A debt

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.

Canadian Tire Money

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

Of mosquitoes and (canned) meat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I call the number.

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

I emphasize the name in the same manner one might say, "Television? Perhaps you’ve heard of it?"

Voice of Opportunity: I'm sorry sir. We don’t have anyone here with that name.
Harvey: Unbelieveable. He told me to call here about an amazing opportunity. Also, I think I owe him, like, three grand. I just want to know how to send it to him.
Voice of Opportunity: Uh, sir, how did you get this number?
Harvey: Can you take a message for Steve?
Voice of Opportunity: Steve?
Harvey: (Exasperated tone.) Steve is the same as Kent. Can you take a message?

And with a surprisingly cordial air he said:


Voice of Opportunity: Of course. Go right ahead.

I proceed as if leaving voicemail:

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

The man on the other line starts to speak. I can’t hear him because I am busy pressing pound -- for more options.

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

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

Fine. Maybe I called more than than that.

Sunday nights can be dull you know.  I wonder how the other six fared.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: One pack of gum please.
Miranda: I can't change that.
Harvey: It's just a twenty.
Miranda: What do I look like a bank? Did you see any pamphlets outside about low interest mortgages and retirement advice?
Harvey: Well--
Miranda: Good afternoon, Mr. Jenkins. Would you like to hear about our affordable new line of credit? Or perhaps you would like a bank draft? Did you know that with interest rates being what they are, now is an excellent time to buy a house!?
Harvey: Just keep the change.

Fond memories of horrific events

It was the autumn carnival. I still remember the warm aroma of funnel cakes beckoning us to the tiny stand in the midway, manned by an equally tiny Italian dressed all in white and capped with a proper chef's hat. Engulfed in sugary redolence and warmth, the tiny man poured batter gently on to the oil's surface in the deep fryer. Beneath the awning of his hut the other kids and I watched with rapt anticipation as the nascent funnel cakes took form.

When it was my turn, I pressed my finger to the batter stained glass. I had been eyeing a particular funnel cake since it had first touched the hot oil. With an almost fatalistic sense of purpose, I made my selection. As a topping I requested powdered sugar and whipped cream. The tiny man looked at me with gentle eyes as he handed me the confection.

"That'll be $5.50, please."

I was dumbstruck. My parents had only given me a five dollar bill. I held the five dollar bill aloft, as if to indicate that that was all I had. I recall looking directly at the man with the gentle eyes. Time seemed to stop. He understood.

Without hesitation he lifted the warm funnel cake from my hands and tossed it like a Frisbee into a garbage pail behind me. It sailed over my head, and I turned around in time to watch the delicious pastry, whose history I followed from inception, meet its demise in the fly-ridden steel garbage can.

"Next!" The tiny man said.

I remember walking away despondently with my hands deep in my pockets. Then I noticed that there were a couple of quarters in there. But it was too late. I never ate funnel cake again.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: I think your hot-dog machine is broken.
Miranda: We don't have a hot-dog machine.
Harvey: (pointing) Then what's that?
Miranda: That's the ATM.
Harvey:
Miranda: Is that why you asked me for mustard forty seconds ago?
Harvey: Er... no. Would you happen to have some paper towels?
Miranda: Christ, not again.