The Slow Motion Suicides

This is how the world ends

2011-12-31T01:36:00.001-05:00

With any luck, this new leader of North Korea will launch some nukes and initiate the destruction of the planet sometime next year. From what I understand Kim Jong Un is angsty and inexperienced, which I hope manifests itself as a penchant for nuclear holocaust. Push that button K-JU.

Because dammit, I tire of resolutions. I've done it a few times now, and I don't think I should face another year on this bumpy ride called Earth. And don't mistake this attitude as suicidal. Please. I don't think you should face another year on this watery top either. Let's call the whole thing off, and see if the birds can fare better. Twenty-eleven clinched something that we've all suspected deep down: humans have failed at life.

In 2011, I learned how to distill hate into enmity (metaphorically), and that dairy upsets me (digestively). Other than that, my annual report is thin, terse and tinged with loathing — and fabricated sales figures.

Like the underside of a barge, my spirits cannot be dampened; they are too soaked. I resolve to eat better and quietly hope that in the not-far-ahead future we all are positively drenched in radiation poisoning.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

2011-12-16T11:37:00.000-05:00

Harvey: Merry Christmas!
Miranda: But you don't celebrate Christmas.
Harvey: So? Does that mean I can't wish other people a Merry Christmas?
Miranda: Actually, yeah.
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: Happy Chanukkah?
Miranda: I don't celebrate Channukah.
Harvey: This sucks.
Miranda: I know. Happy holidays.

Now I'm hungry for a hot tranny

2011-12-11T11:37:00.020-05:00

Let's talk longings primitive instinct
Elements meet forever they're linked
Life's just endless rethink, looks like
Your march rages onward hoodwinked

Fiery spirits serious ghostings
Energy surge and violent smoke rings
And I'm wont to choke things looks like
Pious hearts shall outbeat most things

You are a most animal being
Equally breathing, doing, seeing
Glimpse of Toucan fleeing looks like
Cosmos dance existence freeing

Now I'm hungry for a hot tranny
Ready to go; can't break a twenty
She can shake a fanny looks like
I chalked up a few too many

I've done worse than cover up numbers
Nonetheless I'm cool as cucumbers
Life is strength in numbers looks like
Endings loom for golden slumbers

2011-12-04T11:37:00.002-05:00

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

Darryl: So I just got back from rockclimbing. Anyway, I met this girl there that I've been talking to for the past couple of weeks. I think she likes me. I mean, I have a really strong suspicion. If you know what I mean.
Harvey: Sounds promising.
Darryl: We've been talking a lot actually. I mean, I even met up with her a few times, outside of rockclimbing. My guess is that she has a serious boner pointed straight in my direction.
Harvey: That's great. Do you have a lot in common?
Darryl: Well, yeah. We went to high school together.
Harvey: OK... well, then you really didn't meet her at rockclimbing.
Darryl: What do you mean? I meet her there all the time.
Harvey: Right, but not for the first time.
Darryl: Who said I met her for the first time?
Harvey: It's just—nevermind. Tell me more about this girl.
Darryl: I don't know if I want to talk about it. I think I might stop seeing her.
Harvey: So... you don't want to talk about this subject that you brought up out of nowhere? I mean that's fine, it's just that—
Darryl: See the thing is, we used to hang out all the time. I remember the first time I saw her in the ninth grade, in Mrs. Brown's history class—
Harvey: Please, please don't tell me the full story of how you know this girl. Why don't you want to keep seeing her, now?
Darryl: Well, I'm not sure. I mean it kind of goes back to third period lunch. They used to have chicken burgers and fries—
Harvey: Darryl...
Darryl: Jesus tittyfucking Christ! How am I supposed to explain the story?
Harvey: Fine.
Darryl: On Wednesdays and she would always—
Harvey: Wait, what's on Wednesdays?
Darryl: The chicken fingers and fries.
Harvey: You just picked up midsentence after I interrupted you like that?
Darryl: Yeah. So?
Harvey: Just keep going.
Darryl: Order the chicken burger and let me have the fries because—
Harvey: (muttered) For fucks sake.
Darryl: What's that?
Harvey: Nothing, Darryl. Nothing at all.
Darryl: She was allergic to potatoes. She wasn't always allergic actually but started to develop the allergy once she moved to Toronto. She has kind of a sunken in face too. Her chin sticks out, and her face is shmushed in. Not sure I like it.
Harvey: And?
Darryl: What. That's it.
Harvey:
Darryl:
Harvey: Is that the reason you want to stop seeing her?
Darryl: Yeah. Jesus, dude, haven't you been paying attention?
Harvey: I gotta go.

The Elephant Painting

2011-11-29T11:37:00.000-05:00

I am uncharacteristically sober — though high as balls — when I arrive at my boss' office. It's on the third floor of a short stack of bricks in the East End, on the other side of the railway tracks. The elevator fits one and a half European-sized people, but it never works so I'm usually out-of-breath by the time I get upstairs. I suspect he bribes the superintendent to keep the lift broken, a tactic for weakening all those that enter his office. I pause for an extra breath before I push open his frosted glass door.

Martin is uncharacteristically friendly from behind his desk, wishing me a Happy New Year and inquiring about my welfare. Normally he is spewing epithets before I sit down. My footsteps slow as I take a seat across from him, and I look around the office for an explanation. Did he install new carpet? That should put anyone in a chipper mood, but looking down I see it's still stained with coffee, dirt and failure. I examine his shining head. Is it hair plugs? I silently shake my head. I stretch around in my chair and spot an oil painting of two elephants on the wall opposite his desk. I have never seen it there before. That must be why he's so jovial.

I don't normally shoot the shit (or anything really) with Martin Coley but with this rare syzygy of his congeniality, my heightened lucidity and the new artwork on his wall, I figure I'll wax loquacious.

Harvey: Hey, is that new? That painting.

Martin: Are you kidding me, Kornbluth? I've had it for years. I was telling you about that painting that last time you were in here. I got when I was in Africa, on safari. We had a guide named Ken...

Fuck. How high am I? "Rare syzygy?" I really shot myself in the foot this time. Martin has told me this story at least a dozen times. I dumbly start to protest with a "yeah, oh, yeah, I think that-- yes, I err... you did tell me..." but it's too late.

Martin: ...so three days in, I'm asking Ken when we're going into the Serengeti. He keeps making lame excuses about his truck, that it needs a new part or blah, blah, blah. I keep telling him, 'I came to Africa to see an elephant, damn it' but he's hemming and hawing like those fucking Africans do. I've had it and I insist we head out right there and then...

I'm shifting uncomfortably in my seat. My face is a mixture of helplessness and the visual expression of the question: why are you telling me this story, again? I know the story. He knows I know it. In fact, he had to remind me that I knew it, which means he now knows that I know that he knows that I know it.

Maybe it's a cultural thing; mind-splitting narrative about collecting art in Africa is simply how people say "hello" in some circles.

Martin: ...so after the 4x4 breaks down we're forced to walk about four miles in the sun. I couldn't take it. So my wife and I are crouching at the base of a Marula tree to get some shade, and our guide gets on the radio, trying to find help. And did I tell you how my wife lost the shoes I got her for her anniversary? I got them in Paris...

As the tale unfolds, it's like figuring out that your parents are taking you to the dentist and not Disneyland. The part about the shoes is the detail I detest most fervently, so it makes sense that it's the part Martin is most fond of recounting. She lost an expensive pair of shoes that he bought for her in Paris. When bought them he paid for it with an American Express, which he was nervous about using since it was so close to September 11. That's it. This tangential brooch adds nothing to the tale except an unnecessary and tacked-on sense of gravitas and time.

As he continues, I slump down in the chair wondering why he called this meeting.

Martin: ...it's called cassava. And next thing you know my wife and I are taking turns vomiting our guts out. I must have had a fever of 103, but in the heat you can't really tell. I was pretty damn sure we had gotten the HIV from one of their toilets. No one believes foreigners when you tell them you're sick. I mean, they were right about it in the end, but that's not the point...

Maybe it's an elaborate test: Martin tells me the same story each time, but changes a small detail in hopes that I will notice. Pointing out the flaw means I pass, and as my reward I get to shoot him right between the temples with a shotgun. Or strangle him with coat hanger.

Thinking about this as he's talking starts to give me an erection, which is weird, and I'm forced to look away. I turn my head slightly and peer at the painting.

Martin: ...but the doctor wouldn't budge on the price. What a businessman! Now, I don't know what a goat is worth in dollars...

It's a medium-sized painting. The size of a bass someone's uncle caught last summer at the cottage. It's dusty greens and muddy browns and greys like wet clay. It depicts two adult elephants on the Savannah. The larger one, in the foreground, is kicking up dust as he lumbers across the grasslands. The second one is drinking from a drying lake. The more I stare at the painting, the more it occurs to me that I hate it, so, so much. I turn back and Martin is smiling proudly, as though my five-second glance at the elephants has added richness and depth to the words falling out of his mouth.

Martin: ...this truck making a delivery of Coca-Cola agrees to take us back to a big city to find a hospital there. They are crazy about Coca-Cola, you know...

My erection is gone and I am sitting motionless and expressionless. I am trying to self-immolate by sheer will alone.

Martin: To be honest, I was glad when the trip came to an end. Though I didn't bag an elephant, there was an art store at the Jo'burg airport —that's what they call Johannesburg — selling that canvas on the wall behind you.

I don't turn around.

Martin: Sure, it isn't an authentic piece of "art", but hey at least it's a story.

Harvey: Huh.

Martin: Anyway Harvey, let's shut up about art already, and get down to brass tacks. I called you here to talk about your output.

Harvey: I know, you asked me to produce more, and I'm producing more. But I'm not going to post five times a day.

Martin: I know this Kornbluth. I actually need you to post less.

Harvey: What?

I don't normally raise my voice near a sociopath like Martin Coley, but I was actually shocked. This is a man, who has threatened me with violence for not writing enough. Now he wants me to back off?

Harvey: What the fuck are you talking about?

Martin: Well, I'd like to add more video to the site. I mean, we can keep the writing sure, but I was hoping you'd record a video or two. Maybe some stuff of you interviewing people in public places. Like the beach, or a skating rink?

Harvey: Why would I go to the beach? Or a skating rink?

Martin: To get out there and find a real story! Why do you think I went to Africa?

I don't take Martin's suggestion seriously, but I find myself staring at the ground with a hand on my temple. I am at the Jo'burg airport watching Martin. He is exhausted; his sweaty clothes are pasted to his skin and his insides are ravaged by local parasites. He lumbers defeated through the airport, dragging his wife in one hand, and a too-heavy suitcase in the other. I am with him as his eyes land on a painting of two elephants kicking up dust on the Savannah, and he squeezes his wife's hand and the wheels of his suitcase come to a stop.

Observational humour about patently false things

2011-11-22T11:37:00.000-05:00

Am I the only one that's sick of seeing these commercials offering free sterilizations to the homeless and mentally handicapped? Like, I'm watching the game, and I can't get through a single inning without a heavy-set woman coming on TV and telling me: "do the right thing." You know what I mean? Leave me alone. I'm trying to eat a hotdog here!

And speaking of hotdogs, I'd like just once to be able to eat a steak without someone from PETA stripping naked and taking a dump on my plate at a restaurant. Has this happened to you yet? Let me tell you, it's more than a little bit annoying. These people are militant! I mean the naked part I can get behind. Some of these broads are lookers. I guess eating nothing but quinoa and walnut stew will do that for you. But when they climb up on to your table and start defecating? Major turn off. And that's when your waiter becomes impossible to find too. That's the worst.

How many people here drive to work? I know what it's like. I used to take the same route to work for five years, and it was terrible. I'd see the craziest stuff on the freeway too. Like women doing their makeup, or people eating food. This one time I saw a guy drafting, writing and publishing a three volume book on his steering wheel. The whole shebang. He had paper notes, a small word processor, an English dictionary, and a printing press on his dashboard. And I thought listening to audiobooks while driving was being productive. This guy is writing sequels and changing lanes at the same time. Oh, and it was a pretty good read — but I had to get off the highway by chapter three.

Air Horn

2011-11-18T11:37:00.018-05:00

I purchased an air horn. It's for the local assholes that leave the bars at the foot of my street every Saturday night. As they would tramp mallemaroking below my apartment, screaming epithets and singing Mr. Big songs at the top of their lungs. I'd blast a sharp warning from my balcony like a noctural, noise-hating Eva Peron.

Presumably the motherfuckers would raise their chins to scan the darkness for the source of the ear-piercing honk. That, of course, is when I would position my Mauser M-98 star-barreled rifle accordingly and unleash into the foreheads of one or more of these inebriated assholes.

But I don't own a sniper rifle. And truth be told, I don't have the guts to blast high-decibel cans of aerosol into the night sky, even as a semi-potent gesture of aggression. (Hell, even as an impotent gesture of passive-aggression.) I can only fantasize about enacting a sudden and bloody end to a soused warbling of "To Be With You".

I shall stick with the air horn. Unfired and waiting. I'm tired.

Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves

2011-11-15T11:37:00.000-05:00

I would strongly recommend you take the time to read the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. If you lack the time you could let me summarize:

Ali Baba is in the woods crouching behind a juniper bush watching exactly forty thieves who are gathered around the entrance of a cave that is opened by a secret password. Ali Baba watches the thieves, notes the password and returns later to kife some goods. When a friend of Ali Baba's finds out about the cave, he acquiesces and spills the password. Problem is, the friend gets trapped inside and the thieves find him and chop him to pieces.

Burying chunks is awkward so Ali Baba brings the bro-chunks to his slave girl, Morgiana. She suggests they pay a local tailor Baba Mustafa to stitch the body back up. Not sure why. They make sure to blindfold Baba Mustafa to protect their identity and get him to do the job.

Thieves find out that their body is gone, but luckily they run into Baba Mustafa who can't shut up about all the recent bodies he has stitched together. Even with the blindfold, Baba is deece at retracing his steps. The thieves find the house he worked at and mark it with an X so they can return later to ice the family that lives there. Our girl Morgiana catches wind of this plan and marks every house in the 'hood with an X. Thieves are baffled. They try again the next day by chipping the front step of each house but Morgiana retaliates similarly. The day after that thieves say "fuck it, let's start paying attention to relevant details about the household" they want to destroy. The thieves' bossman shows up with forty large jars filled with —you guessed it — forty vengeful thieves. As mentioned before, Morgiana is too smart for this and pours hot oil on all the thieves ending their lives. Bossman flees.

Years pass.

The boss thief establishes himself as a merchant, befriends Ali Baba's son (who is now in charge of his late chopped-up friend's business), and is invited to dinner at Ali Baba's house. The thief is recognized by Morgiana, who knifes him almost immediately. First Ali Baba is angry but then he gives Morgiana her freedom and marries her to his son.

The end.

I left out seventy-two pages of detail but let is suffice to say that this is one convoluted and ridiculous story. Hot oil? Is forty jars of thieves any way to kill a family? In the name of Ibrahim, these people are Muslim. They couldn't figure out who to kill a boy and his slave? Why did they have to stitch up his friend? I hate this story.

Two space or not two space

2011-11-10T11:37:00.008-05:00

I thought I would punch out this Public Service Announcement in regards to the usage of spacing after periods, and this site's policy thereof.

It's worth mentioning that I grew up fascinated by computers and anything remotely like them. When my mother signed up for a typing course at a community college, we inherited an old IBM typewriter (it looked like this) and I went crazy on it. I went even crazier when we picked up a badass electronic typewriter that could even erase text (so long as you hadn't moved on to the next line).

I didn't quite know how to type, but I learned from my mother that two spaces followed a period. Since all the other rules I followed seemed equally arbitrary, I didn't give this much thought. Sentence. Period. Space. Space. Another sentence. Space. Space. I internalized this rhythm, and when we finally got our first 486, I carried this habit forth into the electronic medium.

Two decades later with some learning in typography and a slap in the face from Slate, I realise that I've had it wrong all along. Not only does one space after a period look better, it is less wasteful and less effort to accomplish. It wins.

This is why you will see one space between periods from now on on The Slow Motion Suicides. I am considering hiring a young Chinese boy to correct my previous posts, but there are no immediate plans to do so. Depends on the boy really.

Real letters by real geeks

2011-11-08T11:37:00.000-05:00

Dear Weather Network,

Did you know that without the benefit of modern technology, winter could actually kill us? It just occured to me that if I locked myself out of my apartment on a cold winter's night and I didn't have a coat or adequate shelter, I could die. This is serious, and I'm not sure how we can stand idly by and let this happen.

As we are still firmly entrenched in autumn, I would like to take this opportunity to strongly suggest we omit winter from this year's schedule. I would be equally happy with a prolonged autumn or early spring. If you need suggestions for a new season in winter's place, I have already come up with a few ideas:

Braeburn: alternate dry hot days with soggy, mist-filled ones. Except Saturdays which are always balmy and sunny.
Aloise: really windy and it's always 24 degrees centigrade.
Demonda: tepid and foggy until 3pm and then it's like a crisp autumn morning for about three hours and then it starts raining that stinging kind of rain until nightfall.
Omifer: noiseless lightning, purple clouds, ever-rising barometric pressure, howling winds in the distance.

I can come up with others also, but I think this is an excellent launching point. I hope in the interest of public safety you will consider this plea with the utmost sense of urgency and seriousness.

Do not hesitate to call me with any questions.

Hope to see you this spring,

Harvey

If you have a significant other...

2011-11-01T11:37:00.000-04:00

How could it be possible that his or her parents actually likes you? It's not, because you are having sex with their child. Let that sink in. You are blithely fucking something two people created and reared for probably most of their lives. They nursed her wounds when she scraped her knee, and you probably came on her face two nights ago.

That's why the dinner conversation is awkward. It needs to be. Stop complaining because it could be worse.

Religion reform #20

2011-10-25T11:37:00.000-04:00

Around The Beginning a kind of, sort of, fucked up thing happened. It's described well in the Book of the Toucan, chapter 11:

11 And after the great Toucan squawked, and obliterated the void a small and almost imperceptible crystal —the size of 1,000,000 suns —landed on the tip of the Toucan's beak. It was a clock.

12 The perfect crystalline structure was a machine operating by precise laws. Though it appeared to be a pure crystal, inside was a magnificent lattice of light and energy humming away, in service of an idea greater than itself.

And later,

²³ When the Toucan leaned his mighty beak over the nascent universe and sneezed, at once the marvel of crystal clockwork was shattered as the infinite power of the Toucan's sneeze hurled an infinity of clock pieces in every direction.

Scholars have debated the meaning of this tale. Is the crystal a metaphor for mankind's fruitless quest for knowledge or is this just a cautionary tale about making sure to have taken anti-histamines? And just what is the point of a clock in a timeless pre-existence void?

On stuff I refuse to wear

2011-10-18T11:37:00.000-04:00

Bicycle helmets

I am a cyclist. This probably won't surprise you given my proclivity for beards, but it might surprise you given my proclivity for hating hate-able shit, and as any moron can tell you: cycling is well hate-able. For starters, a lot of cyclists are holier-than-thou tree-hugging, pedantic, passive-aggressive losers and I loathe to be associated with them in the slightest. I'm certain to like you less the more you like cycling, and this is multiplied by three if you wear clip-ins or own a bike you can pick up with one hand.

If you need more reasons to hate cycling consider the aesthetics of the entire endeavour. Perching oneself upon a "saddle", gingerly holding on to grips, pedaling to your destination with the wind in your hair, and the tring-tring of your bell in the city air. That's a textbook definition of "fey". Do I have to mention those stupid flip-up hats that bicycle couriers wear? Those goat-bearded, short-socked assholes are considered the tough-guys of this subculture. Jesus Christ.

But anyway, I hate driving more than any of this (much, much more) so I ride a bike. And I refuse to wear a helmet. This blog is called the Slow Motion Suicides, dummy, not the Slow Motion Safety Lesson. If I'm going out, I'm going out in a motherfucking blaze of asphalt-meets-aluminum-meets-my-skull-on-the-crosswalk glory. I want someone to puke at the sight of my annihilation. Besides if I'm sideswiped by a streetcar, my helmet will prove as effective as abstinence education.

(And studies have shown^{[citation needed]} that cyclists wearing helmets ride more recklessly, and that drivers leave un-helmeted riders more room on the road than those wearing safety gear and fuck you.)

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

2011-10-11T11:37:00.000-04:00

Harvey: I would say that ABBA is pretty underrated as a band, don't you think?
Miranda: I don't know.
Harvey: I mean, have you actually listened to their early work? There's a lot of good stuff in there.
Miranda: I haven't listened to it. Were you planning on buying something today?
Harvey: Take their debut album Ring, Ring for example. It's really more schlager or folk-pop than disco.
Miranda:
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: I take it you prefer Voulez Vous?
Miranda: OK, get the fuck out now.

If you're in love

2011-10-04T20:18:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I find poetry that I wrote.

Notes:

First line should be underlined.
The omission of an apostrophe in "youre" is deliberate.
"Pretend like" should be hyphenated with an invisible hyphen.
That there are two "ough"s in the fourth line is not a coincidence.
I probably should have said 'breast' instead of 'chest' but it's 2011 and this is impossible.
I'm not sure that voids can have 'depth'. Worth discussing in a classroom setting.
There is an invisible space between the 'can' and 'not' of 'cannot'.
I should have spelled out 'tv' as 'teevee' but it's 2011 and this would be laughable.
"And deny though you will" Note the author's repeated use of 'though'. Hmmm...
I should have used 'whole' instead of 'hole'.
I should have used 'youre' instead of 'your'.
That does in fact say "unmindedly".
"To wade into the interminable depths" To be recited in a poly-rhythmic style.
"But that's only of course" is arguably the worst line in the poem. (Or is it?)
The second last line is the same as the first line of the poem.
The last line is the same as the fourth line of the poem and the last line of the poem and this is not a coincidence.

No reason

2011-10-03T11:37:00.000-04:00

As must clearly be obvious by now, I am both the dominant content provider and consumer of this website's output. That sounds nifty, you might find youself saying, but it's not all chocolate and cheese. Burning the blog at both ends (as it were) I find myself with no recourse about web log gaffes and other complaints; like the lack of a scheduled post for the third day of October, two-thousand eleven.

One recalls that this web log once posted a hearty offering of thrice per weeklet, and of reasonable quality stock too. Now, the posts are edging periliously close to a self-loathing fourth wall mixed with hypermeta public self-criticism and readers like you are getting annoyed: bring back the racism already, you find yourself saying. And observational humour about cats.

Like you, I wouldn't mind if the author of this site was compelled to write more. Truth be told, I actually have a bit of influence over the author that could aid me in my quest of the aforementioned desire but it is also worth noting that as the author, I am likely to refuse all requests for content. If you catch me in just the right mood, I might even feign ignorance at the existence of the blog and perhaps even of blogs themselves. "What is a web log?" I might find myself saying.

In closing, there is no good reason I didn't publish a post today. In fact there isn't even a bad reason. There is simply No Reason, and therefore this post.

I don't love cabinets

2011-09-26T01:01:00.000-04:00

Carter Kitchens, 1985

Albert: Jerry, it's not about the money. Really. It's just...
Jerry: What is it, Albert?
Albert: It's just that...
Jerry: Just say it! It's just what?
Albert: It's just that: I don't love cabinets.
Jerry: What are you talking about. You're our best cabinet salesperson. We need you, Al.
Albert: Jerry, I've been here a long time, right?
Jerry: Eleven years! Twelve in March.
Albert: Yeah, and over the years I thought that something might change, that they would grow on me and I could learn to love 'em. But they didn't and I don't. At all. I really don't like cabinets.
Jerry: Don't say that. You realise you're our top rep, right? You might even be the best cabinet salesman in all of Baltimore. You have a gift; don't throw it a away.
Albert: A gift?
Jerry: A gift.
Albert: A gift for selling cabinets?
Jerry: A gift for selling cabinets.
Albert: I don't know Jerry. I think I need to get out of the cabinet game. Branch out.
Jerry: Branch out? From cabinets?
Albert: Yeah, branch out. Away from cabinets.
Jerry: You want to branch out away from cabinets. Is that what you're telling me?
Albert: Christ, Jerry. Yes.
Jerry: How can you say that? You! Who have sold more than, well, I don't even know how many cabinets you've sold here—
Albert: About thirty-seven hundred.
Jerry: Over thirty-seven hundred cabinets! You've sold—
Albert: About thirty-seven hundred. I don't know if it's over.
Jerry: So it's thirty-six hundred and something?
Albert: I don't know exactly.
Jerry: So it could be over thirty-seven hundred.
Albert: Sure, I'll allow that it could be over. But just as equally, it could be under thirty-seven hundred cabinets. I'm not sure exactly. That's why I said "about."
Jerry: Listen, Al. Will you allow a desperate man the outcome of a coin toss and let me say "over thirty-seven hundred"?
Albert: (sighs) Sure, Jerry.
Jerry: So you've sold over thirty-seven hundred cabinets in this store. To honest and hardworking Americans—
Albert: How do you know they're honest and hardworking?
Jerry: Al, please.
Albert: I'm sorry, Jerry. Keep going.
Jerry: Honest and hardworking Americans, whose lives you've improved immeasurably. And you want to give it all up? You of all people should know how important cabinets are to a kitchen.
Albert: They're pretty important, I suppose.
Jerry: Pretty important. Pretty important? The most important, Albert. The most important thing in a kitchen.
Albert: More than a stove?
Jerry: A thousand times more.
Albert: How about the sink? I mean, isn't that pretty crucial?
Jerry: Even more than that. Where are you going to put your pots and pans? And your plates? And your food?
Albert: I never thought of it like that.
Jerry: Come on, let's sell some cabinets.
Albert: (shaking head) Oh, Jerry. You got me again. I don't know what got into me.

Kvetching about Subway restaurants

2011-09-19T11:37:00.000-04:00

Minor points:

When I am at Subway restaurant purchasing just cookies (yes, just cookies) and when I go to pay with my debit card, a cashier invariably challenges me. "Don't you have any cash?" I just sigh and stare at the cashier for about forty seconds to a minute. On one occasion, he got all uncomfortable and just mumbled, "that's OK, you can use debit," but I continued to stare. And then for no reason whatsoever I whispered, "this was my mother's debit card." I'm not sure what point I was trying to make.
This one time they ran out of bread. This happens to me all the time. Why don't you have bread, Subway restaurants? Is it because you've stretched yourself thin with eight different varieties? Whole wheat and white is sufficient for your mouth-breathing customers, but you had to be fancy. Parmesan oregano. Honey oat. You have hearty italian and italian (white)? What the fuck is the difference? There's that one that looks like it's crusted with guano. You don't impress me with your litany of breads. You want to impress me? Stock bread. Last time I went to Subway, all they had was the ungodly square of carbohydrates they use to produce wraps. I had never seen it before, but it resembled a chamois. I just got cookies, paid with debit, and left.
And while we're at it, I thought you were tesselating the cheese slices now? Because last time I was there I had to remind the guy. It was lame. This isn't something to be sneezed at, Subway Artists. The cheese must interlock nicely.
Stop saying "lettuce, tomato?" and plunging your over-eager fingers into those toppings when you are ready to dress my sub. I don't want either. That's right ass-fuck, I don't want lettuce on my sub. Think that's a little strange? Don't dig my lifestyle? Fuck you, hater. Just green peppers, onions, olives, sweet onion sauce and salt thanks. A bit more sweet onion sauce. That's great.
As far as I understand the difference between "to go" and "for here" amounts to sliding your sandwich into a plastic bag. So, why not ask that? Sometimes I want a bag, even though I'm staying and sometimes I will leave and not need a bag. Either way, I just don't want to have to decide right then what the fuck I am going to do. Maybe I'll stay, maybe I'll go. Fuck you Subway restaurants.
What the hell is so southwest about your southwest sauce? This sure as Hell doesn't taste like Arizona.
Please slow down when you're making my sandwich. Make it with care, and grace and felicity. Any mongoloid can fist ingredients into a sandwich in the same manner you might clean an eavestrough. I expect more from someone wearing a green golf shirt and disposable gloves. And by more I don't mean "expertise," I simply mean, "barely below competence." Can you manage that?
Hey, did you just cut my sandwich with that knife that's well-laden with mayonnaise, mustard and other disgusting miscellaneous wonder sauces that I didn' want, thereby leaving a disgustting wall of sauces for me to endure on my first bite? Make it again, you clods.
Subway, your macadamia white chocolate chip cookies are so good, I swear you could support your enterprise on this one product alone. With that in mind, would you mind eliminating the soups? Who gives a shit about Subway's soups? No one.
Also, It's time to retire your grilled chicken deal. That square of "meat" is nasty. Everyone's in on it now, and the secret is out: that shit is not meat, and is barely food. Stick to cold cuts. It's a sandwich place. No one will call you on it.
I also love how a sandwich isn't a meal, but a sandwich with a beverage and bag of fucking potato chips is a meal. No where else would this logic be acceptable. Foot long sandwich? Just a snack. Whip out a bag of Sunchips and an orange juice? Bam, dinner is ruined.
Why did you change the name of the meatball sub to "meatball marinara?" What is gained? Were people confused before? I knew there was a sauce involved. Everyone knows there's sauce involved. Now there is more to say. That's stupid, Subway restaurants, and you are stupid for changing the name.
True story: I walked into a Subway restaurant and asked an employee what BMT stood for. And he calmly replied: "nothing. It's just a name." As if those were just three letters that sprung to mind when making the sandwich. Word to the wise, Subway restaurants let your employees know that it actually stands for something. This guy was insane. It's like I asked him what's in the cold cut trio and he said, "oh nothing. It's just a name. There is no meat or bread or toppings. You're buying the concept of a sandwich. Did you want to make it a meal?" (BTW: it used to stand for Brooklyn Manhattan Transit, but now it stands for Biggest, Meatiest, Tastiest. Not sure which explanation I hate more.)
The veggie sub, while a necessary addition to a menu to accomodate weak vegans and lame people, is nothing short of pathetic and condescending. "Veggie delight?" As though to say: try a sandwich with nothing but toppings. You will be delighted! That said, the veggie patty looks totally disgusting so I'm not sure which is worse. I'll take being patronized over being fed factory-moulded roughage.
God, the pizza sub is so good. I have absolutely no complaints. Never, ever stop making this sandwich.

Wondering

2011-09-12T11:37:00.000-04:00

On behalf of a friend:

Dear Harvey,

Clearly, I shouldn't be thinking about you. Those two weeks were fleeting and brief, not really heartbreak material. But still. I feel broken and I can't figure out why. But last weekend, I think I started to figure it out. I was writing a letter (to you if you must know) and I remembered you left me hanging. You never responded to my last letter, and because of that I can't help wondering if you're out there. Did you get my last message? And are you OK?

I have embarrassing thoughts, but seeing as I'm being honest, I'll just dump: I wonder if you think about me,and if you regret dumping me. I also wonder, kind of hopefully, that you were just dumping me as a prëemptive strike: to hurt me before I hurt you. I think about you absently writing my name on a scrap of paper. Even accidentally. I think about you in my apartment, tripping over my cat, and sneezing furiously from your allergies. I don't know why I think these things. It was for so short, and I have dated since then, but... I can't get you out of my mind.

But maybe I'm just being crazy. That's what happens when you're left hanging. When you ask a question into thin air. When I know you're behind your computer and getting my e-mails. "Left hanging" isn't even the right way to say it: it's like having your spleen ripped out and not sewing up the hole. OK yes, I'm being dramatic. But if feels like that. It feels like there is a hole in my chest, and my skin is frayed and raw and burning.

I keep returning to my last letter to you. Wondering if I said something wrong. What did I say to push you away? I wonder.

Maybe you haven't returned my mail because you are a ghost -- dead in the ground. I know that's morbid, and it makes me really sad to think about it. But then I think, we're friends. You're the same guy who delivered my cat to me after finding it in the snow. You bought me a whole tin of the hot chocolate I like. When I told you I thought my chin was ugly, you held it between your fingers and said, "we can fix that." You're an asshole, but you always made me laugh. You couldn't just vanish without saying goodbye. You wouldn't do that, right? And that's why I can't help but wonder...

Yours always,
Harvey

Poetry for nerds

2011-09-05T11:37:00.002-04:00

My Memory's Key

Vulcanized rubber, ebon and blue
Ferrous its thin ribs align in a queue
They let you/us be and they let you/us see
Unlocking the code of my memory's key

The locksmith is knowledge, he falls to his knees
The subcon is fires; unanswers my pleas
Gyres flow gelid from bubbling to thick
Four billion bits fast to the reveille stick

A library not, but a letter contains
Confessional, edict and summ'ry of pains
I finally convinced you/the truth/that it's through
That moment I relayed the gumstick to you

E-mails are tacky, and phone calls too cold
Texting too timid, and meatworld too bold
But one single letter on a memory stick

Like the final connection on crepe paper ripped
Or approach of the slider on the last tines unzipped
Or a corolla of petals too untimely clipped
Extinguished your dreams; in plain, did the trick

Three hundred and one

2011-09-03T20:37:00.000-04:00

My teachers growing up were always quick to correct me when I said "and" in numbers like "four-hundred and twenty" or "three-hundred and one". Very carefully they instilled this fear that people might confuse the "and" to mean a decimal point, and that the proper construction is "four-hundred twenty" or "three-hundred one".

But those teachers are dead (probably) and I can't think of any case where anyone would assume I'm talking about decimals.

Bib: Have you seen "One Hundred and One Dalmatians"?
Bub: You mean, one hundred dalmatians and a tenth of a dalmatian?
Bib: (Blank stare.)

That's a lousy example, but you get my point. For years I obeyed and advanced the prevailing orthodoxy in order to thwart a problem that never was. Like a sheep. Who cares if you say 'and'?

That is why, today, on post three-hundred and one, I bleat no more. At the expense of sounding uneducated, I'm jamming in that "and" and I'm proud of it. Three hundred and one posts. Eat it, language.

(Oh yeah, and congratulations to me.)

A parlour trick

2011-08-29T11:37:00.001-04:00

All eyes at the dinner table are transfixed by the apple and two oranges tumbling over Jon's upturned palms.

"How do you do that?" asks Shelly.

"This? This is easy," comes Jon's voice from behind the flying fruit. "It's less complicated than what you do every day. I mean, since birth you've been balancing a lot more than fruit. Think about that first moment you breathe air. After nine months in darkness you're bombarded with sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell — all new things. It's a sensory explosion, and your newborn mind is too undeveloped to understand it.

"It's all new information. Faces, hands and toys pop in and out of your field of vision. Then, on that day you reach out and first grab something, everything changes. You become aware of objects. You can grasp them. And you perhaps start to realize that all those faces, hands and toys are things in a space. That the world is not just a series of objects popping in and out of view, but a world of independent objects of which you are a part.

"And what's more, you can control these objects: a ball rolls away with a push, faces smile when you do, and when you're hungry and crying a hand appears with a warm bottle. It might seem like the world of objects is under your control. A solipsistic theatre of cause and effect.

"But they aren't. Some objects don't yield to your push. Others can grab you around the wait and change your entire field of view, and move you from place to place.

"It's probably the first time you see a mirror that you're faced with with an important truth: there's no theatre. You're just another object in a space, and the universe does not extend from your temples like a ray of sense data. You are not alone in this world. And your mind, once the grand theatre of universal truth, is just a pixel in a seemingly endess world.

"That's just your mind. Let's add to this the fact that we are changing constantly. This pixel is not just thinking, he is growing. As bits of the world are broken and ground into mush and spooned into our mouths, our limbs lengthen and fatten; we eat, and drink and breathe, and produce waste, and spit, and tears.

"So while we're taking in this world of objects and information, and finally starting to understand cause and effect, and minds and things, we are also confronted with both the notion that we are whole beings constant in our identity and that notion's exactly opposite, that we are perpetually in a state of flux; that in time every molecule in our body will be replaced by one fresher as we undergo a ceaseless renovation."

Jon swiftly wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, and continues to juggle.

"And language is as complex as it gets. An endless warehouse with no inventory manager. It's no less fragile or malleable than we are, yet is our only link to other minds. Like a rope dangling slackly in our fists, only when it is pulled taut can we certain that our thoughts are heard. That there is a true mental exchange between pixels. The words that we breathe connect our minds, until there is a new thing: an idea. And like our own bodies, this idea is something constantly in flux, yet constant as well. Another balance to be struck.

"These ideas aren't just utterances made my individuals individuals. They are collected, and shifted, worked and re-worked, and fused into grander ideas. And like glass from sand, our ideas build useful notions like culture and politics. We use language to construct social ontologies; concepts that affect us just as our thoughts affect and effect physical reality. With our great numbers we have become awash in social realities, the products of millions of minds working in concert to form a hyper-reality. Once again we must balance the reality of the physical world against an equally complex socially constructed reality. This is not easy to do.

"But this is all we do. We endlessly monitor the notion of ourselves as physical beings in the universe, steady in identity yet ceaselessly changing; we must accept that our grand view of the world is but a small porthole on the side of a enormous ship, and we are just minds amidst other minds, struggling to communicate, and balance the true meaning of our ideas as they too tumble in flux, and moreover as political creatures in a socially constructed hyper-reality to our own; and at the same time have to worry about having enough time to prepare dinner or go to the gym.

"If you ask me, that's truly juggling. The essence of our existence if you think about it."

Jon's chin motioned to the tumbling fruits still turning through his nimble hands, "This is just a distraction."

Underdogs Bite Upwards

2011-08-25T23:37:00.000-04:00

Friends,

I'm not really technically or statistically minded, but fuck if I'm not obsessed with this site's analytics. It all started when the fine people at Blogger (and I really have no idea if they are "fine," it's more likely they are complete shitheads) added a "stats" tab. Now I can retroactively stalk the the dozens of people who accidentally make it to this site looking for ways to kill themselves (slowly, of course) or find discounts on facial tissues.

As it would turn out, half the traffic this site has ever received is thanks to another blog penned by an anonymous miscreant. That site is a lo-fi and moderately shitty-looking blog, in the way most blogspot sites are, but heavy on readable content in the way most Tumblelogs are not. Did you even know those gay-ass hipster-pages were called tumblelogs? You're welcome.

Now, I don't read the site. Not that it's poorly-written; quite the opposite in fact. It's a hilarious screed against nanny-state bull-jive written in the most British way possible. It's so dry, I have to moisturize after reading each post. It spreads on the anger so thick it's like smooth peanut butter; it really fills your mouth and sticks. A sample:

The antics of the antismoker are now so ludicrous that only a politician could be taken in by them. Unfortunately, we are plagued by low-energy politicians because the EU has banned the old tungsten ones. The current lot take ages to warm up and don't do much when they get there.

You can see why I don't read it: it's too damn good. Remember Deuteronomy 4:24? That's me in a fucking nutshell. But you ought to check it out loyal readers. The both of yiz.

Ta,

Harvey

You breathe

2011-08-01T11:37:00.017-04:00

the instant your bike slid on to the hot
summer sidewalk, your gentle hands on its
handlebars, your heels accenting the tick
of your turning wheels —i paused for a breath

whirrrrrrrrr, click, click, click, click

i exhaled sharply between my pursed lips
at the polka dots dancing on your red
dress, your auburn hair pouring down, and your
slender legs, creamy white marble columns

do you mean phoo, it's hot, or phoo, I'm hot?

your words halt my legs, and I pause beside
you and sharply inhale the thick night air
the ribbon of night is pulled taut and wide
i meet your green eyes; I swallow and sigh

i mean phoo: you're hot.

you do not smile but arch an eyebrow and
bring your bike and the whirr of your wheels and
the click of your heels to a halt under
the silence of moonlight and you whisper:

i have a boyfriend, and he is awesome

i do not wince; my mind is ensnared in
the folds of your frock and the tension of
your lips and the glint in your green eyes and
inhale once more and manage to blurt:

name three things that make your boyfriend awesome

you bite your lower lip, and your eyes
lift ever so slightly. in the space you
scan the shortrises around you and look
for three reasons your boyfriend is awesome

he's tall. and very good looking. and he makes a pretty decent mushroom risotto.

your face is relieved and you smile but i
ask you why none of your reasons are that
he loves you. and who gives a shit about
mushroom risotto.

you breathe
in
then
out.

Wild Speculation

2011-07-25T11:37:00.000-04:00

On the invention of gravity:

God: I'm sick of all this matter flying apart.
Tracy: Maybe you could tweak the first law of motion?
God: Say what?
Tracy: Corpus omne perseverare in statu suo quiescendi vel movendi uniformiter in directum, nisi quatenus a viribus impressis cogitur statum illum mutare?
God: Yeah, I know. I wrote that.
Tracy: Yes, but what I mean is, do objects need to move apart ceaselessly? Maybe you could make it so things slow down after a while.
God: No. I like when things move fast.
Tracy: Right, but sir, that means these atoms are just going to spread apart across the universe.
God: So?
Tracy: Sir, you were just complaining about--
God: Right, right. So what do we do? I like when things go fast.
Tracy: Yes, sir.
God: What if we made it is so everything comes together fast too?
Tracy: That sounds kind of counterproductive, I mean--
God: Let's make it happen.
Tracy: So we're adding another force that contradicts inertia?
God: Actually, if you could make it the resultant effect of the curvature of spacetime caused by a massive body, that would be super.
Tracy: (sigh)

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

2011-07-18T11:37:00.000-04:00

Harvey: Just this box of facial tissues please.
Miranda: That'll be $2.99.
Harvey: You know, the problem with democracy is that it just doesn't work.
Miranda: You're thinking of Mexicans.
Harvey: You're a racist.
Miranda: You're a communist.
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: Touché.
Miranda: Douche.

Underground

2011-06-13T11:37:00.000-04:00

Being underground makes one's brain think in ways it otherwise might not, given that aboveground one has access to the Internet, and TV, and endless distractions and a globe of information. When one is not in that process of receiving information it feels strange; like the tap turned on a filling tub, the sudden quiet is unsettling. The water immediately starts to feel tepid and you long for the rush of the flow once again.

Many books about writing share similar advice about inspiration. "Draw from experience" is a common refrain. "Write what you know." It's equivalent to saying: "Be interesting. Have and absorb experiences worth repeating or reconstituting into a salable narrative."

That statement feels particularly acute in the cold disconnected underground. Shielded even from the radiation of the sun, it feels impossible to write what you know down here. Underground all a writer has are the few artifacts around him. I can only scrape at the grime-covered tile walls, or rub my sole gently against the unyielding terrazzo. Unconnected from everything that is not here, it's feels as though the world might fade to non-existence up those stairs. I lean over the platform and gaze into the darkness of the subway tunnel. Is there anything beyond it?

The layers of rock and dirt looming above me block a billion buzzing signals, responsible for frying my childhood sense of solipsism. How can one believe he's alone when he is endlessly bombarded with novel images, and voices, and ideas, and noise. The world above is too loud. But in the dark underground, in wait for a subway train I can for a moment believe that there is nothing but darkness filling the tunnels around me. And that dimly-lit walls and floor and rail and grime is all mine. The what I know.

Religion reform #19

2011-06-12T11:37:00.001-04:00

I think for religion to survive in the modern world, it really needs to take a hard look at the concept of miracles. It's pretty clear that miracles do not happen. What does happen is events of this form:

Man Miraculously Recovers from Severe Stroke
Woman's Life Saved in Life Threatening Car Accident
Sick Woman's Cancer Disappears Without A Trace

That is to say, a shitty event turns out to be less shitty than at first we thought. This is the stuff of miracles? It suggests to me that God — as the causer of the shitty event — is either indecisive or incompetent. Was he really trying to wreck that dude with a severe stroke? Then get 'er done, you homo. Was that car accident meant to be life-threatening? Did God change his mind at the last minute? Does he really have to resort to property destruction? Why give someone cancer just to take it away? That's the very definition of a Dick Move.

Of course, I don't expect an answer to these queries. What I want is beefier miracles. Some David Copperfield level shit. Jesus was popular because he raised from the dead, transmogrified water into booze, and defeated surface tension. That kind of jazz sells tickets. Modern miracles are so hackneyed and commonplace they're barely Interesting Happenstances let alone miracles. (If you have ever uttered the phrase "the miracle of childbirth" you deserve to perish in a housefire. Shame on you.)

I guess what I'm saying to the major religions is: call up David Blaine and get some shit going. Now. You can only reach Criss Angel? Whatever, it's better than nothing.

Words I hate

2011-06-06T11:37:00.000-04:00

Babe.

Do you call your girlfriend babe? Your boyfriend? Just about anyone? Are you Dennis Miller?

If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, I shall pray as-hard-as-an-atheist-can-pray that you are shot dead at point blank range. Preferably right after you wake up, or while saying goodbye to a loved one. I don't particularly care how infrequently you use the term, or that your significant other started it. If this word is being bandied about your relationship, it is your responsibility to end it.

Using babe after the world "total" is also an egregious offense. Do not describe anyone this way.

Lookit: babe means baby which, upon simple reflection, is a fucked up thing to call another adult. It's OK to mock infantilists for wearing diapers and fetishizing acting like a baby, but calling someone you fuck a baby is OK? Not in my books, babe.

I don't care how long you were on SNL. Cut it the fuck out.

A promising challenge

2011-05-23T11:37:00.002-04:00

A container of yogurt recently invited me to take part in an interesting human v. dairy duel:

Enjoy Activia® every day for 14 days and feel the difference to your digestive system. If you’re not satisfied, we’ll refund your money.

That's it? That's not much of a "challenge." Eat yogurt every day? I think I can handle that, boys. That said, I'm not sure about this "feel the difference to your digestive system" whizz-bang. My digestive system is pretty resistant to dramatic change. My colon votes conservative. What kind of differences are we talking? Will it take me 15 minutes to digest a steak? Will my stool be tricoloured?

Besides, who notices positive changes to their digestive process? Negative changes, sure. But do they mean merely that if I make it through the 14 days without undergoing violent diarrhea I won the challenge? Or did I lose?

I consulted the FAQ:

Consuming Activia® for 14 days can help you reduce intestinal transit time as well as help you regulate your digestive system naturally.

That sounds great. How much of this shit can I eat?

Scientific studies have demonstrated Activia®’s benefits with just a single serving per day. But the same studies have also shown a direct relationship between the quantity consumed and the results achieved: effectiveness was even greater when consumption reached up to three servings per day.

Fuck it, why not eat a case per day? But er, what happens after the 14 days are up? Can I take another challenge or how does that work? Am I allowed to still eat your potent broth of bacteria?

Of course! It’s even recommended that you maintain your daily consumption, since the benefits associated with Activia® cease when consumption is halted. Make Activia® a delicious part of your diet every day!

What about these assholes I live with? Can they get into this yogurt or will they die? I'm kind of hesitant to share it with them since they didn't do any of the paperwork for the "challenge."

Absolutely! Activia® yogurt is ideal for the whole family. It’s nutritious and a source of calcium that can be a part of a healthy, balanced diet for children that already consume dairy products—each and every day!

Enough of this dogshit. I doubt any of these questions were asked even once, let alone "frequently." Because it was late, I kept digging and found this:

OFFICIAL RULES FOR THE ACTIVIA® PROMISE (Formerly known as the ACTIVIA® CHALLENGE)

What the fuck? So it's no longer a challenge (which I concur, is bullshit) but a promise? As it you promise my innards are going to feel fantastic after 2 weeks of eating yogurt?

WHAT IS THE ACTIVIA PROMISE?
Only delicious Activia has the exclusive culture Bifidus Regularis® and helps regulate your digestive system. We PROMISE that you will love how you feel or get your money back.

Oh, I get it. To make good on the promise you have to send them a note that states that you "hate how you feel," and only freaks that wear leather and avoid the sun can write that shit without irony or self-deceit. And we all know those goths hate dairy. Well played, Danone.

Wild Speculation

2011-05-16T11:37:00.001-04:00

On electricity:

Jim: What is that? It looks suspicious.
Jem: Try sticking your tongue on it.
Jim: (electrocuted)
Jem: Jim? Jim?
Jim:
Jem: Somebody get me a toaster! I think I'm on to something!

Hydro

2011-05-09T11:37:00.000-04:00

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

Darryl: I'm thinking about doing some volunteering.
Harvey: That's a noble idea. Where do you want to volunteer?
Darryl: At a strip club.
Harvey: I'm not sure you can do that.
Darryl: Why not? There's work to be done. And I think I could really help society.
Harvey: How does working at a strip club help society?
Darryl: You do know how important strippers are to the functioning of a proper economy right?
Harvey: Here we go.
Darryl: So what do you do when you get a hard on?
Harvey: (sigh) Get on with it.
Darryl: And what do you do about the discharge?
Harvey: I don't like where this is going.
Darryl: It's wasted. All that... force, is wasted! But if men could congregate in a single place—
Harvey: Please stop.
Darryl: With a simple turbine and—
Harvey: Darryl, please...
Darryl: We're talking watts, Harvey. Watts! You could generate enough power to operate the music and disco lights, probably.
Harvey: That's it?
Darryl: Well, it's a start. Once I have enough money for a sloped trough—
Harvey: I gotta go.

Suicide Mad Libs

2011-05-02T11:37:00.002-04:00

Dear (name of person),

By the time you read this (noun) I will be gone. No longer can I endure a world of (adjective) pain and misery. That's why I had to (verb) off the (famous landmark) and (verb) my (noun). I'm so sorry.

Please tell (person) that I (strong emotion) them very much. I wish that things had gone (adverb) but because of my (name of social disorder) and my inability to (name of skill), I couldn't go on anymore.

I hope in (noun) you will understand why I chose to (verb) this way. I hate to (verb) you all during (name of holiday) but I had no choice. I am so (name of emotion).

Please don't feel sorry for me. I am in a better (name of household plant) now. There will be no more pain.

Please be (temperament) and tell my (proper nouns) that I (emotion) them very much. I will see you in (name of place where people go when the die). God bless (name of fruit or vegetable).

(Salutation),

Harvey

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

2011-03-28T11:37:00.002-04:00

Harvey: I've never noticed this product before. What is it?
Miranda: It's ground coffee.
Harvey: It's ground?
Miranda: Grounds.
Harvey: So this is literally earth?
Miranda:
Harvey:
Miranda: Look, do you want it or what?
Harvey: Yeah. Give me a few hundred pounds.

Words I hate

2011-03-21T11:37:00.001-04:00

I remember the first time I heard he expression "goody goody two shoes." It was so weird and alarming to my young ears I immediately dropped my toys, and imagine probably started crying too. It was in one of those shitty Rankin-Bass cartoons it's very utterance filled my head with a tonne of questions:

did I just hear that?
am I sure?
what does that mean?

Okay, just three I guess. But I was plenty confused. I gathered through context and tone that this was meant derisively. I was also able to surmise from the "goody goody" that what was being mocked was altruism and mewling supplicating behaviour. I got all that. But "two shoes"? I hated hearing it. It made me angry, and twenty years later still does. Wikipedia doesn't help at all:

Goody Two-Shoes is a variation of the Cinderella story. The fable tells of GoodyTwo-Shoes, the nickname of a poor orphan girl named Margery Meanwell, who goes through life with only one shoe. When she is given a complete pair by a rich gentleman, she is so happy that she tells everyone that she has "two shoes". Later, Margery becomes a teacher and marries a rich widower. This earning of wealth serves as proof that her virtuousness has been rewarded, a popular theme in children's literature of the era.

What a lousy moral takeaway: if you're poor, a "rich gentleman" will surely stop by and purchase what you need for you. Oh, and if you can, try to marry a rich widower too. Be sure to brag about your shit.

Further reading reveals that the story author is unknown. Well, no shit. With such a paper-thin premise, I'd be embarrassed to take credit too. This story is long forgotten, but somehow this ungainly Victorian expression still thrives. Let's kill it please.

Meeting new people

2011-03-14T11:37:00.001-04:00

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

Harvey: So how's life on campus?
Darryl: It sucks. I have zero friends.
Harvey: I'm sure it will take some time, but you'll meet some people.
Darryl: No, there is no one.
Harvey: I'm sure you're exaggerating. What about in your classes?
Darryl: Those people don't want to talk.
Harvey: Oh. Well how about in your residence?
Darryl: Nah, those guys are all huge nerds. All they do is study.
Harvey: OK... have you thought about joining a student group?
Darryl: Dude, only losers join those.
Harvey: Well, it doesn't sound like you're giving people much of a chance to know you.
Darryl: Why should I give them a chance? Did they give me a chance before they kicked me out of the spirit squad?
Harvey: Wait, is that cheerleading?
Darryl: Yeah.
Harvey: You joined cheerleading—
Darryl: Just forget it. It doesn't matter because they kicked me out.
Harvey: Why?
Darryl: Because they're stupid, selfish jerks who think they are too cool for anyone. Assholes.
Harvey: But why, actually.
Darryl: I might have accidentally 'fingered' a girl during a hold.
Harvey:
Darryl: I thought those leotards were thicker.
Harvey: I gotta go.

This post was inspired by true events

2011-03-07T11:37:00.000-05:00

I have recently seen a slew of movie adverts (trailers, if you will) offering that the film being sold is "inspired by true events." Not a dramatization of a true story mind you, which would be "based on a true story." I think the claim is merely that the idea for the film followed, and was a direct consequence of, actual events occurring in reality.

But isn't every movie inspired by true events? In fact, isn't every narrative work inspired by true events? Fuck it, everything, anywhere, that can be considered art is inspired by true events. For starters, there are no true events. There are events, and events that did not happen are not called "false events." They are called fiction. Sure, some fiction inspires other fiction, but ultimately a "true event" started off the process. That war exists means we can have war movies. And every romance written was probably written by someone who experienced the relevant emotions in reality. They were all inspired by events.

Who gives a shit? Are we that impressed with veracity? If real life was that interesting, why would I shell out over $10 to see a simulation on screen? I could just go to the park, or work, or a public bathroom and watch interesting happenings all around me. But I don't want to do that because that is lame and boring. Art filters out the mundane and polishes and re-packages the fascinating and casts a light on it -- sometimes literally. That's what art is. But don't take time out of my busy day to remind me that the art you're trying to peddle has epistemological grounding in reality. I knew that. And it's hardly a selling point.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

2011-03-01T11:37:00.001-05:00

Harvey: You know something?
Miranda: What's that?
Harvey: In all the years I've been coming here, I've never, ever, gotten to know your name.
Miranda:
Harvey:
Miranda: I've probably told you over a hundred times, Harvey. It's on my nametag.
Harvey: Sorry, just once more and I'll have it down. I promise.

On stuff I refuse to wear

2011-02-28T11:37:00.000-05:00

Condoms

Yawn.

Candlelit dinner

2011-02-21T11:37:00.001-05:00

John tilts his head forward and pulls the final oyster shell from his lips. He places it on his plate before him with a satisfying click.

Martha: I'm so glad you brought me here. John, this evening is perfect.
John: It's almost perfect. There's just one thing I need to know.

John rises from the table and descends to one knee. Martha clasps her fingers together and smiles.

John: Do my pants rise up a lot when I kneel like this? I'm worried people can see my socks.
Martha: Yeah, they do a little bit.

On flying

2011-02-14T11:37:00.000-05:00

I'm skeptical about man's ability to fly. (Women's too.) Equivocating over drink selections at 36,000 feet seems queer to me. How can we be so casual about flying? When I hear shock at news of a plane crash, I'm puzzled. My reaction is, "well, obviously. What do we think we are, ducks?"

Almost worse than flying is the undignified process of getting on a plane. It's like the most aggravating pearl of every bureaucracy strung together and then the resultant garland is squeezed tight around your neck. And they have the nerve to ask you to take off your shoes.

But flying itself is definitely worse.

I was sitting at the window seat staring at the still tarmac. I don't really like the window seat and I'm not sure what the big deal about it is. It offers one stupid "amenity": a window the size of a Kleenex box. The view from the window is usually a) clouds or b) your face reflected by impenetrable blackness. Occasionally you'll see something like the Hoover dam, but who gives a fuck. This is the twenty-first century. Before the existence of Google Maps (don't tell me to “MapQuest it,” you dinosaur) I might have considered straining my neck to that useless porthole. There is no good angle to look through a sandwich-sized four-inch-thick glass. Perhaps if you tuck yourself into the overhead compartment across the aisle, you'll catch a glimpse of a wheat field or river or something. Fuck the window seat.

The aisle seat, on the other hand, provides me with both the ability to go to the bathroom whenever I like, and the power to withhold that privilege from my seatmates. “I will be the gate-keeper this evening,” I can tell my travelling companions, “any backtalk and your toilet time will be revoked indefinitely. If you're good, I might allow a forty second stroll up the aisle.”

But on this flight, I was a window-seat sitting serf. Moments after I sat down in the third seat from the aisle, I was cemented in place by a fat couple who filled the remaining two.

(I need to mention here that this couple was not just fat: they were American Fat. This is not to say that everyone in America is fat, or that every fat person in America is this fat, but merely, that this quality of obesity is peculiar to the United States. No one anywhere else in the world is this fat, unless they have been airlifted there, bed and all, from the confines of a shitty bungalow in the Midwest. American Fat is exquisite in its grotesqueness. It permeates the body; even ones fingernails are corpulent. This couple filled the seats. If there was a metric of three-dimensional volume associated with each purchased ticket (and fuck there should be), their dollar to litre ratio was approaching fractions of Rubles. They were getting their money's worth. They were getting my money's worth. These were fat motherfuckers. I can't emphasize this enough. The bean-bag-chested couple filled the void between me and the aisle so well, I might well have requested it from the flight attendant:

"Excuse me, miss. About my seat. Would you mind boxing me in completely? I like the feeling of being buried alive by sweaty biomass while flying. What's that? A 900-pound couple? That sounds perfect.")

I really didn't care about my neighbours. They could have been fat, thin, or a pair of men sobbing into a Koran. When flying, my neighbours don't matter because I am never awake for flights.

My game plan: I'll throw on a blanket if there is one, fasten my seatbelt over it so it's visible, and lean my chair backward the slightest bit. Just enough to evade notice by persnickety skywenches. As the plane taxis before takeoff, I close my eyes and let the mere fact of air travel wash over me. The completely-true notion that 'yes, we are about to leave the ground and traverse 44% of the Earth's surface' and that if any minute thing were to go wrong, or our pilots decide to "fuck this shit" we are done. Perhaps traumatizing to some, this series of thoughts is quite soporific to me. Maybe it's my proclivity to suicide. Maybe it's the anticipation of an eight-hour flight armed with nothing by SkyMall magazine. It usually takes me a few moments to pass out completely. I haven't heard an airline's safety instructions in years. I assume the protocol is still 'jump out in a panic and use the elderly to cushion your landing'?

On this particular flight to Las Vegas, something went… wrong. Immediately after takeoff, as I was tumbling into sleep, I started feeling nauseous. And not Sartre-esque nausea. I had to puke.

Do not, I told myself. Well, in my head. If you could hear the voices in my head, it was my own inner monologue, screaming at me, urging me, not to vomit. "Don't. Don't even think about it. You can't leave. You have almost a ton of people to traverse. Just focus and concentrate. Maintain, dude."

I was pinned between and overweight couple and a tiny window offering a substantial drop. Even if I could smash the glass, I could barely fit my head through the window, and lord knows what happens to vomit at that altitude. My head would probably turn into a solid block of ice out there, and the rest of the passengers would rue my existence for the rest of the flight (or at least until the pilot turned the flight around so I could get arrested). The window was not an option.

But the thought of climbing over two mountainous people to get to a bathroom was equally off-putting. Well, it wasn't just off-putting. It seemed impossible. Like if you asked someone with diarrhea to tinker with a Rubik's cube. I started to sweat and grabbed my sick bag.

I imagine that at this point, a bunch of brain cells inside my head are congregating to discuss the matter, arguing over ruffled charts and wipe-boards filled with equations. A few are sitting around in turtlenecks urging the others to prepare for the worst. That's when a gruff old-timer stands up without a word and grabs a megaphone.

"Listen up! We are not going to puke. You hear me? Do not puke. Do not push that button. We're gonna fight this thing!"

But the option seemed very real, and I had to consider it. I grasped the tiny paper bag, pinned precariously to the cabin wall. Do I dare ruin the flight for those around me? I've never vomited in a bag before. I've vomited in a car, and a toilet, on the floor of a dorm room, all over myself sitting in a recliner, on a religious figure, over the edge of a ferry, on a fairy, in the public library, in the streets of Munich and of course, into a bowl of Tostitos, but into a bag? I'm not sure I'm ready for this.

The voice in my head kept shouting:

"We are not going to throw up! Not in my America!"

I withdrew my fingers from the sick bag. I didn't want to puke. It would upset the fat couple. That was the last thing I wanted to do.

Now, I felt really bad for my seat companions. They had ended up next to motion-sick Wendell, and I was inching ever closer to complete upheaval. Things were getting dire, the lights in the cabin were fading and I realized I was passing out. The bathroom was now a pipe dream: I couldn't even see anymore. I tapped the window with my fingers; they were starting to go numb.

And inside my brain, a grizzled old brain cell was lowering a megaphone with palpable sense of horror.

"Dear God," he said.

I grabbed the fat arm next to me. "Can you get help?"

My neighbour wasted no time — as though she was listening to the drama in my head for the past fifteen minutes. She understood exactly what I needed. With great size comes great wisdom, I suppose. A stewardess was near me in seconds, and I explained my plight thus:

"I can't see. I feel really sick."

"Are you feeling all right?" she asked. I wasn't sure what to say. I thought I had just explained my situation. Obviously, no, am I not feeling all right. Does anyone ever call for help because they are feeling all right?

I didn't answer, but a plan was already being formulated. Within moments an oxygen tank was passing through the four fat hands beside me. I felt the heavy canister being placed on my lap. The woman next to me helped me get the mask to my face. I held it there with my tingling fingers.

"Breath into it," instructed the sky-wench. Now if you've never enjoyed the privilege of free gas on a flight, all I can say is that it's really embarrassing. Once an oxygen tank makes an appearance, everyone in the plane is thinking the same thing: this guy sucks at flying. And damnit, I do.

I took deep breaths of the canned air, but my vision remained dim, and the urge to blow chunks remained.

I looked up at nothing in particular and shook my head no. "It's not working."

"Would you like some water?"

And everything went very still. Water. Of course.

I took the cup and took a long sip. Instantly, and I mean fucking instantly, I was feeling better. I flayed and clenched my fingers in front of eyes and slowly things were coming back into focus. The darkness was starting to lift. A few more sips out of the tiny glass, and my nausea lifted.

With a shaky hand I sent the oxygen tank aisleward. I turned to the stewardess who turned out to be a most-fuckable brunette with a Pan-Am smile and the demeanour of a complete retard.

I smiled weakly at my neighbours. "Thank you." They looked at me with genuine concern, and suddenly I was feeling grateful to be boxed in next to them.

"I think you might have been dehydrated," offered the dumb-as-shit flight attendant.

I didn't have the strength for a no-shit Sherlock. I was too full of gratitude for not having puked on two fat people on an airplane. I thanked them again and pulled up my blanket. I promptly fell asleep and dreamed, as I always do, of a plane bursting into flames and plunging silently into a dark ocean.

A sternly worded letter to GO Transit

2011-02-07T11:37:00.002-05:00

Boys,

A few things.

For starters your ticket prices are insane. Six bucks to get to Milton? Most sane people I know would pay twice that to leave that shithole. Please adjust your rates to reflect reality.

And also: everyone knows that your habit of running one train per hour (or fewer) is nothing short of total weaksauce. If you can't step up your game in this department (I'm guessing you don't have the stones or the smarts to pull that off), could you at least have trains run later than two in the morning? That's might be the time people stop purchasing alcohol, but I usually need a moment or two to down my glass. Could you please give drunks a few minutes to get to the station?

Oh, and this might be a long shot, but why not serve some refreshments on the trip? It would be nice if you served alcohol — though this strikes me as too brilliant an idea for you to touch — so I'm not going to insist. Coffee or water could be swell though, and an excellent source of revenue. Think about it.

While we're on the subject, why are there zero cupholders on the train? Is this to dissuade commuters from drinking? If so, I've got some news for your fucks: it doesn't work. There are more people holding drinks than not holding drinks on any morning commute. Give them someplace to rest those motherfuckers. Don't be dicks about it.

And those new TVs you installed? They suck.

That's it for now. Other than that, keep up the mediocre work. I would expect nothing less (and not much more to be honest) from an agency with "Ontario" in its name.

Yours,

Harvey K

How to compose yourself after a sexual assault

2011-02-04T11:37:00.000-05:00

Take a deep breath and hold it in for ten seconds.
Find a tub of chocolate ice cream.
Take a shower with your clothes on.

A debt

2011-01-31T11:37:00.000-05:00

Friends,

I'm honoured to be speaking here tonight at the union of our two old friends, Bob and Alice.

So, usually a speech like this illuminates some of the more embarrassing aspects of our hosts. Like, you know, a passing reference to Bob's "problem" (you know what I mean), or allusions to Alice's pre-marital "reputation." And I suppose if I really wanted to put these guys on the hot seat, I could start talking about their trademark cottage benders —DP hour? Anyone? — but that's almost as unnecessary as a description of Alice's you-know-where tattoo. Only a select few have actually seen it. In the wedding party, that is. Anyway, I see a couple of frowning faces, so let's move on.

Instead, let's talk about the sheer incongruity of this marriage. Bob is a pretty much a heartless, calculating, prick, and Alice -- objectively speaking -- is a shit-for-brains trollop. Most of us gave them two months, at most; I still remember sloshing celebratory drinks when they broke up after first year. But Alice, bless her heart, was a determined gal. A few months worth of Jack Daniels, drunken booty calls, and, I hear, two morning after pills, they got back together for good. Good on you, babe.

I kid, of course. No relationship is that easily formed. Who can forget her cantankerous meltdowns over trivial misfortunes e.g., the Claritin incident? Not to mention Bob's oh-so-obvious fear of commitment. No, it would take five years, three very real breakups, and seventeen stitches before this relationship could be considered anything but tenuous. And here we are today.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Copeland.

And yes, this is about the money you owe me. I wasn't going to say anything until I saw the chair covers and monogrammed napkins. Cough it up assholes.

Reasons for committing suicide

2011-01-24T11:37:00.000-05:00

You know, there are days and there are days. And sometimes one of those days should be your last. Dontcha think? Don't take my word for it. Here are some reasons to hasten death's hand to your lousy worthless throat:

Outed by your wife
Too much beauty in the world
Really can't find that pen. (It was right. here. Are you sure you didn't take it?)
Featured on NPR but not on This American Life
Only one naked in the hot-tub
Refuse to abandon your commonly held misconceptions
Assume your Toad the Wet Sprocket CDs might be saleable on eBay
Anorexia is taking too damn long
Saw the forest, but not the trees
Thought she was waving at you; partially waved back but corrected to fix hair at last minute
Hate everything about yourself

I won't stop you.

The burbot

2011-01-03T11:37:00.018-05:00

Mariah breathed on her entwined fingers in the twilit dining room. On the table, two candle flames were engaged in a flickering battle to the table surface, and casting epileptic shadows against the painted plaster walls. Mariah faced Mark in the dimness and pondered the harlequinade that was those evening's events. Their anniversary.

Things were not good. Mark worked late at the practice almost every night, and was becoming etiolated and morose from the effort. Their love-making grew rare, and he never initiated it. Dispatches of gifts and flowers came only as articles of contrition. Their cherished in-jokes and laughter were being slowly nudged out by prickly misunderstandings and episodic bickering. As they sat there over their cooling meals on wedding gift China, Mariah examined Mark's face for a relic; a hint of a smile perhaps, or a familiar bend of an eyebrow. But all she found were the unfamiliar features of an exhausted stranger.

Which is why the evening was so unusual. Mark had arrived with a spurt of energy she had not seen in months. For a gift, he brought Mariah an antique flagon, and clunked it ceremoniously on the table as she watched bemused. He remonstrated at length about recent management decisions at Lota, Lota & Walker and outlined his own ambitions on partnership. He sucked red wine through his teeth, while Mariah idly pushed around her uneaten burbot with a fork.

"Poor man's lobster," was how Mark laughingly described it.

And when he got to the matter at hand, clearing his throat and outlining -- in intricate detail -- the inevitability of the failure of their relationship and the actions they needed to take now to mitigate further damage to both their egos, she listened in silence. Mark waxed bathetic, painting maudlin tableaus of aged couples fastened to one another in contempt: getting enraged about grocery expenditures at family gatherings, or relishing the opportunity to correct one another in public, or locking eyes across a quiet dining room table wondering where they had gone wrong.

And at this last point Mariah felt the blood and associated warmth slide away from her fingers. She looked at the uneaten fish on her plate. It reminded her of Mark. The barbels on its face resembled his wispy moustache, and they both had the same small dark sad eyes. And like the fish, he had a long slender frame. She considered his lanky body, with arms at his sides, flailing through foaming white rapids. She smiled.

"Poor man's lobster." She said.

What I have to say about dragons

2010-12-27T11:37:00.001-05:00

As fictional creatures go, dragons are pretty ridiculous. First, let me point out that they are very difficult to draw (it's the snout). But mostly, the very premise of this beast bothers me immensely.

It's presumably a lizard, and therefore a cold-blooded animal. But it breathes flame? Why would this trait ever be selected for in the evolutionary process? Sure, it seems like a reasonable defence mechanism, but how often would baby dragons murder other dragons while they're trying to get a hang of breathing? Sounds like an accident waiting to happen. And where does this fire come from? What the fuel source? Do dragons produce a kind of flammable bile, and if so, why aren't magicians attempting to harness this in order to develop an alternative fuel source? I've never seen this in any of the stories about dragons; they just burn coal like chumps.

And what about the wings? Some of them have pathetic miniature winglets that could never support a dragon's weight, while others have albatross-esque ones. What's the deal here? This thing can fly now too? Are they dinosaurs? A descendant of the archaeopteryx perhaps? Because that changes everything.

I hate dragons.

This too shall pass

2010-12-25T17:01:00.001-05:00

For those of you who celebrate Christmas in all its crass, commercial, tacky, hyper-festive glory, good fucking luck. It's not easy having to maintain the façade of Santa Claus' existence, all the while maxing out your credit cards, and enduring your family during the simulacrum of altruistic spirit and joy that we call "the holidays."

If I sound a little bitter, it is because I am not yet drunk. As the Turks are fond of saying, "this too shall pass."

Anyway, in all seriousness, today we celebrate the birth of a man whose impact is still felt today: via tinsel and shitty movies on TBS. Let's all take a moment of silence and remember this staggering fact. For all the good this accomplished by bearded hipster (and, like, whatever), he probably would have kept his mouth shut could he have foreseen the inside of a Walmart on Christmas Eve. Or at least should have.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, Merry Christmas.

A completely whispered dissertation on the milk to cereal ratio

2010-12-20T11:37:00.001-05:00

Son? Michael? Psst. Michael. Michael. Michael! Hey, good, you're up. Good morning! What? I think it's 6:30. It's a bit early I know, but I wanted to catch you before school today.

Saturday? Already? I guess Daddy just lost track of the days. That happens sometimes when grownups are "funemployed." No, no. That's just a joke, son. It just makes it seem more... fun. Your mother doesn't get it either. But since you're up, I just wanted to talk to you about something important. It's been on my mind for a while, and I've been putting it off, but anyway -- I hope we can talk about this now. You know how you like to eat cereal each morning? Well, I wanted to talk to you about that. About how to eat cereal.

I know you know how to eat cereal, Michael, but there's a right way and a wrong way. And I'm your father. I have to make sure you know how to do it the right way, OK? Now, for different kinds of cereal there will be different optimal amounts, but no matter what kind of cereal you're eating there will be an amount that is too much or too little. And it's important that you stay within these boundaries.

Michael, please try to pay attention.

Well, this may seem boring but there's a lot to it. We're talking about a delicate balance here. There isn't any other meal that combines starch and dairy products in such an intimate way. I don't want you to take this lightly. But don't be embarrassed about it either. You can always come to me with questions. Do you have any questions now?

Are you sure? You can ask me anything.

No? OK, well, I guess a good place to start would be to go through different kinds of cereal. Flakes are the most common, and there are also shapes, weaves, muesli or grain-based cereals, sugar cereals and then everything else, like bran buds, kasha, and other stuff you probably don't like anyway. But you might want to eat these kinds someday, so it's good to be prepared. Anyway, it almost goes without saying that you should pour the cereal first—

OK, OK, you know this, but I just wanted to make sure. I'm your father, Michael. So, you pour the cereal into the bowl, but not all the way to the top. Do you know why?

That's right! You need to leave room for the milk. You're a smart kid, you know that? You get that from me. Your impatience and temper, that's your mom's doing. But let's not get into that now. Anyway, when you're pouring your milk you're probably wondering, how much room do I leave? And how much milk do you add? Those are kind of tough questions, and I understand if you aren't sure about this. To be honest, when I was your age I had no clue. Really.

Michael, please don't go back to sleep. This next part is important. You see, you have to think about what kind of cereal you poured and it's absorption rate of milk.

Well, "absorption" means how fast the cereal sucks up the milk. Like a sponge. Kind of like your mom is sucking up the money I've worked 30 years for while—

No, no, nevermind. Some cereals, like flakes, absorb milk really fast while others, like those little Os, are much slower. And you've got to think about that before you add the milk.

Just a second. We're not done, yet. Are you like this in school, Michael? You really have to pay attention. I mean, sure you might think you know all about cereal -- I'm sure I certainly did at your age -- but there are other things to consider. Like transportability. You don't want to fill your bowl with so much milk that it is difficult to take to wherever you are having breakfast. You'll spill everywhere. This is why I always make my bowl in the exact spot I consume it. There's no chance of spillage.

What the Hell does she know? You mother has no— I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I mean, yes, I occasionally spill a few flakes in the living room when I am having cereal. But that happens to everyone. Daddy's under a lot of stress these days.

Because some people think it's easy to just find a new job just-like-that, so Daddy spends most of his days as an errand-boy for a temperamental shrew who things being a dermatologist makes her some kind of life-saving--

I'm sorry, I'm getting off topic. This next part is a little tricky, so pay attention. So consider that every cereal has it's maximum absorption level. That's the most amount of milk that will be absorbed by the cereal. So before you even start pouring the milk, you're going to want to think about how much milk you want leftover in the bowl and whether or not you are prepared to drink it. And I don't want you slurping it up with your spoon either. You will have to lift the bowl with both hands, and drink it down.

Because that's the polite thing to do. Breakfast isn't a free-for-all, son. There are rules and there is a right way of going about things. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Some cereals, especially those sugar cereals you like so much, will impart flavour and particles to the leftover milk. Are you prepared for that? Personally, I can't stand the flavour milk takes on—

I'm just teaching our son about cereal.

I know perfectly well what time it is—

Because I think it's important.

Well, he's my son too, so I think—

I was going to do that later. I don't need to answer—

Let's pick this up later, son.

On stuff I refuse to wear

2010-12-13T11:37:00.000-05:00

Jewellery

Call me cheap, but I can't see the point of solidifying my money into hard precious metal, and then melting it down, and then using more money to have experts tweeze at it with saws and pliers until it's charming enough to drape around my neck or twist around my fingers. I guess I'm not sentimental that way. But I think we should all agree that ankle bracelets are stupid.

Included in my definition of jewellery are watches, but I don't wear them for a different reason. They are a useful tool, and the more functional ones are fun to have. (Remember Indiglo?) I wear them simply because I do not care what time it is. When I need to know, I reach into my pocket. I like to put away the time when I am done with it. I opt not to advertise the time on my wrist; like a shackle of memento mori, tugging our arms gently forward into oblivion.

(Please don't call me cheap.)

Owners' manuals written by me

2010-12-06T11:37:00.001-05:00

Congratulations on your purchase of the Label Pro 500, Deluxe Labelmaker. Whoop-de-do. I know it's exciting. I can barely contain myself, either. But before you set off to a wonderland of thrill-a-minute labelmaking tomfoolery, take a minute and read this manual won't you? You might learn something for Chrissake.

First of all, let's not kid ourselves. You're going to use this thing for one week, two tops. You'll label everything in your house, and then remember that you already knew what everything was. Then you'll be out of blank labels and won't want to shell out for more. I see this all the time. Welcome to rock bottom, sucker. Ready for another fix?

There are a lot of interesting and useful features in the Label Pro 500. It has a keyboard so you can type words. And a green button labelled "PRINT" that well, I'll let you guess what happens when you press it. Are you keeping up so far, Einstein? That's it. That's fucking it. I mean, you can make the letters italic if you want, but no one ever does that.

What do you need labelled so badly anyway? That precious dollar-store coffee mug you've been keeping unwashed at your desk, for fear that someone will take it from the staff kitchen? A label isn't going to do shit about that situation hombre. You just need to stop being such a pussy and murder the next man who takes that mug. It would have saved you $80 too.

Or maybe it's to keep all your file folders straight. Quick tip: use a pen. It's two orders of magnitude less time to accomplish, and doesn't involve you pecking away at a keyboard designed for a marmoset.

Are you really so stupid to have purchased an electronic label maker? I'd sigh out loud if I wasn't a set of instructions at the bottom of a label maker carton.

Do not immerse in water. Takes four AA batteries, not included.

Wrong number

2010-11-24T11:37:00.001-05:00

Every now and then it's fun to call a wrong number and leave a voicemail like:

"Listen Jimmy, it's Frank. Are you home? Listen, if you're there: you need to get out of the house now. They're coming Jimmy, I'm sorry -- they know everything, they got my phone -- and they're coming. They just left an hour ago and Jimmy -- they have your address, Jimmy -- Christ, please don't be stubborn: you gotta go. You gotta leave now. They're on their way now, I swear, you have to listen to me. Don't hide in the basement, and do not let your family -- Jimmy! Goddamnit. I hope you've taken off, already. God, I'm so sorry."

And then call back a few minutes later:

"Hi there. My name is Frank and I just wanted to follow up on a message I left at this number. That was intended for my friend James. If you could just disregard that, I somehow have your contact details listed under his. My apologies. I've updated his number and address accordingly. Sorry for any inconvenience."

And then call back exactly one minute after that:

"Hi, there. It's Frank again. You know, just to be safe you may want to get out of the house."

The difference a vowel makes

2010-11-17T11:37:00.001-05:00

Clink is the sound of two flutes of Champagne, kissing in midair. Unlike like other celebratory noises (the spew of a kazoo, the blare of a goal alarm, "OMYGODYES!", etc.) a clink comports itself with class and refinement. It does not strain to be heard, nor insist on its presence. Like the dignified lift of a conductor's baton, a clink is subtle but commanding. A clink is to be respected.

Clunk, on the other hand, doesn't get the same respect. It's a soiled workboot landing on a hardwood floor. Or the protest of a second-hand credenza, jostled in a stairwell by sweaty movers. It's the bellow of a sedan, who's trunk refuses to admit another suitcase. It's the sound of defeat, really. And that's a surprising truth for those who expect otherwise of defeat: perhaps an anguished moan or bawl. It is merely a tuneless clunk; a pair of unmanned rowboats thudding in a foggy, waveless sound.

Clank is more feared than respected. Like a wrench thrown across a noisy garage or construction site, one keeps an eye out for clank. It is a neighbourhood bully, dragging a rusting pipe against the inner city asphalt. Clank is the sound of straining machinery and thus the annoying tune of Progress; the soundtrack by which we leave that we know and love. Clank is a heavy hammer against metal that glows like an oncoming future. Clank is musical theatre with chains, it is religion with cast iron, it is proof of an emptied oil barrel's ultimate demise as it is lost into a deep, deep canyon.

Clonk is specifically the sound of getting hit in the skull with a rubber or wooden mallet.

And clenk, like the sound of astonished eyes, is no sound at all.

On stuff I refuse to wear

2010-10-10T11:37:00.004-04:00

Sandals

Sandals are weak and stupid footwear worn by the weak and stupid. Not even footwear really, these barely protective scraps are fashionable with women, children and peasants in tropical nations. No matter how hot it is outside, real men wear shoes.

(That's not to say I'm a real man. I wouldn't imply such a thing. I'm just saying.)

Words I hate

2010-08-25T11:37:00.004-04:00

Not only do I hate the word "mouthfeel," but the concept is utterly repellant also. It's less-than-amazing to hear people wax erotic about wine and foodstuffs; letting me know how it feels on your tongue is just superfluous. And gross. Really, really gross.

Actually, most terminology related to food tasting borders on the obscene. People should not be using words like "fleshy" and "supple" and "prickle(?)" to describe anything let alone beverages. Can we just use simple booleans to size up our grape-based potables?

Drinkable
Non-drinkable

That should be more than sufficient. Let's leave your tongue out of it.

On stuff I refuse to wear

2010-08-04T11:37:00.000-04:00

Hats

With the sole exception of tuques (which I admire greatly), hats are a useless nuisance committed to destroying styled hair and one-hundred percent effective at branding you a poseur. Name a hat you would wear to a serious setting, such as a funeral. If you answered anything but, "I probably wouldn't wear a hat, unless of course the funeral is outside, like on the frozen tundra, in minus forty degree weather with eighty kilometre per hour winds, because let's say it's an Inuit funeral, not that I know the exact (or even an inexact) procedure of a Inuit funeral, but I assume they are outside, then I would wear a warm tuque and certainly a tasteful one" then you are a douchebag.

Women shall never wear hats. Only earmuffs or silk scarfs.

Words I hate

2010-07-28T11:37:00.003-04:00

Bummer.

When people say, "that's a bummer," they mean, "oh no dude, that totally blows" but I can't help but hear a plainly descriptive term for a homosexual.

"That's a bummer. Right there. And look, there's another one." If it's not working for you, try it again with an English accent. Better?

Then again, Wiktionary says:

During the American Civil War, especially during Sherman's southern campaign, "bummers" would leave the ranks sometimes for a week or more to forage and incidentally to reconnoiter. [My emphasis.]

So I really don't know what to believe. I'm just going to avoid the word altogether.

Religion reform #18

2010-07-23T11:37:00.002-04:00

I would like to see, just once, someone assert the existence of God by making the following claims:

There exists something called Oreo ice cream.
Only God could have created as fulfilling and awe-inducing as Oreo ice cream.
Here, have a spoonful. Seriously, I have lots.
Mm, how is it? Good, right? Let me try it.
(Mouth full of ice cream.) Mmmm, tell me God didn't make this. Oh, sweet Jesus.
I'll get you some more.
Therefore, God exists in realty.

Q.E.D. bitches. And then if anyone starts to get all fact-y or whatever, you take could away his ice cream or make a wicked milkshake and not let him have any.

How to parallel park from first principles

2010-07-21T11:37:00.001-04:00

"So here's the premise. It's a set of instructions on how to parallel park your car that starts at the very beginning. And I don't just mean from the first moment you learn to drive, or the first time you see a car, or get hit by a car, or even learn what a car is. I'm talking before everything, even you. Prior to transportation, and feet, and limbs, skin, skin cells, any cells, molecules, and atoms and the vibrations that make up existence, matter and time. Before all that shit.

"The very beginning.

"But it was turning out be one Hell of of a project. As we speak, my desk is covered with lined paper, and empty coffee cups, uncapped sharpies, a thesaurus, and a copy of Jack Welch's Winning (in case I feel low). The lined paper in turn, is covered with the ramblings of a lunatic, and specifically, a lunatic that has recently watched thirty-seven episodes of Nova. There are diagrams of the nascent universe as a small inky circles, with sharp frenetic lines bolts of lightning indicating energy flying in all directions. It's mostly circles and frenetic lines really. For a few billion years at least. The thing to understand is that in the early universe, there are few scientific laws governing the behaviour of anything, and they had only just been invented. So things were a bit confusing, and quite hot, and somewhat untidy.

"And under some other lined pages (under silver goblet holding a rusting apple core -- don't ask), there's words like "dust cloud" and "coalesce" (spelled incorrectly a dozen times) and orphaned attempts to describe how, as the energy spreads out like a line of hot butter across an infinite expanse of cold black toast, simultaneously creating the space it enters, it slowly crumbles into tiny buzzing grains called matter -- but that wasn't much of a jumping off point and I got blocked.

"It doesn't matter though, because it's much worse trying to explain the emergence of crude laws which conducted the organization of the elementary particles into atoms, and molecules, which become complex, and form imperceptible droplets in the primordial steam of the new Earth. And how these fuse with other droplets, to produce more, each with primitive metabolic systems factoring in their survival. I can't wrap my head around it. It's just more circles and frenetic lines.

The complex evolutionary journey from complex self-replicating molecules to single-celled life is longer than the journey from dinosaurs to side view mirrors and steering columns, so I won't bore you with the details. But anyway, a bit more of that, you put the car in reverse, yadda yadda yadda. I never finished it." I stopped.

"And it's a musical?" said Donnie, aghast.

"That's what I was thinking. Either that or "epic poem", but you know how I feel about Praepositio."

Wild speculation

2010-07-16T11:37:00.001-04:00

On divorce:

Jack: I hate being married.
Jill: Well, that makes two of us.
Jack: Wish we could do something about it.
Jill: Yeah, me too.

Watermelons are stupid and I don't like them

2010-07-12T11:37:00.000-04:00

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

Darryl: Hey, Harvey. Just the man I want to see. Let me ask you a few things about watermelon.
Harvey: OK...
Darryl: Well, do you like it?
Harvey: Not really.
Darryl: I hate it.
Harvey: I see.
Darryl: I suggest you get on board.
Harvey: On board... hating watermelon?
Darryl: Do you know how many watermelon-related fatalities there are every year in Canada?
Harvey: I'd guess zero.
Darryl: I don't have the figures right now, but I'm sure you're wrong. And what about the fact that it perpetuates racist stereotypes?
Harvey: Watermelons perpetuate racist stereotypes?
Darryl: You know exactly what I mean.
Harvey: I think what you're trying to say is: you're a racist.
Darryl: Exactly.
Harvey: Just to clarify, the "you" I was referring to in my previous statement is not the general you. It's you.
Darryl: Ever fucked one?
Harvey: I don't know what to say.
Darryl:
Harvey:
Darryl:
Harvey: Please don't say something racist here.
Darryl: Have you ever fucked a watermelon?
Harvey: What? Why would you do that?
Darryl: It feels amazing. You drill a hole in it then warm it in the microwave for seven seconds. And not a second longer. I'm serious.
Harvey: Wait, how does that even fit?
Darryl: Well, you can use your finger--
Harvey: I mean, in the microwave. How do you fit a watermelon in the microwave?
Darryl:
Harvey:
Darryl:
Harvey: So you haven't actually tried this.
Darryl: Not yet, but it's gotta be pretty awesome, right?
Harvey: I gotta go.

On stuff I refuse to wear

2010-07-07T11:37:00.000-04:00

Shorts

Only little boys may wear shorts without admonishment. To everyone else, take heed. When you wear shorts, you are saying quite simply: I don't take life that seriously. And mind you, I'm not opposed to that particular point of view. But for probably not very fair or easily-well-articulated reasons, I consider "little boys" the only cross-section of humanity that deserves this sumptuous state of being. Everybody else, get back to work. This includes you too, little girls and pets.

(I have used "little boys," sumptuous, and pets in a single post. This ought to get traffic bubbling.)

On self-loathing

2010-07-05T11:37:00.003-04:00

Is there really any other kind? I mean there's non-self-loathing but I believe that's called "hatred" (or "standard operating procedure" for the hardcore Musselmans among us). Truly, the most accurate target of loathing is oneself. For example:

Loathing the honeyed cakes, I Ionged for bread. - Cowley.

Now, I don't know who this Cowley cat is but really? That's a bit strong. How can you loathe a honeyed cake? Or any kind of cake, really? I could understand: detesting, abhorring, rejecting, even hating a cake, but loathing is a step too far. Loathing is that deep, pristine sense of hatred that we can only feel for something we know as intimately as ourselves, viz., ourselves. We can only loathe that which we know inside and out; in fact, I would argue that loathing is the very phenomenon of knowing the essence of something completely. To understand something is to hate it. (You learn this in first year English Literature; this isn't news.)

And to those of you in the crowd that insist that you love yourselves (and not merely in an Onanistic way), I can only shake my head and squint my eyes in the powerful beam of your glistening denial. No one loathes him- or herself more than the person who claims to self-love. Besides, the type of person who loves herself (because men don't self-love unless lubrication is involved) probably enjoys the humor of Cathy Guisewite, which intellectually speaking is the equivalent of spray-painting Q.E.D. over everything I just said. Emotionally speaking, its the same as sobbing between mouthfuls of a red-velvet cake.

Self-love? Please. Self-hate! Self-loathe. It feels so right coming off the tongue and makes all the sense in the world. Honeyed cakes be damned.

Vitamin Water

2010-06-30T11:37:00.001-04:00

What is this stuff? I don't quite get it. I picked up a bottle today for the first time and all it says on it is:

c'mon is that a purse...or a suitcase? let's what you're squeezing in there. looky here, a gift card (with 89c left), three different hand creams (melon, cucumber, cucumber-melon), lip balm, lipstick, and lip gloss, oh and what's this? well your bags have inspired us. we squeezed a bunch of good stuff into this bottle -- it's got 11 key nutrients from vitamin a to zinc. just remember to save room for it in your purse. or "man-bag" (we're not judging).

What the fuck? "Looky here?" I don't ever recall being sassed by H2O before. What did I do? For the record, I wasn't even carrying a "man-bag" when I purchased this, but I should not have to defend myself against this onslaught.

I don't even know what this stuff is. Do they just smash a Centrum into a bottle of Gatorade? Bravo. I don't see how that entitles these clowns to any level of snark. I can't believe I shelled out two bucks to be shit on by a bottle of liquid nutrients.

And yes, dudes carry purses. Where have you been for the past fourteen years? Are we to expect jokes about "lattes" and "Monica Lewinsky" next? I'm so glad that this under-capitalized attempt at observational humor inspired you to cram "a bunch of good stuff into this bottle"? Here's a suggestion: why don't you cram this bottle (and those 11 key nutrients) up your asshole, Vitamin Water. I won't judge.

Five Years

2010-06-23T11:37:00.001-04:00

It occurs to me that five years have passed since I started this blog. The project started, in earnest, as a way to bring my enemies down a peg and woo ladies "teleblognetically." Obviously I have failed in in those efforts, but I what have I actually accomplished in that time?

Word up:

Writing a double-dactyl
The craft of self-aggrandizement
Endless listery
Racism
Mustard
Perfecting my recipe for stream-of-conciousness pancakes
Creating my own religion
Making complaints not really worth writing about
Alienating you, dear reader

I couldn't possibly explain why I've kept up this weblog for an audience of none. And stranger still, why I have this feeling that this project is far from finished. That I'm just as far in as I'll ever be out. What do I hope to gain from this? Why am I here? Where is the pussy I promised myself? And are those Anna Nalick lyrics?

To all those questions, I can only supply what I promised at the outset; a resounding "go fuck yourself." There are no answers the ground I tread here. Nor is this wall of text climbing into the sky a magic beanstalk.

But it is nevertheless, a calendar. And looking back over the past five years, I see what this this blog really is: a tree in a vast forest, stretching its arms to the sun, growing by only the smallest and imperceptible progress, and living in silent fear of an inevitable axe or chainsaw.

(Or perhaps one day the forest will be felled altogether, in a controlled blaze or brushfire. But that would be at best, stretching the metaphor, and at worst, needlessly apocalyptic.)

So, I'll keep at it for another five years, and maybe longer if I haven't grown up by then. If you have any objections, go fuck yourself.

Your pal,

Harvey Kornbluth

Good fences make good neighbours

2010-06-21T11:37:00.000-04:00

As the date of Group of Twenty economic circle jerk draws nearer, this fair city has gone a little bit mental trying to create a Soviet sense of security in the core -- but without the Stalin-esque charm. Since I live within sniping range of the festivities, I've compiled some suggestions on how to survive downtown in the next few days:

Be prepared: always carry a water bottle and some weed.
While most people will protest peacefully, some demonstrators could become violent. To ensure your protection, strike first: stab all and any protesters you see in the face.
Avoid going into work, even if you don't work downtown. Get drunk and stay drunk.
Be cautious when transporting gun- or bomb-shaped objects during the summit. Keep them visible by holding them high in the air, and speak loudly to lower suspicions.
If you are an Arab, hang out in Mississauga for the weekend.
If you have any suggestions on how to strengthen capital liquidity standards and cap leverage in the market, shut the fuck up. No one gives a shit.
If you see the President of the United States, do refrain from:

Shooting him dead, or
Yelling "Y'Obama!"

Driving will be especially difficult in the financial district. A well-sharpened spike or cowcatcher will help lower commuting times.
For those protesting: please limit the number of puns on signs to three. Also, to combat the effects of tear-gas: stay home.
Please avoid proliferating nuclear weapons until after the summit has concluded.
Please don't piss in the 'water feature.'
Hug a cop. They will appreciate the gesture of support.
If you see the leader of Turkey, avoid calling his country's economy "basically irrelevant to the goings on" or asking "who let you in?"
Don't forget to wear sunscreen.

Iced tall half-sweet light iced iced coffee (with milk)

2010-06-18T11:37:00.001-04:00

There are hot summer days when my addiction to caffeine taps me urgently on the shoulder, as though having missed some part of a movie and dying to recover the lost dialogue.

"What did he say?"
"He said, 'you're next,' to the other guy."
"I don't get it."

And then I sigh, turning around in my seat, and I report with contempt:

"He's implying that he knows that the main guy, the spy, is in on it. And that he's probably going to get killed."
"Ohhh. Why is he going to get killed?"

And if someone hasn't shushed us by now, the moment is certainly at hand. I will shift uncomfortably in my seat and whisper sternly,

"I don't know! Nobody knows yet. Pay attention!"

But my addiction just blinks behind me and says unapologetically, "I can't. I'm fucking exhausted."

And at this point in the metaphor, I careen into the nearest Starbucks, recite the redundant incantation in the title, fork over twenty bucks and return to my addiction with a plastic cup covered with condensation. I even put the straw in it for him.

"Here," I whisper, "now shut the fuck up."

And though he usually slurps the ice way longer than he needs to, the sound of melting ice and air hissing through a straw is preferable to the sibilant whispers in the dark and purposeful jabs on my shoulder. Infinitely so.

This is why I don't sit next to my addictions. They are always so desperate for my attention.

Wild speculation

2010-06-09T11:37:00.016-04:00

On the invention of books:

Sycophant: Your latest drama has arrived, sire.
Aristocrat: Excellent. My, that's quite a stack of folio.
Sycophant: Quite.
Aristrocrat: Tell me, Jervais, is there a gentleman on staff that would hold the pages before me as I read?
Sycophant: Indubitably.

Later:

Aristocrat: Next page....

And after that:

Aristocrat: Next page....

And after that:

Aristocrat: Next page...

Prole: You know sir, it might be easier if you bound these pages in a sturdy substance such as leather or wood. That would serve to protect the pages from handling, and make the act of reading alone a practical reality.

Aristocrat: Jervais, remove this man at once!

On stuff I refuse to wear

2010-06-04T16:21:00.000-04:00

Boxer shorts

I'm not sure how these qualify as underwear. There's really nothing here. Given my aforementioned stance on "shorts" it's easy to understand my distaste for said undergarment.

Briefs are just as bad.

Rules of the photocopier room

2010-05-19T11:37:00.017-04:00

I've decided to pin this list in our office photocopier room using official company letterhead. Technically I'm still on contract, but -- what the hell. Let's see what happens.

Due to a rising number of complaints, please make note of the following Rules of the Photocopier Room as approved by the VP of In-House Duplication:

There are to be no more than five persons in the photocopier room at any time. If you are waiting for a document and there are already five people in the room, please wait outside or return at a later time to collect your document.
Please keep conversation to a minimum. If you need to chat, please limit yourself to the following subjects: paper sizes and weight, staple removal techniques, toner levels, misfeed troubleshooting, and duplex copying. Speak in a hushed or quiet whisper. Please do not engage in "idle chatter" i.e, talking about the weekend, the weather, sporting events, your children, etc.
No printing of personal e-mails including creative writing, recipes, funny e-mail forwards, words of wisdom, maps/directions, resumes, personal correspondence, menus or political pamphlets. The photocopier is for office use only.
For hygienic reasons, please do not use the photocopier to reproduce images of body parts or other nonstandard materials, including foodstuffs or animals. Standing or "dancing" on the photocopier will also not be tolerated.
As a courtesy to other staff, please arrange to print any documents longer than 14 pages after 7pm or on weekends.
To reduce the strain on this equipment, please limit the number of colors in your document to three. Avoid use of RGB(137,2,133) or any font sizes smaller than 12.
Please wipe the flatbed clean after every use, using the provided swabs and cleaning solution. When wiping down the surface, utilize latex gloves to prevent smudges and fingerprints. Do not dispose of the gloves in the photocopier room; take them back to your desk and dispose of them there.

Remember: your ability to use the photocopying equipment is a privilege not a right, and may be revoked at any time. Please do your part to keep the photocopier safe, clean and orderly.

That'll show 'em! But seriously, people need to stop photocopying their sandwiches. They also need to shut the fuck up in the photocopier room.

My reflection

2010-05-14T11:37:00.000-04:00

I was at the antique market looking for a good-size mirror for my room. Size is the only criteria that matters really, since all mirrors function the same and only homosexuals concern themselves with frame types and shape. All I want is my reflection.

(I'm sure it will get around that I already have a pair of floor-to-ceiling mirrors acting as my closet doors. That's quite a lot of mirror for one person, it will be said. Fortunately, I'm not known to consult public opinion about anything.)

Anyway, I didn't know what a "good-size" was. There isn't room on my walls for a mirror. The surfaces in my room are already overrun; there's an Ikea clock, a cork-board, my nieces' art, a tambourine, a painting on wood of a boy holding a basket of apples, and so forth. No matter where I turn, I'm already looking at something that relates to me.

And that was what hit me at the antique market. The realization that the parade of useless bric-a-brac around me was a collection of reflections of lives lived. No matter how dull or opaque, every object is a mirror of some sort.

Looking around my room now, I can see reflection hidden everywhere. Here is one trapped in the chest of a metallic robot. And there's the ebony display on my cellphone. I can see myself in the glossy surface of my laptop. Or in unflattering wide-angle, on back of this spoon. There is the clock radio, the whole glass surface of my desk, and the undulating surface of this cold black coffee.

But off all these mirrors, the most vivid reflection seems to be wall of text in front of me, inching its way upward on my computer screen. Color and shape is nothing more than the path of light distorted. But thoughts and text are many paths interpreted; a true reflection of a mind.

Wild speculation

2010-05-07T11:37:00.000-04:00

On the Black Death:

God: These Rats are out of control. Here, kill them with this.
Tracy: Er, this is some seriously strong stuff.
God: Those fuckers don't stand a chance.
Tracy: No, I mean, this is strong enough to kill half the planet.
God: Then just use a little bit.
Tracy: I'm not sure--
God: What's the worst that could happen?

Now hiring

2010-05-05T11:37:00.000-04:00

Seeking a well-rounded and energetic individual to fill a maternity position, at a small and dynamic firm in downtown Toronto. You will be assisting me in a variety of office-related and not-so-office-related tasks. The ideal candidate is well-versed in Microsoft Office, is a strong communicator, and can lift 50 lbs. Job duties include:

having sex with management
becoming pregnant with management's offspring
bearing and subsequently rearing the offspring

Must have at least 3-5 years experience gestational/admin. experience. Because this position involves getting pregnant we ask that barren women and the Irish not apply. Apply today if you know how to use Offset in MS Excel.

We are an equal opportunity employer (but no fatties).

Location: Toronto
Compensation: Getting the business from yours truly
Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
Please, no phone calls about this job!
Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.

Finally

2010-04-19T11:37:00.001-04:00

A family friend is finally pregnant after seven failed attempts. That's seven miscarriages; not an intercourse count. She told me this news over some sausage rolls at a recent gathering. She was careful to provide her observations on the process losing seven of your unborn children against your will, and also vivid details of the oppressive psychosis she now experiences when ovulating.

I chewed my hors d'oeuvres deliberately and unhurriedly, to give me time to formulate a response. Congratulations did not seem appropriate at all. Neither did any kind of well wishing, really. "I'm so happy for you," seemed like a trite dismissal of her near-decade of emotional devastation. But I didn't want to offer condolences either. "That blows" would probably have unintended consequences. Ditto, "I'm sorry." And I really didn't want to say a single thing that involved the word "finally." I knew that would be the worst thing to say.

That said, this wasn't really sausage roll talk and she probably knew it. But a pregnant chick is a lot like a homemade still. She's filled to the brim with volatile chemicals and her collapse into flames is not inconceiveable. As she unfolded her saga of procreation, I knew I had to be careful with my words. She was like any car in Lebanon: an explosion waiting to happen.

Why the hell am I talking to pregnant chicks in the first place? Where's that girl with the miniature Samosas? Should I change the subject? Not completely of course. I could talk about a friend of mine who's also pregnant. But that could backfire. I'm sure she hates thinking about the ease of other people's complication-free pregnancies. Should I talk about the weather? Everyone loves talking about the weather.

As they phyllo evaporated in my mouth, my friend had stopped speaking. It was my turn.

"Holy shit."

She nodded gently and smiled. Her eyes became slightly wet.

"Yeah," she said quietly.

EI-EI-GO

2010-04-14T11:37:00.018-04:00

Please forgive my absence. Where have I been, you're asking yourselves. Or perhaps you're asking me, but substituting the appropriate pronoun. Maybe you are asking God by shouting at the clouds and raising your fist in the air. Maybe you're asking Ellie, but then you would be an idiot.

You're probably not asking at all, but here's the scoop anyway. I got a job. And not the usual squeegier-of-male-ejaculate-type jobs I am prone to getting. A real job. In a building downtown, where I wear a suit, and sip complementary coffee all day, and wander the underground shops at lunchtime in uncomfortable yet shiny shoes. I've been meeting-and-greeting and lunching-and-learning all week. I even attended a boardroom brouhaha for a woman embarking on maternity leave. I've got a cubicle, a personal login, and a motherfucking photo ID. This is the big time folks.

But make no mistake. I still hate my life and everyone in it. Except you, dear reader. I could never hate you.

Please forgive my sporadic updates and the slightly sunnier tinge these missives might carry henceforth; it's the inevitable result of a slight increase in income, and the crack and collapse of my iceberg of free time.

Getting paid,

Harvey Kornbluth

Kicking it on the 502

2010-03-29T11:37:00.000-04:00

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

2010-03-26T11:37:00.000-04:00

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

2010-03-24T11:37:00.001-04:00

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

2010-03-22T11:37:00.001-04:00

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

2010-03-16T11:37:00.002-04:00

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

2010-03-08T11:37:00.028-05:00

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

2010-03-05T11:37:00.001-05:00

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

2010-03-03T11:37:00.007-05:00

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:

You want to be appear clever by showing you know what "fortnight" means.
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

2010-03-01T11:37:00.004-05:00

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.)

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

2010-02-26T11:37:00.003-05:00

Harvey: What do you call this thing again?
Miranda: An umbrella?
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey:
Miranda: It's for the rain?
Harvey: Oh, of course. I'll take a half dozen.

Keine Streiche erlaubt

2010-02-24T11:37:00.003-05:00

With a slight tip of his hat, the Nazi soldier pulls open the door and salutes the Oberstleutnant. The high-ranking officer moves slowly, bringing silence to the barracks. His thin lips are pressed tightly together and his dark eyes slide about looking for evidence.

He carefully steps across the rank of soldiers as they stand at attention, quietly breathing. He moves in close, as though his breath could deliquesce the resolve of the guilty soldier. The only sound in the barracks are the muted thudding of the Oberstleutnant's footsteps against the dry floorboards.

At the end of the line of soldiers stands Isaac. He is tapping a nervous toe inside his too-large boots. Like the rest of the soldiers, he knows who committed the crime, but that's not the source of his unease. He is nose-to-nose with the Oberstleutnant.

"Name?"

"Abelard Hoffman," replies the Feldwebel holding the door.

"Was wissen Sie darüber?"

Isaac's toe is frenetic and he can feel the dampness on his brow starting to coalesce. A small bead snakes its way down the left side of his face. Isaac concentrates hard to keep it on his face, but the droplet releases its grip. Issac's eyes descend with the drop, as it lands with a soundless splash.

As he looks down he notices the Oberstleutnant's boots opposite his own. They are ebony, uncreased and well-shined; the boots of a model soldier. They would be perfect except for a single piece of toilet paper stuck to the heel. At the sight of this, Isaac lets out a quiet chuckle.

With the silence punctuated, every head in the room turns toward Isaac. The other privates look at him as though he had swallowed a live grenade. The Oberstleutnant says nothing. His eyes widen slightly and he gently tilts his head.

But Isaac does not stop laughing. He can't stop. The quiet chuckle has rolled into a less-quiet titter, emerging like the steady drip from a leaky faucet.

The other soldiers watch with a combination of horror and amusement. A few are pressing their tongues between their teeth, trying to avoid Issac's plight. Across the room, a snort escapes into the air. Like an eagle, the Oberstleutnant spins his head to the offending soldier. The snorting solder is giggling, and like a virus, his neighbours are beginning to vibrate with burgeoning laughter. The Oberstleutnant turns away from Isaac and watches the two walls of soldiers, crumbling into hysterics. His lips are unsealed and his eyes are incredulous at the tumult of cachinnation in the barracks.

The sound of his footsteps are not heard he walks to the door. The Feldwebel at the door is looking at the ceiling and working hard to suppress a grin.

"Schweigen!"

The room quiets to a few giggles and stifled guffaws. The Oberstleutnant's throws open the barracks' door to reveal his personal jeep, parked outside, covered with toilet paper, straw, rocks and feces.

"Ich brauche dieses saubere bis heute abend."

The soldiers straighten up. "Jawohl Oberstleutnant!"

The Oberstleutnant leaves the entire barracks exhausted from laughter. Isaac stands at the back of the room, his mouth still curled into a smile. As he closes his eyes and exhales, tears stream down his face.

Got enough? Get enough

2010-02-22T11:37:00.002-05:00

They just don't give up do they. The milk barons have set up a new website to find out if you get enough milk each day. Get enough? I think I get enough thanks. Are you sure you're being objective about how much we need? I swear, I don't think these people will be satisfied until we're literally chained to the underside of cows, tubes in our mouths, with rivulets of milk flowing out our nostrils and tear ducts.

At this web site you can even "pledge" your allegiance to the dairy Gods.

I pledge to get enough milk products every day; to change my eating habits one plate at a time; and to always keep in mind that, for me and my family, every serving counts.

So help me God.

And this isn't merely a symbolic thing; you have to provide your name and e-mail address too. It's anyone's guess what they want with that information, but I wouldn't be surprised if you woke up to goons force-feeding you yogurt.

Not only do I get enough milk, you assholes, I've had enough. If I ever see any of you dairy clowns in public expect a full carton of Silk to the head.

Compatibility test

2010-02-19T11:37:00.005-05:00

Before a first date I like to ask the following three questions. Depending on the answers to these questions, I can gauge whether or not the relationship will be a success.

You are waiting in line at Burger King and the person in front of you is taking a long time to order. You're on a date with a person you really like, and you're both too hungry to find another restaurant. Do you:

Tap your foot impatiently then sigh loudly.
Patiently wait until it's your turn.
Blurt out, "Jesus Christ could you hurry the fuck up?"
Strangle the straggler with your bare fucking hands.

After a long day at work, you board the commuter train and spot only one seat left. You and an elderly woman notice it at the same time. You know the right thing to do, but you're tired. Do you:

Move quickly to take the seat before she does, and pretend you didn't notice her.
Offer the seat as a kind gesture.
Glare at the old woman until she backs down.
Push the lady off the train at the next stop.

You are at an outdoor concert for your favourite band, U2, and it starts raining. Problem is, you're wearing your favourite leather bomber jacket. You don't want to leave what's sure to be an amazing show. A person nearby has an umbrella. Do you:

Ask politely to step under the umbrella.
Ask politely to borrow the umbrella.
Take the fucking umbrella.
Get wet and enjoy the rest of the concert singing out loud with glee.

Consider for yourself what your best answers would be. If you chose "A" for all your options, you fail. Ditto if you chose all "B"s or "C"s. If you answered "D": are you fucking kidding me?

Or any of the answers really. Because this is more than an compatibility test, it's an aptitude test. And if you can just sit there calmly while I hypothesize that your favourite band is U2, then sorry, this isn't going to work out.

The ideal candidate would answer (a little) something like this:

"Why am I on a date at Burger King?"
Either "B" or "If I lived in the 'burbs I would decapitate myself with garden shears."
"I would strangle Bono with my bare fucking hands." or "Obnoxiously request "Discotheque" until I am escorted out of the concert by force."

I would also accept sexual overtures for partial credit.

From the archives

2010-02-17T11:37:00.002-05:00

13 October 2007

I'm high and out of breath. I just raced into the bowels of St. Patrick station and it feels like the hardest thing I've ever done. Buying tokens used all the mental capacity I left the house with this evening. I was staring at the transfer machine for about four minutes when I heard the rumbling of the train below me. I sprinted down the escalator with both hands on the rails, in time to see the doors of the southbound close in my face. I tried to shrug it off like I wasn't really interested in that train anyway, but everyone knew better.

So here I am on the platform trying to catch my breath and waiting for another train. I figure I might as well document this trip since I have nothing better to do. Tonight should be a good night. And by "good" I mean stressful, trying, and awkward.

But I want to mention something quickly. Before I started writing these words, I leafed through this notebook and a rather disturbing realization hit me. This is a God damn diary. I feel like a girl admitting this. And worse, I've whipped it out in public. An expression of awesome

* * *

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! I am now standing on the Northbound platform having missed my train a second time. Well, it's the first time missing my train, but the second train I missed tonight. If that makes any sense. In my state of being completely baked I attempted to catch, and missed, and subsequently waited for a train I didn't even want to take.

Only after a few minutes of notebook faggotry did I catch the sound of the approaching Northbound train and my synapses snapped to life. I barely had time to jam my notebook into my pocket and run to the other side before missing the train. Again.

God, I am so fucking high right now. I hate first dates.

Reasons for committing suicide

2010-02-15T11:37:00.004-05:00

I mean sure, Winter's almost over, but how can you be sure things will get better? I would reconsider if any of the following happen to you:

Choked on a piece of frosting
Had posture corrected by a stranger in public
Lost sight of the bigger picture
Miswrapped anniversary present
Overwhelmed by surge of curiosity, electricity
Never felt the need to finish a book
Was caught Facebook stalking unsavory characters
Covered with flesh-eating bacteria
Came in dead last

I hear tomorrow it's going to be minus twelve.

Altar boys

2010-02-12T11:37:00.000-05:00

Dear anyone who will listen,

I am sick and disgusted by the depiction of altar boys in the media. We are not all weepy, molested, Priest-suckers. Some of us spent our years in the church employing common sense, and avoiding those situations in which we may get diddled by a clergyman.

I can't even tell my friends that I was an altar boy without them assuming I once blew a Priest. The vast majority of altar boys escaped that treatment, and deserve some recognition of that fact. Not every little boy is tempted by promises of candy or special treatment. But then not every little boy is fucking retarded.

I certainly do not want to make light of the horrible plight of some my brethren, but I think they would agree: the public image of the male acolyte is served best not by some molested sack of marbles, but by a proud unsullied member of society such as myself. Let us carry the torch so that you may shine (in your special way).

Just kiddin',

Harvey Kornbluth

Canadian Tire Money

2010-02-10T11:37:00.001-05:00

Dear Canadian Tire,

I don't know much but I know I don't like Canadian Tire Money. It's very obviously a scam and I'm on to you. There is no reason I should be handing you money in exchange for goods, and have you hand me a bit of your own currency too. I studied economics and this seems a bit superfluous. I'm sure you would save some (real) money if you just avoided printing these bogus bucks; hell, you could pass some of the savings along to us.

Instead you print out this shill money with ridiculously tiny denominations. A five cent bill? This money's worth less than Rubles. No one feels good about themselves carrying around these bills. What if I accidentally slipped one to a stripper?

And making us pay with Canadian Tire Bonus Bucks is perhaps the gravest indignity of them all. Buying light bulbs with a shopping bag filled with crumpled bills is not the best thing for anyone's self esteem. Let's get rid of them.

Kindly,

Harvey Kornbluth

Have you ever kissed a girl only once?

2010-02-08T11:37:00.000-05:00

I met a girl a few months ago who started grilling me from the moment we met. She rapid-fired question after question:

How old are you?
Where were you born?
What is your place of employment?
How long have you lived at your current address?
What does it mean to have free will?
How many tennis balls roughly would it take the fill all the worlds oceans?
Can you envision a scenario where you would have to choose between saving my life and that of a South American football team? And which would you choose?
How many people have you met?
What is your weight in stone?
Do you always eat breakfast? Lunch? Brunch?
Have you ever jumped out of a plane?
Have you ever kissed a girl only once?
Do you know your social insurance number?
Do you know what the Fibonacci sequence is?
Do you remember Teddy Ruxpin? What about his caterpillar friend?
What should I do about this cockroach situation?
What is your second favourite colour?
What is the x to your o?
This isn't going well, is it?

And so on and so on. It was truly a brutal assault. She was hot, mind you, but this was crazy.

After dinner, I kissed her goodnight and silently vowed to never see her again. Though the question didn't make sense to me at the time, I realized then the meaning of kissing a girl only once.

And I still don't know what the x to my o is.

Galactosemia

2010-01-29T11:37:00.009-05:00

I stumbled upon this sentence while furiously clicking through web pages the other day:

Galactosemia is a rare genetic metabolic disorder that affects an individual's ability to metabolize galactose.

What an incredible syndrome. I didn't even know I could metabolize galactose. It all sounds too cosmological for my humble abilities. From what I understand about this disease (based on casual introspection), it's crucial to our understanding of the galaxy – particularly nebulae. I also heard (from myself) that if we don't properly metabolize galactose, we are susceptible to damage from the formation of tiny black holes in our abdominal wall. I should also mention that there is no known cure to Galactosemia. The only treatment available to those afflicted is the administration of a substance called Candy Floss.

Here are some more made up facts about Galactosemia.

Causes

Galactosemia is caused primarily by sunspot activity and overexposure to parades. Both events contribute to heightened levels of electromagnetic radiation in the atmosphere, which in turn melts the molecules in the human body associated with galactose metabolizing mechanisms.

Galactosemia can also be induced via the bark of small dogs, particularly the "yappy" kind.

Types

There are two types of Galactosemia. The Really Bad Kind (RBK) and normal Galactosemia. RBK causes instant death in those afflicted and in most cases death occurs before a diagnosis can be made. RBK is rare, occurring only in 0.1 x 10^-37 per thousand of the population, and researchers have been unable to determine precisely how many people have ever been afflicted with this form of Galactosemia. Conversely, regular Galactosemia is quite common, affecting nearly 54% of all humans (higher in years with pronounced sunspot activity).

Diagnosis

The only proven method of diagnosis of Galactosemia is through a procedure called the Florida Test in which a patient is soaked in orange juice. An increase in the alkalinity of the juice bath indicates a positive diagnosis. If the orange juice contains pulp however, the experiment must be repeated until Strontium is detected in the juice bath also.

Before the development of sophisticated screening methods, many other techniques (now antiquated) were used to detect the disease. In Medieval Europe for example, people suspected of the disease were harpooned on the spot. Ironically, historical studies have shown that the number of people that would have died from untreated Galactosemia was far less than number of people harpooned (or bludgeoned in landlocked countries) to death.

Treatment and Prevention

Galactosemia is partially preventable by avoiding exposure to the following:

Muted televisions
Plants and animals (including people)

These phenomena emit an undetectable form of radiation that directly contributes to the creation of miniature black holes in the human GI system. Because the radiation is undetectable however, few scientists are presently able to prove these claims. This is a source of considerable controversy for those involved in Galactosemia research.

Treatment of Galactosemia is a complex procedure involving a stainless steel centrifuge into which sugar is poured and food coloring added. Heaters near the rim melt the sugar and it is spun out through tiny holes where it solidifies in the air and is caught in a large metal bowl. An operator twirls a stick around the rim of the large catching bowl, gathering the sugar substance into portions. One head-sized bale is administered to Galactosemic patients daily.

While Candy Floss is ineffective against combatting the disease or relieving any of its symptoms, anecdotal evidence has suggested a "general improvement" in the well-being of patients receiving the treatment, and a strong causal link between the treatment and "quantity of smiles."

In late 2006, it was demonstrated by Swiss researchers that Candy Floss treatment for Galactosemia can contribute to tooth decay; subsequently, a movement away from this treatment has been embraced by some members of the medical community. The opponents of Candy Floss treatment have proposed a controversial and expensive alternative, namely, isolation in a soundproof booth for 16 months. No tests have demonstrated the efficacy of this new treatment, but it is rapidly gaining in popularity.

In Conclusion

In conclusion, Galactosemia is a badass disease that will fuck you up. Even to those successfully able to avoid dogs, muted televisions, plants, animals and/or people, there remains a significant chance that they will contract this highly contagious and debilitating disease. Until more tools are developed to combat this deadly ailment, always wear a rubber and never, ever leave your house.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

2010-01-20T11:37:00.002-05:00

Harvey: Do you sell any interesting knick-knacks?
Miranda: I'm sorry?
Harvey: Or some kind of useful bric-à-brac?
Miranda: You'll have to be more specific.
Harvey: (Frustrated) You know what I mean. I'm looking for a thingamabob… that does stuff.
Miranda: I have no idea what you're talking about.
Harvey: I just need some random doodad attached to a thingamajigger. And it has to be under $10.
Miranda:
Harvey:
Miranda: I have a teapot with a built-in barometer.
Harvey: That should do.

Wild speculation

2010-01-18T11:37:00.002-05:00

On the creation of the giraffe:

God: Tracy, can you pull up the horse?
Tracy: Sir, the horse has been completed. If we could just move on to more--
God: It'll only take a second.
Tracy: Yes, sir.
God: Good. I want you to make it yellow with some brown splotches.
Tracy: OK, done. Now if --
God: No, no, no, no. It's gotta be more brown.
Tracy:
God: More brown than that.
Tracy:
God: No, no. I need more. Just--
Tracy: How's this?
God: Why are you being so skimpy?
Tracy: So basically you want it brown with some yellow?
God: Great. And give it horns.
Tracy: Yes, sir.
God: And can you stretch it's neck out a little bit?
Tracy: Like this?
God: More.
Tracy:
God: More.
Tracy:
God: Just a little more.
Tracy: Are you serious--
God: Longer! Come on, we haven't got all day.
Tracy: All right.
God: Little bit more.
Tracy:
God: That's too much.
Tracy: Are you kidding me?
God: Fine, just leave it. Just fix that tail and make a few thousand of them. For now let's call it the "Superhorse."

Real letters from real geeks

2010-01-15T11:37:00.002-05:00

Dear any four call letters,

Is there anything more pointless than inviting porn stars to appear on morning radio? For starters, the morning commute is no place to be jerking off, I don't care how slow going it is. But that's not even the point. The fact is, as concerns the task of capturing the essence of cum-guzzling sluts, the medium of radio is definitely the worst-suited for the job. (Even below Kabuki.)

For starters, since you can't see them, you surrender about ninety-nine percent of appeal of adult film stars. Your morning DJ's lackluster eloquence fails to fill in that void. Descriptions invariably range from "so hot" to "smokin'" which isn't sufficient to spark my imagination. And announcing breast sizes is also pretty useless. I can tell an egg from a grapefruit sure, but numbers and letters are useless to me. And is it me or do all porn stars have have double dees?

I don't know how Howard Stern got famous doing this, but everyone else should give it a rest. Even cooking on television, a practice I hate, makes more sense than this. I may not be able taste the soup but I can at least see it's not a total disaster. But radio with porn stars -- at 7 am no less -- is just fucking stupid. Until you agree to start giving away blow jobs for the seventh caller in (and why you don't is beyond me), let's just stick with the screwball antics and coke-fueled morning pranks we're used to.

Sincerely,

Harvey

And what about Dijonaisse?

2010-01-13T11:37:00.006-05:00

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

Darryl: I had a mean convo with Rachel the other day. You know she swallows?
Harvey: This surprises you?
Darryl: Well, yeah. She doesn't even like mustard.
Harvey: I know I'm probably setting myself up here, but what does mustard have to do with it?
Darryl: Dude, everything. They're about the same level of offensiveness, you know?
Harvey: What are you talking about?
Darryl: Think about it. Mustard is not your everyday condiment. It doesn't have the broad appeal of ketchup or ranch. It's more refined. It's more of a... an adult flavor.
Harvey: Like come?
Darryl: Exactly. It's an acquired taste. I mean the aromatics alone--
Harvey: Stop. Please.
Darryl: And it's the type of thing that, even if you like it a lot, you can't just slather it on anything you know? You can't put it on a pancake.
Harvey: Come?
Darryl: No man, mustard. Mustard is to be respected. It's for the refined palate.
Harvey: Because it's an "adult flavor."
Darryl: Yeah, though I used to love mustard when I was a kid. Especially Dijon...
Harvey: I was going to ask where Dijon fit into all this.
Darryl: ...I'd eat that stuff straight from the jar. Oh, man it was sooo good. I'd get it all over my face--
Harvey: I gotta go.

Reasons for committing suicide

2010-01-11T11:37:00.008-05:00

How's your life? Not very good is it? No, it's not. Consider these reasons to end your life today:

Dip broke your nacho
You're the first contestant eliminated
Accidentally watched trilogy out of order
Tapped foot to Miley Cyrus
Added extra can of water to concentrated juice
Sale ended yesterday
Mis-TIVO'd
Ordered the bland meal
Not good at anything
Got Euchred
Mispelled name on blackboard
To avoid late fees

Not convinced? Please stay tuned.

A year ago today

2010-01-08T11:37:00.000-05:00

I don't dabble in journalism because I find it difficult to follow current events. This is due to my refusal to buy newspapers or to pay attention to what is going on, ever. I also have a mild, psychosomatic case of dyslexia. What news I hear is filtered through satirists, drunken-shouters, or a scant window of 140 characters. Remarkably, you don't even need full words to get the gist. "OMG" covers about 73% of phenomena.

According to this newspaper I'm holding, the Inauguration of America's first colored president is right around the corner. (But that's because this newspaper is a year old.) What a boon for non-racists everywhere. I can't imagine who else would care. It would ruin a racist's day, and those that don't care, wouldn't care. Personally I think the man has a nice-shaped head, but I don't know much else about him.

Speaking of Earth-shattering events, a 6.2 earthquake smashed in to Costa Rica a year ago today. Like the inauguration, this was met with some disappointment. Perhaps it would amuse some Costa Ricans to know that exactly a year later, a large volcano will explode on their island -- but I seriously doubt it.

The 11th incarnation of Doctor Who was also selected exactly one year ago. In the erupting violence several BBC staff members were tussled vigorously outside of Portland Place.

You know, I think there's a third reason I avoid the news. It blows. It's not really information I want to know; it's information they are convinced I ought to know, and believe me there is a difference. The latter is a stilted salver of randomly selected events attempting a neat and up-to-date mosaic of human existence; as though like copy, the news itself could align to tidy grids. Worse than failing, it succeeds only as bad entertainment; a pulp serial with no beginning or end. Before there was reality TV, the news was happily providing the service of exploiting the vain-glorious and feeding us risable half-truths. Honestly, one episode of Fear Factor is sufficient to summarize the state of our planet. And it's certainly less predictable.

At the very least let's stop calling it news: there is nothing "new" about it. Reality-twisted-into-palatable-narratives is more like it. The various flavours of news are meatless Items carved for specific demographics. Why else report about the Olympics, the Golden Globes, an increase in gas prices, the banal process of democracy, or a four-alarm housefire at Jane and Finch. All I want or need is access to the facts -- the truth. I know that the world is boring, miserable and unfair. I can accept that no progress is being made in our battles against disease, mortality and ourselves. And it doesn't confuse me understand if a day hums by with little to regret. I can accept the ongoing nature of tragedy without having to always raise a torch. I can accept news that's not particularly entertaining, nor aligns to our deep prejudices about the human condition. I can take it doc, I really can.

But do let me know if a comet is headed straight for the Earth.

January 8, 2009: "Princess Beatrice's Unlocked BMW Stolen." OMG!