WTF.

Hearing this makes my blood boil.  It's already hard enough to bear "I'll take a litre 'ah' cola" instead of "litre of cola" (and won't fuss over the voiceless labiodental fricative, I'm not a monster); but it will take every fibre of restraint I possess (and some that I do not) to not strangle you when you say "cuppa."

Consider yourself warned.

And stay out

I'm not a superstitious man, but I've been reluctant to use the "S" word at all for fear that you-know-who will hear it.  (You know, that bitch Winter.)  I've kept careful rein on my smiles, and acted only mildly enthused about the recent onset of warm weather.  On even the warmest day, I did not rush to a bar patio (unlike so many Torontonians, galloping like a parched slaves to a water trough), nor did I don flip-flops and shorts (I mean come on), or rashly proclaim the beginning of Summer (Spring comes first, people.  Christ.).  I merely cocked my head with dignity and remarked, "how mild it is, this winter day."

But having paid my deference to that bitch Goddess, that slutofawhore Winter, I must indeed announce that it is Spring.  Spring, motherfucker.  See this calendar?  Yeah, suck it.  Yeah, just like that.

I don't care that it's supposed to be cold tomorrow.  And I won't care if it snows next week.  All I know is, that I made it through Winter without contemplating suicide.  Through sleet, through hail, through slush and snow.  Lousy Smarch is three-quarters down, and taking Winter with it.  The equinox has come and that fat, cankled bitch is outta here.  (You may pump your fist now.)

We made it, Toronto.  And sweet summer just called to say she's on her way, and do we need anything from the liquor store.

A freshly cracked egg

Cracking News: Every Egg McMuffin sandwich is made with a freshly cracked Canada Grade A Egg.

Well, stop the presses.

I could have guessed that McDonald's had a sense of humility about the quality of their product -- it is fast food after all -- but do they think McFood is so shitty that they have to brag about using real eggs in their breakfast sandwiches?  Talk about battered wife syndrome.

And call me naive, but I expected nothing less than "freshly cracked" eggs.  Breakfast is already pretty moron-proof, even for a retard in a McDonald's visor.  Sure, I know about those liquid eggs in a carton, but that stuff's barely suitable for undergrads and inmates.  Should I really be surprised that McMuffins are made of, you know, actual eggs?

McDonald's confidence must be at an all time low that they are actually pitching this as "news."  As if to say: this just in, not everything on our menu is engineered bio-waste.  Also: recent studies show that that Filet-O-Fish is in fact, edible.

How are consumers supposed to react to this news?  With surprise?  With elation?  With a heartfelt nod and a "good on you, McDo"?  If they're anything like me, they reacted with a placid "no shit" followed by a deep sense of suspicion about everything else on the menu.

Shut up about your fucking eggs, you assholes.

Oh, and thanks for the free coffee!

Religion reform #17

The Book of the Toucan describes well the Toucan's message of everlasting hope and peace.  And while it is sufficiently detailed, it's also kind of (totally) messed up.  Take for example, this passage:

For when the Toucan, blessed be his beak of many colours, created the Heavens and the Earth he showered the world in the warm dew of his everlasting breath.  Believers commune and share in the glory of all creation!  Engage ye in the ritual known as the Shower of Gold: 

Enter your bathing facility and disrobe completely.  Securely close off the entrance and seal off the edges with clay or mud or duct tape.  Let no light disturb this chamber.  You must create a shell of complete darkness, like the formless void of the unblessed universe.  Turn off all lanterns, and let no light enter the bath. 

Then, steady a flow of hot water and let your bath fill with hot steam.

Then, spark a medium-sized joint.   

Having inhaled no less than three sturdy puffs of the Toucan's smoke, enter the shower chamber.  The water shall be as hot as a body can muster.  Be seated under the deluge and in the thick darkness see with open eyes the formless void; listen with both ears to the awesome crash of the Toucan's breath. 

Sit for no less than one half hour in the cascade.  To the pious and noble in spirit will be revealed the sound and sight of the true beginning. You must concentrate.  Banish from mind all voices, all memory, all thoughts completely.  Experience nothing but the heat and the line of holy water tumbling from the sky on to your body. 

Recite: "Hallowed Bird, blessed be your beak of many colours, may you with glory dispread your breath into our breasts and blanket us with your Shower of Gold!"

That's where I quit reading.  The golden shower part was a little off-putting.

But for the record, I have tried this. (Less the chanting.)  And it's fucking awesome.

Catho-lick my ass or: the heavenly lemur

Weddings are easily my least favorite function.  For starters, a wedding reception is a criminally tacky parade that's one-thousand times worse than prom.  And that's the part I look forward to.

The ceremony was in a Catholic church: the creepiest edifice I know about. I literally shudder every time I enter one and I shouldn't be able to feel the grip of Catholic guilt.  As I walked in, a smiling usher offered me a programme, but I refused it for fear that my heathen fingers would singe the paper. I managed to catch a glance at its contents though. There seemed to be approximately eighty-thousand readings and hymns on the docket, but I couldn't be sure.

I spent the entire ceremony swearing abominations against God in my head while looking at the ceiling.  I assume that's where God sits, nestled in the apse like a heavenly lemur. Occasionally, I pulled out my notebook to document the insanity.  Some notes:

If God is a slap chop, then religion is an infomercial.
Why force a celibate man to dress like a twat? Isn't his life hard enough?
Sacrament cup must be lousy with oral herpes. Also: I should come here to pre-game.
I need to object at a wedding -- just once.
I can't believe the bride and groom are missing this shit. Where are those assholes?
I wonder how many boys this guy has raped. He's got a bit of swagger. I'll say three.
I need to start a holy war -- just once.
If God just walked in would he take over the sermon or sit in the back?
This would be much better as a death metal rock opera.

It went on and fucking on.  We eventually hacked through the religious preamble and the bride and groom finally made their way down the aisle.  I wanted to lean over and kick one of them in the shins as if to say, "thanks a bunch," but I decided against it.  Or wasn't close enough.  Or something.

This overly religious service surprised me because I didn't think my friends were very religious.  Would I have to find new friends?  Could I have been mistaken?  Was Harvey Kornbluth wrong?

Of course not.  In the lone enjoyable moment of the entire ceremony the groom answered a long, bored, sarcastic "YES" -- the kind you offer your mother when she's asked you for the umpteenth time if you're going to make it for dinner on Saturday and you have already told her you are -- when asked if he would "accept children from God lovingly and bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church."

Take that, Yeshua.  God: I hate weddings.

Words I hate

Given the resources and time I'm certain I could prove mathematically, that anyone who uses the term "fortnight" is a complete douchebag.

There are exceptions of course.  For example, those swiped from the fifteenth century by time pirates.  But even in this rare circumstance, I would hope these confused time-travelers would be briefed on the appropriate use of the "F" word in our time period, viz. never.  Ever.

Barring the time pirate scenario, only the most rigorous farmers of douche whip out this anachronism. I can't understand why anyone would. Frankly, there are only two reasons to use this outmoded and obsolete junk-word:

1. You want to be appear clever by showing you know what "fortnight" means.
2. You willfully want to confuse anyone who doesn't know what "fortnight" means.

No matter how you slice it, you're a douche.  Why do you need to measure things in two-week periods anyway?  On the 'Bullshit Measurement of Time' scale it's nestled between 'Olympiad' and megaannums. Unless you're editing Silas Marner, you don't need to use the word "fortnight."

Besides, if something is going to happen in two weeks just drop the subject.  It's too far away for me to care.

Religion reform #16

Surely religious services would be more enjoyable (that is, tolerable) if the participants were permitted to get baked beforehand. Proposal: a smoking section in every mosque, church, temple, damp basement or wherever the hell it is people go to abandon their sense of logic and mull over fairy tales.

This smoking section would consist of a sealed-off partition with its own ventilation. At the front there would be a small stove upon which would be placed a hefty brick of delicious herb. The people sitting in their pews -- nay, couches -- would then reach for the conveniently-placed tube originating from under their seats and inhale the sweet, sweet cheeba. Holy smoke, man. Whoa, that was completely accidental. Hahahaha! But it would be wicked, right?  Another idea: could we hand out Doritos instead of the Eucharist? What? Too crunchy? I hear you brah. Is cool.

Over the course of the sermon, the partition would fill with smoke until it resembled a giant and gently undulating white box. It would be warm to the touch and sound like coughing and muted utterances of "dude."  God willing, it would contain a foosball table.  It would be pretty glorious.  And there is little doubt in my mind that that the message of any religion would be amplified both in efficacy and in "awesomeness" through the hazy lens of this pot-filled vestibule.

In a way, this smoky white box is the perfect metaphor for religion; it's opaque, filled with passive dunderheads, and easily dispelled with a few purposeful swipes of an arm.  Zing!

(And I didn't even mention the hot air or carcinogens.)