No, I haven’t found it - I want to design it. A public bathroom containing every single one of the annoying things that, taken individually, make using a particular facility less of the transcendent experience it rightfully should be.

Please note that I haven’t listed ‘filthiness’ as one of the attributes, because a pube-garnished floor or a counter sloppy with mystery liquid will ruin even the Pope’s can (which, if you’ve never used it, is totally worth the eight days in a Vatican jail). In this scenario, we are building the bathroom from scratch, and it’s never been used.

The list:

1. Weak hand dryers

Obvious. Everyone wants, nay, yearns for paper towels, which cut your drying time by 80%. But cheap washrooms still refuse to give ‘em. Nowadays, newer places have started to introduce the automatic, super powerful dryers - the ones where you insert your hands into mitten-sized slots, like it’s a toaster and your hands are bread, and they then get blasted by hurricane-force winds. The problem with these is that they are louder than an airport. But they are still light years better than the old school, push-button jobbies.

Those ones take an average of four minutes to completely dry your hands, no matter how vigorously you rub. And there is always a line-up behind you, since it takes exponentially longer to dry your hands than it does to pee (if it were an assembly line, the operations manager would be fired). This then gives rise to a tendency to cut it short, which inevitably means you will run into your old high school teacher outside in the food court, with the resulting obvious-though-unacknowledged shaking of dry hand to damp.

Seriously, weak hand dryers are the worst. I would welcome a return to pay toilets if it meant I could rub my paws on some thin brown sandpaper, and get the hell out of there.

2. Separate hot and cold faucets

This is the stupidest thing you can put into a public bathroom. Two separate faucets are designed for bathtubs and only bathtubs, where you are filling a large space with water and have the time to adjust for the perfect mixture of temperature (or so I’ve heard - I don’t take baths, on account of my overwhelming manliness). If you are filling up a bathroom sink, plug in place,  just to wash your hands, you are a psychopath. But then your only other option in a two-faucet scenario is to turn them both on, and then frantically shimmy your hands back and forth, from scalding to freezing, until you get all the soap off.

This is no way for civilized humans to live. And unless your bathroom has heritage value, like it’s in an Aztec ruin or Anne Frank’s house, there’s just no excuse.

3. One urinal and one stall

And by this I mean that these are the sum total of the receptacle hardware in the bathroom. In that scenario, I can’t tell if it is a bathroom meant for one or two. Have you ever mistakenly walked into one of these (with an inviting swinging door as opposed to a lockable knob, no less) only to find a guy at the urinal? What do you do? If you go back outside and wait until he’s finished, you feel like you’re being weird, like the kid from grade school who pressed up way too close to the urinal to pee. But if you stay, the tiny space makes it feel like two people using the same washroom in someone’s house. You may as well be crossing streams.

If there was just one more urinal in there, it would be clear it was a multi-person facility. But a 1-and-1? It’s a complete wild card.

4. No hook on stall door

Maddening, particularly in winter. Where do you hang your coat? You can’t drape it on the back of the john. There’s cocaine residue and drunk guy urine on there. The floor is obviously out. So you have to hold it or drape it over your lap, which no one enjoys.

Cheap hooks are $ 7.99 at Home Depot (I checked). There’s just no excuse.

5. No reading material over urinals

I admit, this is a bit of a spoiled complaint. You can’t really expect bar owners to go the extra mile of paying for the daily newspaper and switching it out everyday just so you can read the sports section during your fifteen (or in my case, eleven hundred) second pee. But isn’t it great when they do? Even a gum commercial on one of those automatic television monitors gives you something to look at.

So while this isn’t exactly a horrible attribute, the world’s worst bathroom definitely doesn’t feature it. On the list it goes.

6. Urinal placed right in front of the door…

…so when the door swings open, there you are. It’s much worse if the men’s bathroom is right across from the women’s. I don’t need a long line-up of females knowing I lean my leg up against the bottom of the urinal to wizz. That’s between me and my chiropractor.

Anything I missed?

For a period of about five years, I lived close enough to work that I walked everyday. It took me about twenty minutes, and I loved it. In that amount of time, I could listen to the first four songs of a new album or a podcast on my iPod, pick up a coffee at my neighbourhood Tim Horton’s, and stretch my legs out before I commenced sitting on my ass for the next ten hours. It was delightful.

Then my fiancee and I bought a house in the suburbs (which, as I understand, are chock full of heartbreak), and started to drive into work. And holy hell, talk about a 180. My morning commute transformed from a breezy, stress-free stroll into an enraging exercise in misanthropy.

My trip is now divided into two parts; the initial twenty minutes on the highway, and ten to fifteen more spent puttering along in downtown Toronto traffic. The second part sucks, with its slow crawls, suicidal cyclists and reckless, largely non-white cab drivers all incrementally chipping away at my sanity. But surprisingly, it’s the relatively rapid highway portion that really brings out the worst in me. Because it’s on the highway that I have the opportunity to enact my one-sided, petty measures of revenge.

My go-to move? It’s an old chestnut. And it starts with my absolute hatred for people who follow me too closely. Now I’ve got a bit of a heavy foot. It’s something that I’ve been trying to curb after six speeding tickets and a needlessly high monthly car insurance bill, but it still happens. On a 100 km/h highway, I’ll usually do between 120 and 130 (about 75 to 80 miles per/h for you Americers), and I drive in the left lane. I’m not trying to brag - that’s just how I roll.

My point is, I should rarely, if ever, be subjected to aggressive tailgating for driving too slow in the fast lane. And if I am, I gladly move over to the right and let the other person by. But what absolutely drives me nuts is when I pull over to the right, and the person follows and stays right behind me. That is the worst type of driver. That is the driver who is not only happy to allow me to take the risk of getting the speeding ticket (because I’ll naturally be the one passing any speed trap first), but who does so in a way that means if I have to slam on my brakes for someone in front of me, he is going to smash into my bumper (which has happened to me twice). There is nothing wrong with the first part per se; in fact, I love it when you’re on a highway for a long period of time, and you make that symbiotic connection with another driver where you both share the lead for equal periods of time to split the risk of a ticket. But the second part absolutely drives me insane.

So my go-to move is this: after the person has followed me into the right lane and it dawns on me what is going down, I slow down to a crawl. Like, 10 km/h below the speed limit. The person will invariably become confused. He usually lingers for a little bit, thinking that something must be temporarily distracting this conveniently-placed speedster who was clipping along at a nice pace just a short moment ago. But after a minute or so, he’ll get antsy and pull back into the left lane to pass me. And that’s when I immediately pull in behind him, inches from his bumper, and follow him like a wakeboarder until I’m sure he’s gotten the god damn point. Then I pull up beside him, give him the “incredulous grandpa” head shake, and speed off on my way. Check and mate.

Now, in my calmer moments, I can accept that most of these people aren’t following me too close to be pricks or to annoy me. They are just bad drivers. But when it’s actually happening, it doesn’t matter. They become my enemy. And I become Darth Vader in one of his cozy little TIE Fighters, making them pay for their refusal to pledge allegiance to the Empire’s cause.

But when I used to walk to work - what’s the worst that could happen? A crowded sidewalk? I was an expert sidler. Snow or rain? I’m not made of salt. Running into a co-worker on the way who you’d rather not spend the whole walk talking to, but who is going to the exact same place you are, so you pretty much have no choice but to remove your earphones and settle in for twenty minutes of bliss-interrupting awkward banter?

Actually, that sucked. But I’d take that in a heartbeat over the freeloading barnacles who dangerously leech off my blazing speed.

I guess my dream is to one day win the lottery and become a full-time dog walker. They get to walk for a living, all while hanging out with dogs, who are notoriously respectful of proper following distances. But unless and until that happens, I’m stuck with my morning slog, and the passive-aggressive games I play to get through it.

Feel free to share your go-to road rage move below. We can help each other.

So it’s going to be slow going around here this week and next, due to the fact that we all decided to take our summer holidays at the same time (and apparently at the same place - seriously, fellas, you’re telling me Hedonism I and II were both fully booked? I’m in a neon thong here!).

So, in lieu of full posts, here’s a video of one of the most painfully awkward wrestling interviews of all time (and that’s saying something). These guys would be out-energized at a conference of insurance actuaries.

See you in a week or so. And if you see the month of August, tell her to slow it down a bit, would you?

(New York City. Jay-Z’s Manhattan studio. LeBron James enters)

LeBron: S’up, Jay.

Jay-Z: Hey! S’up, big man?

(They hug)

LeBron: Not much. You ready to go hit the club?

Jay: For sure. But before we do, I got a little something for you.

LeBron: Oh yeah? What’s that?

Jay: It’s my LeBron James tribute track.

LeBron: (excited) Really?

Jay: Really. (walks into booth) Grab a seat right there, man, I’m going to record it with you in the room.

LeBron: (sits down, beaming) Hey hey, alright!

Jay: (to producer) We rolling? Alright, hit it.

(Beat starts)

Jay: Alright now. Just chillin’ in the studio. Got my man LBJ in here with me. And we about to lay it down…

“The Decision”
Summer two thousand and ten
Remember where you was?
Jay does
And also when
He got on that plane to Cleveland
Comrade Mikhail at his side
We were goin’ on a trip
Just to get taken for a ride
Up to the office of L-R-M-R marketing
All for the chance to sit down and remark to King
James “oh, sire, if only you’d consider
Our noble little quest to turn our team into a winner”
But man, we sold that shit, spared no expense
LeBron sat and listened, starin’ all intense
Then he thanked us for our time, and sent us on our way
Like he was Alec fuckin’ Baldwin and we was Tina fuckin’ Fey
Yeah, we was playing 30 Rock, instead of dirty Roc-a-Fella
And then he shot us in the gut like our name was Old Yeller
Because we soon found out we’d been wasting our time
You see, LBJ had long ago made up his mind
While we thought there was some mystery to the whole, “man, where will he go?”
Turns out LeBron was just playing us to stroke his own ego
Well wasting Jay’s time? That’s a sin you can’t repent
So lube up, Bron, here comes the Nas treatment

LeBron: Uh, Jay?

Jay: Huh? What’s up, baby?

LeBron: Is there…is there something you want to talk to me about…?

Jay: Hold on, man. We haven’t gotten to the good part yet!

LeBron: Gulp.

Jay: Back at y’all…

King James, a “global icon”
Who came up with that? Your dumb-ass hype mon?
How can you be an icon when you ain’t done shit
Except win 60 games, then in the playoffs, quit?
I don’t know who advises you, but I’m telling you you oughta
Tell your lap dog there’s only one Maverick named Carter
LRMR Marketing? Don’t make me laugh
I got more chauffeurs than your office got staff
LeBron, Richard, Maverick and Randy
That’s four names but one client - bitches, what’s your Plan B?
They’ll be four dead in O-hi-o when I’m done
And they’ll play this track at your funeral instead of Neil Young
But enough about boy businessmen, I’m here to talk about you
You can call me Paul Pierce, here’s your helping of truth

Jay: (smiles at LeBron, gives thumbs up)

LeBron: (shifts uncomfortably in chair)

You ain’t done shit, but act like the world owes you
You wanna be a billionaire? Shit, son, I’ll loan it to you
Because you won’t get there on your own now that you gave up your brand
They call you a manchild? Well I say drop the ‘man’
Just because you got a tattoo doesn’t mean that you loyal
Just because you call yourself “King” doesn’t mean that you royal
And even if you was royal, it was only in the Cleve
Which makes you dumb as shit for the way you chose to leave
The rest of this kingdom’s already got a ruler
Wanna guess what his name is? Anyone? Bueller?
That’s right, it’s Jay, and long live the King
I got rooms full of jewels while you’re still scrambling for a ring
“Take my talents to South Beach?” Bitch, the team’s called the Heat
And just in case you think your boys can’t be beat
I got something to say to your number two and number three
Cuz when you fuck with Jay, I fuck your whole family

LeBron: (standing up) Jay, really, I’m uncomfortable with…

Jay: SIT THE FUCK DOWN!

LeBron: (sits down)

Now Wade’s got a title, and yeah, he’s got game
And the money and the honeys and the fortune and the fame
But let me tell you something ’bout your super friend Dwyane
The least fucked up thing about him is the way he spells his name
Don’t get me wrong, there’s weird shit that I did
But who the fuck gets it on in front of their own kids?
And what the hell was up with you and Star Jones?
And the band-aid on your face? Fuck is wrong with you, homes?

And CB4? Fuck does that even stand for?
I forgot your name seconds after you walked in the door
And while I’m standing here trying to remember your name
You can say your goodbyes to your last All-Star game
You think you’re big time all of a sudden? Turtle, from where I sit
You’re a C-list baby sucking A-list tit

(A crowd of people suddenly pour into the booth, bouncing to the beat)

Tell you what, sunshine, I’m gonna help you out
With a call and response for the league’s fans to shout
Lemme hear you say “Wade! James! And what’s his name?”

Crowd: Wade! James! And what’s his name?

Jay: Now lemme hear you say “RuPaul sucks! RuPaul sucks!”

Crowd: RuPaul sucks! RuPaul sucks!

Jay: Wade! James! And what’s his name?

Crowd: Wade! James! And what’s his name?

Jay: RuPaul sucks! RuPaul sucks!

Crowd: RuPaul sucks! RuPaul sucks!

(Crowd exits; Mikhail Prokhorov enters)

Jay: My man! Here, take the mic. (hands mic to Mikhail)

Mikhail: Nyet, Jay. I could not possibly…

Jay: Just give it a whirl, man.

Mikhail: (shrugs) Oh, I suppose. Here goes.

My name is Mikhail, and I’m here to say
I mine gold and nickel, which helps me to pay
For basketball team called New Jersey Nets
And what Prokhorov want, Prokhorov gets
So I don’t like to be made to look like a fool
Wasting my time? It’s not…how you say…cool
You anger Russian billionaire before? That I surely doubt
Because you still walking…for now. Prokhorov, out

Mikhail: (waves hands in air, exits booth)

Jay: Ha ha! You’re crazy for this one, Mik! (to LeBron) Now…

I wanna thank you for coming to visit me today
And I hope I didn’t waste your precious time in any way
One final question to consider and then we’ll start boozin’ it
And my name’s not Jim Gray, so no, you won’t be choosin’ it
Magic, Jordan, Bird, Kobe, Russell
The all-time alphas with the all-time hustle
Now here’s my question, and then we’ll get gone
Does it bother you that list won’t ever say ‘LeBron’?
Hell, it’d bother me, but then I’m not one to say
Cuz in hip-hop that list’s got just one name - Jay

(slams mic on ground; beat stops)

Jay: (to producer) We good? Alright, do your thing with that, baby. (walks out of booth towards LeBron) So what you think, man?

LeBron: …

Jay: Ha ha. Speechless, right? Just like I thought. Don’t worry, man, I’ll send you the very first copy we press. I’m going to take that platinum.

LeBron: (holding stomach) I don’t feel so good. Maybe I should skip…

Jay: (leading LeBron out studio door) Nonsense, you’re fine. We’re gonna do it up tonight. (cell phone rings) Excuse me a minute. (answers phone) Hey, what’s up, Gloria? How you doin’, beautiful? I’ve been thinking about you, too. Matter of fact, I’m with your boy right now…

***

See also: The Jay-Z Benefit Track for Babies with AIDS

I am not (usually) a racist. In fact, I pride myself on my ability to treat everybody equally. For example, say I’m walking down a dark street at night and someone is walking towards me - black or not black, I’m voluntarily handing him my wallet in fear. I’m sorry, that’s just the way I was raised.

But the one area where I do admit to having some race-based predispositions is when it comes to cab drivers. Now, due to the Province of Ontario’s repeated refusal to accept the fact that I can drink a coffee, cycle through my iPod and shift gears at the same time, I’m forced to take a lot of cabs. And in Toronto, that’s usually not a bad thing. Toronto prides itself on being one of the most racially-diverse cities in the world, which is code for “many of our least desirable positions are filled by dangerously over-qualified foreigners.” As a result, your average cab driver in Toronto is infinitely more versed in world affairs than the average person born here, and some of the best conversations I’ve ever had have been with cabbies. I’ve ridden with countless Arabs, Persians, Caribbeans, West Africans, Somalis, Filipinos and Turks, and I’ve learned more about the world in my average fifteen minute conversations with them than from any of my bi-monthly Where In the World is Carmen Sandiego? marathons.

Take us home, Rockapella

The one exception to the general rule, though? White cabbies.

I grew up in a remote, smallish town, where all we had were white cabbies. And they were sketchy. But sketchy in a “your classmate’s dad who sells pot to high school students” sketchy. Small town sketchy.

But white cabbies in the Big Smoke? That’s a whole different level of sketchy. These aren’t the recently landed immigrants, dutifully grinding their way through a shitty job in order to give their families a new start in a pretty wonderful country. No, these are the guys who got fired from working the desk at the adult video store because customers deemed them too creepy. Many are on the lam, bouncing from province to province in an effort to stay ahead of those gun charges. Several of them love Phish.

That kind of sketchy.

Case in point - a few weeks back I was taking a cab home from work. There’s always a line-up of taxis outside of my office building, and you take the first one, because that guy’s been waiting there the longest. As (bad) luck would have it, on this particular occasion, I drew a white guy.

As a bit of an aside, I usually like to pepper my cab driver with questions about what’s happening in the city. Since they spend their whole day driving around, listening to the news and talking to people, there is often no better source of first-hand local information. This (white) guy, however, was a notable exception. Whatever news source he was drawing from was beamed in from an entirely different solar system.

The day in question happened to be the Monday of the week following the G20 fiasco in Toronto, so it was a pretty crazy time by our standards. I got in the cab, and started making small talk about whether the police had released any more of the protesters they’d locked up in the temporary jail they had set up for the summit. The one that had been a focal point of extremely angry protests for four straight days. The one that had been the subject of heated debate between champions of civil liberty and the police brass for months. The one that happened to be right down the street, and which any cab driver who worked downtown would drive past a half dozen times each day.

He had no idea what I was talking about.

Fair enough, I thought. Not a current events guy. But had he felt, or at least heard about, the earthquake that lightly shook Toronto the week before (we don’t get a lot of those here)?

“That wasn’t an earthquake,” he chuckled. “That was just the ground shaking from me plowing my downstairs neighbour.”

“Ah”, I thought, quickly putting my iPod ear phones in, “that’s the kind of cab ride it’s going to be.” But he didn’t take my insertion of ear phones as a conversation killer. He just kept chatting right on through. Topics unilaterally canvassed included a new Batman movie which, even though it doesn’t exist yet, people apparently “won’t shut up about” (he thought Tom Hanks should play The Riddler), and how stuck up the women in Toronto were, especially since “most of them were just coke fiends”.

I just kept answering monosyllabically, but he didn’t seem to mind. This guy wasn’t Travis Bickle, but he may as well have been his harmless but infinitely more annoying younger brother.

I got him to drop me off at the end of my street, because I didn’t want him to know where I lived, and I thought there was a 50% chance he’d ask if he could come in and hang out. So as not to appear rude, I let him finish his rant about how big a fag the drummer in Sum 41 was (a timely critique), and then went hurriedly on my way.

While this is a bit of an extreme example, the fact of the matter is, most people who drive a cab in the city where they’re from have a few screws loose. And in Canada, most of these people are white. Is that a huge, possibly irresponsible generalization? Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean the next time a white guy is sitting pole position in the line-up outside my office, I’m not going to linger a few extra minutes so I can grab the Sikh gentleman killing time reading The Globe & Mail rather than the Irish-Canadian who’s just staring straight ahead and angrily chewing his wrists.

And female cab drivers? Jesus. Don’t get me started. But that’s a story for another day.

As a result of Michael Jordan’s skittishness and incompetence as a GM, I had to scrap my Jose Calderon goodbye post halfway through. Truthfully, I was more than happy to do it - Calderon is my favourite Raptor ever, and the thought that he may have handed out his final Gatorade to a Toronto teammate was almost too much for this ol’ softie to bear.

 “Why? Why does no one come to help my friend Jorge?”

In its place, then, I will share with you two shit-related stories from the past week that affected me almost as deeply.

1. Business Dog

My girlfriend and I have a ten-month old hound. She’s pretty sweet, but she has some behavioural issues, which the teacher at obedience school says stems from the fact that she is, and I quote, “ridiculously spoiled.” It’s tough to argue, since my girlfriend treats her more like a kid than a dog. Case in point: I came home from work on Monday, and my girlfriend had dressed our dog up in a tie. At first I thought she had stolen one of my ties from our room and was about to tear it to shreds, which she has a habit of doing. But when I told her to drop it, she just cocked her head and looked at me, as if to say “I would if I could, but it seems it’s a part of me now.” I started to laugh, and she seemed surprisingly cool with it, so I left it on her. That turned out to be a horrible, horrible mistake.

That’s because I failed to consider that when a tie-sporting dog is just walking around normally, the tie just kind of harmlessly drags on the ground between her front legs, but when she contracts her body to squat to take a dump, the positioning of the tie becomes dramatically more precarious i.e. it lays directly under her butt. Now, our dog is house-trained to ring a bell whenever she has to go outside, and I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt that she did it in this case. I’ll never know, because I was passed out asleep on the downstairs couch. What I do know is that she was suffering from a terrible case of diarrhea at the time, which is not unusual these days, given her habit of trying to eat anything and everything she finds lying on the street.

Long story short, when I woke up from my nap, my house smelled absolutely horrible. I peeled myself off the couch to find my dog sitting at the top of the stairs, looking mildly traumatized. I ran up the stairs and saw that the solid blue tie she had been sporting just a few moments earlier had drastically changed colour, and she was desperate to have it removed. So I took it off, trying as hard as I could not to get shit all over my hands. That proved to be a futile exercise though, as when I scanned the living room, I saw that she had been pacing around it for some time, with the shit-stained tie dragging (now not-so-harmlessly) between her legs all the while. I could trace her every step, like in one of those old Family Circus cartoons.

I spent the next forty-five minutes walking around with a roll of paper towels, a bottle of Nature’s Miracle, and a barely-suppressed gag reflex. It’s been three days, and I still can’t shake the smell. It’s like it’s trapped in my nose forever. And speaking of the smell of shit being trapped in your nose…

2. There Has To Be a Better Way, Science

…Tao, Butter Chicken and I went for lunch yesterday with Tao’s friend from university. Things were going swimmingly, until the talk eventually turned to how everyone’s family was doing. Seems Tao’s friend’s brother had hit a bit of a rough patch recently, in the form of intestinal problems. More specifically, parts of his intestines were badly twisted. Apparently this wasn’t overly serious, as they usually just end up untwisting themselves. In the meantime, however, the shit still has to exit the body. And it seems it can exit the body in ways God never intended.

Like through the nose.

Yes, for two weeks, Tao’s friend’s brother shit through a tube in his nose.

We ran through a bunch of obvious jokes, like whether farting in this guy’s face would be considered a welcome change of pace, if the tube ever got clogged and he had to call in a tiny plumber, and whether he wiped his nose with Kleenex or toilet paper. But clearly the laughter was just a convenient way to distract us from the horror. The horror that there was something in existence on this planet that could lead to you having to shit through your nose.

So those are the highlights from my week thus far. But on the bright side…

…at least we still have our wily little general.

Photo by 289.

Selected excerpts from @ChrisBosh, CB4’s Twitter account:

“Big day is finally here! Tell me, my people, what should I do?” about 2 hours ago

“I’m super excited, but nervous. Getting ready for a big change.”  about 2 hours ago

“So many options. Help me out, tweeps!” about 2 hours ago

“@ShingShingGaBling Ha! Whatever, man. Maybe if this were the 1980s.” about 2 hours ago

“Any thought provoking articles? I feel like being smart and learning right now while I’m waiting…”  about 2 hours ago

“Cool, I’ll check it out. RT @GargamelsSon You should pick up one of those ‘newspapers’.”

“Man, when is somebody going to do something about this whole Middle East thing?” about 2 hours ago

“Okay, decision time people. Down to three choices…LOL!” about 1 hour ago

“@raptorshq Naw, too late for that. I’m looking for a fresh start.” about 55 minutes ago

“@WorldWideWes I thought I blocked you?” about 50 minutes ago

“@JennaLovesPilates Yep, I think that’s the one! Just let me tell my man…” about 45 minutes ago

“Alright, it’s on. Official announcement coming.” about 30 minutes ago

“This feels crazy! I hope I’m making the right decision!” about 20 minutes

“Feels good though. A fresh start. I feel like I’m being reborn again.” about 15 minutes

“Here’s a hint: somebody should come here and help me clean up this oil spill …” about 10 minutes

“Done deal. Hold tight for the unveiling…” about 5 minutes ago

“So - whatchu guys think?” about 1 minute ago

…

…

…

(Brooks Brothers. Madison Avenue, Manhattan. LeBron James is being fitted for a suit.)

Salesman: …and you’ll notice the subtle gold pinstripes against the charcoal grey give it just a wonderful hint of elegance.

LeBron: (looking at self in mirror) Yeah, yeah. I like this. Do me a favour and ring this up for me.

Salesman: Of course, sir.

(Chris Bosh emerges from an adjacent room)

Bosh: Hey LeBron - check it out.

(LeBron turns; Bosh is wearing exact same suit)

LeBron: Oh. Yeah, um, looks real good, Chris.

Bosh: Doesn’t it? I saw you trying it on, and I thought, “yeah, that is definitely us“.

LeBron: Huh.

Bosh: (stands next to LeBron, stares into mirror) Look at us. We’re like Batman and…another Batman.

LeBron: Mmm-hmm. (gestures subtly to salesman to cancel sale)

Salesman: (nods knowingly)

Bosh: Maybe we should look at some ties…

LeBron: I’ve got a better idea. How about we grab some lunch?

Bosh: Sounds good to me, partner.

(They change into street clothes and head out to a nearby steakhouse)

***

Waiter: Good afternoon, gentlemen. Care to hear our specials?

Bosh: Naw, garcon, we’re good.

LeBron: Actually, I’d like to hear them.

Bosh: On second thought, go ahead and read us those specials.

Waiter: Well, we have a wonderful London Broil, marinated in Pinot Noir and balsamic vinegar, served with a summer vegetable medley and fried Portabello mushrooms…

LeBron: Sounds good, I’ll have that.

Waiter: Very good. (to Bosh) Sir?

Bosh: (nods smugly, holds up two fingers)

Waiter: Excellent. I’ll be back in just a moment to take your drink orders. (leaves)

LeBron: So, Chris, there’s something we need to talk…

Bosh: Oh, wow, I almost forgot. Check these out.

(Bosh reaches into a bag and pulls out two basketball jerseys, and hands one to LeBron)

LeBron: What’s this?

Bosh: Check it out, man. See the logo on the front? It’s a question mark.

LeBron: Okay.

Bosh: The number on the back is 46 - 4 (points to self) and 6 (points to LeBron).

LeBron: I see. And that’s why the name on the back is…

Bosh: LeBosh, baby!

LeBron: (sighs)

Bosh: It’s like Bennifer, only awesome.

LeBron: Chris…

Bosh: I figured we could give Nike a call, talk about running an ad campaign, like, “Who? LeBosh. When? Summer 2010. Where? ?” (rifling through bag) I’ve actually prepared a few basic storyboards…

LeBron: Chris!

Bosh: Huh?

LeBron: Chris - we’re boys, right?

Bosh: Of course.

LeBron: And you know I’d love to have you join whatever team I decide to sign with.

Bosh: (defensive) And I’d love to have you decide to join whatever team I decide to sign with.

LeBron: See? That right there. That’s the problem.

Bosh: What is?

LeBron: It’s like this, Chris. You keep going around and saying how you are not a sidekick, how you are a centerpiece.

Bosh: That’s because I am.

LeBron: Okay. But then you’re also saying you want to play on the same team as me.

Bosh: What’s your point, LeBron?

LeBron: My point is…I’m LeBron James.

Bosh: So?

LeBron: So, by definition, I’m the centerpiece. And you can’t have more than one alpha dog in a given pack.

Bosh: Sure you can.

LeBron: No, you can’t. That’s why it’s called an “alpha dog”.

Bosh: What? That isn’t true.

LeBron: Okay. Give me an example.

Bosh: I can give you plenty.

LeBron: Start with one.

Bosh: Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid.

LeBron: Nope.

Bosh: Why not?

LeBron: It was Butch’s gang.

Bosh: The hell it was.

LeBron: Whose name came first?

Bosh: That’s because they went alphabetically.

LeBron: Who’s ‘they’? Cowboys?

Bosh: Yup.

LeBron: Alright, fine. Then I guess you won’t mind if I start calling you ‘Sundance’?

Bosh: Fuck that, man, I’m a Butch!

LeBron: You see? That’s why we can’t play together!

Bosh: Why?

LeBron: Because, Chris, if you come and play with me, you’d have to accept that I’d be Jordan, and you’d be Pippen.

Bosh: (annoyed) How do you figure? Last I checked, you and me had the same number of rings.

LeBron: (incredulous) Same number of…Look, man, let me put this another way. Look over your shoulder. What do you see?

Bosh: (looks) There’s nothing there.

LeBron: Right. Now look over mine.

(Bosh looks. A single-file line of fifteen women, anxiously straightening their dresses and fixing their make-up, has suddenly appeared behind James)

Bosh: What the…

LeBron: You see? I just thought about them, and they appeared.

Bosh: Hmm. (closes eyes real hard, looks back over shoulder) Damn.

Bosh: I need you to hear me, Chris. In order for me to achieve the things I need to achieve, I can’t afford distractions, like wasting time fighting with teammates about who the team belongs to.

Bosh: Uh-huh. And what, exactly, are you trying to achieve?

LeBron: Dominance.

Bosh: Pfft. Dominance. Of what?

LeBron: Well, basketball first. I want to be the only guy ever to win 10 straight rings.

Bosh: (rolling eyes) Okay. Then what?

LeBron: Business.

Bosh: (laughing sarcastically) Lemme guess - you want to be the first guy ever to own ten Fortune 500 companies?

LeBron: (nods)

Bosh: (arches eyebrow)

LeBron: Then I want to dominate politics, but I’m not sure how yet. Maybe be the first black President who can take it to the hole with both his right and left hand…

Bosh: You’re crazy.

LeBron: Go ahead and doubt me, then. The point is, you’ve got to make up your mind as to what you want to be. Sign with me, and you get to be Scottie Pippen. Hall-of-Famer, shit ton of rings…

Bosh: But no statue.

LeBron: But no statue. Or, you can decide you want to be the man, go off and lead your own team, and…

Bosh: And?

LeBron: And may the best man win.

Bosh: …

LeBron: So. What’s it going to be?

Bosh: (slams palm down on table) You know what…I’m sorry, man. But I’m no role player.

LeBron: (surprised) Okay.

Bosh: I’m a franchise player! I’m a five-time All-Star…

LeBron: On the Raptors.

Bosh: (ignoring LeBron) …I’m a five time All-Star! And I don’t play second-fiddle.

LeBron: That’s cool. I can respect that.

Bosh: (getting up from table) Yeah, you will respect that. Because I’m sick of everybody always saying I can’t lead a team to a championship. Those people are dead wrong, and I’m going to show them.

LeBron: That’s great, man.

Bosh: It is. So before you go and start counting those ten rings, you first better start worrying about how you’re going to get past Chris Friggin’ Bosh in ten straight finals.

LeBron: I’ll see you in the finals then.

Bosh: Count on it. (turns and walks out of restaurant)

LeBron: (shrugs shoulders) Whatever. (looks around) Jesus. How long does it take a waiter to come back for a damn drink order? (to line-up) Say, any of you girls know anything about campaign finance rules?

***

(Outside restaurant)

Bosh: (on cell phone, pacing nervously and chewing fingernails) Come on, come on, pick up. Oh, hello? Kobe? How you doing, man? It’s me, Chris. Listen, I wanted to run something past you that’s going to blow your mind. Ready? One word: KoBosh! Heh heh. Pretty sweet, isn’t it? I was thinking I could call up Nike and…hello? Kobe? Hello…?

(Tuesday evening. St. Francis Elementary School. Ms. Greenwood sits at her desk in her grade four classroom. A man knocks at the door)

Man at door: Hello? This the room for fourth-graders?

Ms. Greenwood: It is. (stands up) And you are here for…?

Man: Bradley Wilson.

Ms. Greenwood: Ah. I’m so glad you could come in, Mr. Wilson.

Man: Please. It’s Harris.

Ms. Greenwood: Nice to meet you, Harris. Have a seat.

(Harris sits)

Ms. Greenwood: Unfortunately, we have a lot to discuss.

Harris: Oh, I’ll bet.

Ms. Greenwood: Hmm. I take it then that Bradley’s misbehaviour comes as no surprise to you?

Harris: No it does not.

Ms. Greenwood: Well, that’s something of a relief. I must tell you, a lot of times I have parents coming in here who refuse to accept that their child is anything other than a perfect little angel. It makes taking steps to address bad behaviour virtually impossible.

Harris: Yeah, my neighbours are like that.

Ms. Greenwood: And I take it you’re not?

Harris: Not in the slightest.

Ms. Greenwood: Good to hear. So why don’t we start by discussing some of the problems Bradley’s been having.

Harris: I’m all ears.

Ms. Greenwood: Well, first, there’s the constant disrupting.

Harris: Mouthy?

Ms. Greenwood: You could say that. He is constantly shouting things out during class, interrupting lessons and making it hard for other students to learn.

Harris: What kind of things does he say?

Ms. Greenwood: It started out as basic class-clownery and attention-seeking. But lately it’s turned mean. He’s taken to making fun of students, mimicking their voices, mocking their appearances. He’s made a particular target of these twin boys who just immigrated here from Vietnam.

Harris: A bully, eh? Figures. We’ve got this cat named Matilda, a sweet little Tabby. You know what Bradley did to her? Shaved a crude outline of the male genitalia right into her fur.

Ms. Greenwood: Oh dear.

Harris: We had to shave her bald. Poor thing wouldn’t leave the house for weeks, she was so embarrassed.

Ms. Greenwood: That’s awful. I take it then it also comes as no surprise that Bradley has a real problem with authority?

Harris: I’ll say.

Ms. Greenwood: Oftentimes, when Bradley is challenged about his behavior, he become defensive, even confrontational.

Harris: Lady, you’re preaching to the choir. Just the other day, I told him to move his bike off the lawn. You know what he said to me? He said, “No problem - should I just go ahead and shove it up your old, fat ass?”

Ms. Greenwood: Really?

Harris: Can you believe it? Ten years old. The mouth on him.

Ms. Greenwood: That certainly is troubling. And was he disciplined?

Harris: Of course not!

Ms. Greenwood: (raises eyebrow) I see. Listen, Mr. Wilson…

Harris: Harris.

Ms. Greenwood: Listen, Harris…you seem genuinely concerned about Bradley’s behaviour.

Harris: Of course. It affects me deeply.

Ms. Greenwood: Right. And that’s good. Because often, in cases like Bradley’s, that concern just isn’t there. But I’m going to be blunt. This laissez faire attitude to discipline at home? It’s hurting him.

Harris: (nodding)

Ms. Greenwood: Bradley is at a crucial age. The things he learns now could very well set the course for the rest of his life. So he needs rules. He needs to learn what is and isn’t acceptable. And we here at the school can only do so much.

Harris: Go on.

Ms. Greenwood: What I’m saying is, if his father isn’t going to step up and be that disciplinary figure, who is?

Harris: Well, it sure as heck isn’t going to be his mother.

Ms. Greenwood: Oh. And where is she tonight?

Harris: I dunno. Bingo?

Ms. Greenwood: I see. Well, then, since I have you here - why don’t you tell me what we’re going to do about this?

Harris: Well, I think there’s only one thing to do.

Ms. Greenwood: Which is?

Harris: Expel him.

Ms. Greenwood: Excuse me?

Harris: Expel him. Kick him out of school.

Ms. Greenwood: You’re not serious.

Harris: Look, lady, let’s level with each other. You and I both know this kid isn’t exactly Prime Minister material. Dollars to donuts he ends up spending most of his adult life bouncing between prison and rehab, wasting hard-earned tax dollars. So why waste any more money educating him?

Ms. Greenwood: I…I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

Harris: Why? What were you thinking?

Ms. Greenwood: Not expulsion! I was merely suggesting the setting of strictly enforced boundaries at home.

Harris: What, like a shock collar?

Ms. Greenwood: Mr. Wilson…

Harris: Harris.

Ms. Greenwood: (rising from seat) Mr. Wilson, I must say that I am deeply troubled by your attitude.

Harris: My attitude? I thought we were here to talk about the little punk?

Ms. Greenwood: Okay, here’s an idea - let’s start with you not referring to the boy as a ‘little punk’! And I’m frankly troubled by your rush to blame a ten-year-old for this situation. It’s become quite apparent to me that if there’s any blame to go around, it should be directed at the boy’s father!

Harris: And his mother.

Ms. Greenwood: Well, she’s not sitting in front of me, now is she?

Harris: Oh no. Believe me, you couldn’t miss her. (puffs out cheeks, mimes waddling)

Ms. Greenwood: …

Harris: Okay, I can tell expulsion’s off the table. What about…

(A middle-aged couple suddenly appears at the classroom door)

Man: Excuse me. Is this the room for fourth-graders?

Ms. Greenwood: Yes. Can you please wait outside a moment?

Man: Certainly, I…Harris! What the hell are you doing here!

Harris: Bite me, Wilson.

Ms. Greenwood: (to couple) Excuse me, who are you?

Heavyset Woman: We’re Bradley Wilson’s parents.

Ms. Greenwood: Wait. (turns to Harris) Then who are…

Woman: He’s our miserable cretin of a next door neighbour.

Harris: Oh, look. It can talk.

Ms. Greenwood: (to Harris) Hold on - you told me you were the boy’s father!

Harris: I did not. I was very careful about that.

Ms. Greenwood: Then what are you doing here?

Harris: Taking matters into my own hands! That little bastard of theirs is a neighbourhood menace. And I’m not the only who thinks so!

Mr. Wilson: (advancing) You stay the hell away from our son!

Harris: (advancing) You keep him the hell away from my cat!

Ms. Greenwood: (stands in between them) Now hold on a minute! (to Harris) Sir - please leave before I call the police.

Harris: What? If anyone should be arrested, it’s their little demon spawn!

Ms. Greenwood: Leave!

Harris: Alright, alright. (walks to door; stops and turns around) How about you just hold the kid back a year?

Ms. Greenwood: Get out of here!

(Harris leaves)

Ms. Greenwood: I am so sorry about that. That man is obviously deeply disturbed.

Mr. Wilson: I’ll say.

Ms. Greenwood: Yes, well. I want to thank you both for coming in today.

(The Wilsons nod)

Ms. Greenwood: I take it you’re aware of Bradley’s behavioural issues?

Mrs. Wilson: Who? Our Bradley?

Ms. Greenwood: Yes.

Mrs. Wilson: There must be some sort of mistake. Our Bradley is a perfect little angel.

Ms. Greenwood: (lowers head)

Mr. Wilson: But we are hearing disturbing reports about the behaviour of the two new gooks.

(A grandmother and her teenage grandson sit at her kitchen table)

Grandma: Oh, Dylan, I’m so happy you could come to visit.

Dylan: (shrugs shoulders) Whatever.

Grandma: What would you like to do?

Dylan: I dunno. You got any video games?

Grandma: Heavens, no. But I’ve got something even better…cribbage!

Dylan: Cribbage? Aw, that’s a lame old person’s game!

Grandma: It is? Well, then how would you explain…this? (slams cribbage board on table)

Dylan: Hey! It’s a cribbage board…that’s shaped like a snowboard!

Grandma: I guess it is.

Dylan: I love snowboarding!

Grandma: (feigning surprise) You do?

Dylan: Come on, Grandma - teach me to play.

Grandma: But I thought cribbage was a lame old person’s game?

Dylan: Come on, Grandma. Please?

Grandma: (turns to camera; winks)

*******

*******

Sad Epilogue

(Two hours later)

Grandma: Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, fifteen-six, plus one for the nibs, aaaannnnnd…I’m pegged out. That’s six in a row!

Dylan: This game sucks.

Grandma: Sucks or no sucks, you owe me $160.

Dylan: Like hell I do!

Grandma: (pulls out switchblade) You gonna renege on your granny, boy?

Dylan: (pulls out switchblade) You sure you remember how to use that, old timer?

Grandma: Try me.

(They lunge at each other)

(Double homicide)