As the head of the IT department here at Food Court Lunch HQ, I feel that it is my duty to keep abreast of the latest technological developments (i.e., ham radios, phonographs, gyrocopters, the “interwebs”). However, after blowing last year’s corporate budget on the radio toaster only to find out that it didn’t receive AM channels, I was forced to give an undertaking to my fellow bloggers that I would try to be a little more discerning in my technological forrays. Accordingly, against my better judgment, I refrained from outfitting the Food Court Lunch restrooms with the RSStroom Reader personal news toilet paper delivery system.

Recently, however, the kids at the shelter have been talking so much about “Twitter” and “Tweeting” and “shivving” that I felt obliged to look into it (for the record, the third term is apparently wholly unrelated to the first two, and is not something I would recommend). And so, with great anticipation, I registered for my Twitter account and unleashed a torrent of “Tweets” the likes of which the world has never known. And by that, I mean that I sat in my tighty whiteys staring blankly at the screen in a desperate attempt to think of something in my life that merited an update to the world. Here is a sample of my first few Tweets:

• I have officially registered for Twitter, just a few years behind everyone else!! Let’s party!!
• I am mildly hungry…
• Actually, I think I was more thirsty than hungry at the time of my last Tweet. Problem solved! LOL.
• It burns when I pee.

Surprisingly, the kids didn’t seem to be embracing my updates. In an effort to appeal to the younger generation, I decided to drop some vowels and do some super-cool tech talkin’:

• the Jonas Bros r sooo hot - I wnt to mry the one who lks like he has FAS
• i lve ttees
• STDs rool!
• I lke bg bts & I cnnot lie, u othr brthrs cn’t dny, tht whn a grl wlks in wth an itty bitty wste & a rnd thng in yo fce u get sprng!

Eventually I started to bore even myself, which I took as a sign that the masses might similarly be tiring of my pointless updates. After all, who wants to read about the daily minutiae of everyone else’s lives on a constant loop of inane chatter!? Well, apparently the more than 1 million users of Twitter… I therefore decided to spice things up by simply lying about what I was doing:

• I just invaded Poland… LOL
• I am having sex with your wife - she asked you to pick up milk on the way home
• I keep weapons of mass destruction in my basement - they’re next to the fridge
• Contrary to what Michael Flatley would have you believe, I am the Lord of the Dance
• You shall not pass!
• I just got back from picking up some power converters at the Toshi Station - suck it, Luke!

Admittedly the only people who seem to be reading my latest “Tweets” are two Ugandan gorillas, but I can feel the groundswell of support building with each pointless status update! Thank you, Twitter, for allowing me to express what should really be kept to myself…

On the arrest of Roman Polanski by French authorities:

“The Swiss are really something,” French director Bernard Tavernier said in an interview in the newspaper, Le Monde. “This takes us back to World War II, when they were hardly the model of good behaviour, and to the time of McCarthyism, when celebrities were attacked.”

Yes, this does take me back to World War II, when the Swiss set up a Nazi puppet state and collaborated with the Germans. Oh, wait, that was you. Whatever. A few overbroad generalizations are the price you have to pay for the defence of your rapist compatriot.

Last week, Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper commented on Canada’s boycott of the Iranian PM’s speech at the United Nations. Hmmm, that seems like a fairly lofty topic for Mr. Harper. Where was he when he made the comment? At Tim Hortons, of course.

The visual evidence is equally depressing.

Way to shatter those Canadian stereotypes, Steve. Do you think Bill Clinton did his press conferences at a KFC? The PM’s handlers ruled out the following press conference locations as not being “Canadian enough”:

• Riding on top of a beaver
• The set for “The Great White North”, with follow-up commentary by both Bob and Doug
• In a container of poutine
• In a threesome with Celine Dion and Rene Angeli
• In a threesome with Wayne and Janet
• In a barrel tumbling over Niagara Falls
• Getting married to a same-sex partner while wearing a Mounties outfit

Mr. Harper will next update the nation on Canada’s involvement in Afghanistan from a booth at Harvey’s. He promises to make the press conference, and I quote, “a beautiful thing.”  

And so it would appear Wayne Gretzky’s time at the helm of the Phoenix Coyotes has come to an end.  After countless Stanley Cup runs (ed. note: to be verified) and thousands of hours behind the bench, Wayne announced that he has decided to part ways with the collection of saleable assets formerly known as the Coyotes.

Opinions about Wayne’s decision to quit are split among familiar lines:

Canadians:  “We can’t believe how poorly our greatest hero has been treated down there.  Don’t they know who he is?”

Don Cherry: “Whose decision was it to put a Goddamn Finn in net? Bring in Joey MacDonald! Support the troops!”

Americans: “Wayne Brady? My mom’s a big fan.”

News about the truth behind Gretzky’s tumultuous relationship with Coyotes ownership is beginning to come out.  Insistence on the largest coaching salary in the NHL?  An ownership stake? Protracted negotiations? Failure to show up at training camp? Refusal to sign an employment agreement?  Those sound like questions for the court of public opinion.

What matters now is that Canada’s most important person ever is now in need of a job.  And we’re here to help!  We have no doubt that Wayne will land on his feet.  We asked you what Wayne’s next job will be, and here are your answers!

What will Wayne Gretzky’s Next Job Be?

26% - Picking up some extra shifts at his restaurant, Wayne Gretzky’s

21% - Slinking back to the Brantford Zehrs to ask Old Man Finnegan for his stocking job

17% - Stay at home dad

14% - Arranging talent bookings for wife, Janet Jones

11% - Transfer to rival hockey team, Falstaff DesertSandDuneRattlerDogs

9% - BreatheRight Strips Spokesman

7% - Mark Messier’s personal concierge

6% - Broomball equipment distributor

1% - Leading Team Canada to Gold at the 2010 Winter Olympics

Did we miss any?

(Our old friends Pierre and Chuck arrive in the left field stands at the Rogers Centre for a late season Jays/Mariners game)

Pierre: Let’s see now - Row 7, row 6…ah, here we are. Row 5. Now we’re in seats 104 and 105, so… (looks up to see a father and young daughter seated in front of him)…um, excuse me sir, but I believe you are sitting in our seats.

Dad: (glances around at 2/3 empty section) Are you serious? This place is empty.

Pierre: (grimacing obsequiously) Yeah, it’s just that I’d really feel more comfortable sitting in my assigned seat. Sorry.

Dad: Whatever. Come on, honey. (they move down two seats)

Pierre: (sits down, stares up at open roof) It is freezing in here tonight. Hey, I thought this was supposed to be a dome!

Chuck: You know, I’m surprised you said you wanted to come tonight, Pierre. I thought you hated baseball.

Pierre: Oh, I do. But if you thought that I was going to let you attend an after-work social outing with Mr. Pimwell all by yourself, then you must think I’m an idiot. (rapidly scans section) Speaking of which, when do you think he’ll get here?

Chuck: Uh, he isn’t coming.

Pierre: What?

Chuck: These are the bossman’s personal seats. He gave them to us because he couldn’t use them.

Pierre: Oh, you have got to be kidding me. I’m missing the new episode of Glee to spend the night at a baseball game with you?

Chuck: That is the sad truth.

Pierre: Great. Just great.

(An enthusiastic concessions guy comes marching into the section)

Concessions Guy: (yelling) PAHCORN! PEENUHS! GET YO RED SLUSHEES HEE-YA!

Pierre: Pfft. Do you hear this joker? (loudly mocking) “PAHCORN! PEENUH!” What a nut.

(A number of people in the section, including the dad, turn and glower at Pierre)

Pierre: Whoa. What’d I say?

Chuck: That guy you’re making fun of? Handicapped. Been a beloved fixture here for years.

Pierre: What? Why didn’t you say something?

Chuck: You’re right, my bad. I guess I just figured you guys would recognize each other. Kind of like babies do?

Pierre: Oh, very funny.

(The batter pops the ball foul down the left field line. A man catches it and hands it to a small boy. The people around him clap warmly)

Chuck: (smiles) Hey, class act.

Pierre: (glances quizzically at Chuck) Hmm. (turns to the dad) Look, sir, I think you and I got off to a bad start. Tell you what I’m going to do - if I catch a ball out here tonight, I’m going to give it to your little girl here.

Little girl: (excited) Really, mithter? You’re going to catch me a ball?

Pierre: You bet.

Little girl: (jumping up on seat) Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy!

Dad: (rolls eyes) Thanks, buddy. You want to promise her a flying pony, too? (to daughter) Sit down in your seat, honey.

Chuck: Say, you’re batting a thousand tonight, Petey.

Pierre: It’s Pierre. And what the heck is that supposed to mean?

(At that moment, two women in their early forties, sporting deep orange tans and denim-heavy outfits, stagger into the seats in front of Chuck and Pierre. They are carrying two beer apiece)

Blonde: Oh Jesus. This is a lot closer.

Brunette: Play it cool, Darlene. You wanna get us sent back upstairs?

Blonde: Oh, I’ll play it cool. (yelling) HEY SNIDER! YOU GODDA (hic) NICE ASS!

Brunette: (cackling) You are such a skank.

Blonde: Shut up, you ugly bitch.

(Both laugh hysterically; spill beer)

Pierre: (smiles curiously, nods knowingly at Chuck)

Chuck: (shakes head)

Concessions Guy: PAHCORN! GET YO PAHCORN HEE-YA!

Pierre: So how many periods are they going to play again?

Chuck: They’re called innings. And nine.

Pierre: And how many have they played so far?

(The blonde turns around and looks at Pierre)

Blonde: Hey! Did you jess ask how many periods there was?

Brunette: (snorts)

Pierre: (taken aback) Um, well, I-I was just w-wondering…

Blonde: (to Brunette) Loog ad him. He’s nervous of us. Are you nervous, honey?

Brunette: I thing he’s shy.

Pierre: (blushing wildly) I…I…

Blonde: Loog! He’s blushing!

Brunette: Oh, I know how to maig him blush. How’s about if I…(leans over seat and whispers something in Pierre’s ear)

Pierre: (clenching pant pleats) Oh…oh my.

Brunette: (falls back into seat)…but first - you godda catch me a baseball.

Blonde: Oh, you bitch.

(Brunette and blonde cackle uproariously)

Chuck: (to Pierre) You okay there, Clooney?

Pierre: (stunned) I don’t know, but I think I’m starting to like baseball.

Concessions Guy: PAHCORN! PEENUHS!

(Just then, there is a loud crack of the bat; Seattle’s Jose Lopez drives one deep to left field)

Chuck: Well, this was a predictable turn of events.

(Travis Snider makes a beeline for the wall, but quickly runs out of room)

Pierre: (terrified) Holy crap! It’s coming right for us!

Little girl: Yaaaayyyyy!

(The ball sails over the fence)

Pierre: (closes eyes, raises hand) EEK!

(The ball smacks him hard in the palm, but he hangs on)

Pierre: (looks at ball in hand) What the…?

(The rest of the section gives Pierre a hearty round of applause)

Pierre: Hey! I caught it!

Chuck: Great grab, buddy!

Pierre: Thanks!

Chuck: Guess that was the easy part, though, eh?

Pierre: Huh?

(Pierre looks to his left. The little girl is looking up at him, wide-eyed and bouncing around with excitement)

Pierre: Oh.

(He looks in front of him. The brunette slowly licks her lips)

Pierre: Gulp.

Chuck: Gulp, indeed.

Little girl: Can I have my ball now, mithter?

Dad: (stares daggers at Pierre) Well?

Brunette: (grabs Pierre’s thigh) You gonna keep a lady waiting, gorgeous?

Pierre: …

(Just then, the crowd starts a “throw-it-back!” chant)

Pierre: Wh-what are they saying?

Chuck: When the other team hits a home run, you’re supposed to throw it back on the field. It’s a proudly stolen tradition.

Pierre: (excited) For real?

Chuck: Yep. Unfortunately, it’s the perfect solution to your predicament.

Pierre: Oh thank god. (to little girl) Sorry, little girl. But rules are rules.

Dad: (sighs) He’s right, honey. The people will yell at him if he doesn’t throw it back.

Little girl: (sadly) Okay. I don’t want him to get yelled at.

Pierre: (to Brunette) So, you’re not going to hold this against me, are you?

Brunette: (passed out standing up)

Pierre: Darn. Okay, here goes.

(Pierre winds up and throws the ball…terribly. It goes almost directly sideways and hits Concessions Guy square in the back of the head)

Concessions Guy: PAHCORN! PEE…OOF!

(Concessions Guy falls forward, tumbles down several steps and crashes into the railing)

Crowd: GASP!

Concessions Guy: (wailing) NYYAAAHHHH!

Pierre: (softly) Oh no.

Chuck: Sweet Jesus.

(A number of fans and ushers rush to Concession Guy’s side)

Usher: Georgie! Georgie boy! Are you okay!

Georgie: (hysterical) WHY DID THEY HIT ME? WHAT DID GEORGIE DO WRONG?

Usher: Nothing, little buddy.

Georgie: I TRY TO DO GOOD AND SELL ALL THE PAHCORN LIKE THEY SAY…

Usher: Shh. It’s not your fault, Georgie boy. (glares at Pierre, as does everyone else) It’s not your fault…at all.

Pierre: Uh, awful sorry about that, George. Tell you what - how about you give me one bag of your finest popcorn? And, what the hey, a bag of peanuts too?

Usher: (stands up)

Pierre: (checks wallet) Actually, maybe just the peanuts. I need to make sure I have enough for my cleaning lady tomorrow…

Usher: RUSH HIM!

(A handful of fans sprint up the stairs at Pierre)

Pierre: Ohhhhhh crap! (bolts up steps and down concourse; fans follow close behind)

Little girl: Daddy, what are they going to do to the bad man?

Dad: They are going to pummel him mercilessly, sweetheart.

Little girl: Oh. That’s good.

Chuck: (shrugs shoulders and sits back down)

(Georgie makes it to his feet and, assisted, trudges up the steps; the crowd gives him a big round of applause)

Georgie: THANK YOU! I’LL BE BACK!

(The blonde suddenly vomits on the empty seat in front of her)

Brunette: Oh, Jesus. Let me hold your hair back, honey.

Chuck: (looks around at empty seats, nodding) And they say the early 90s were the glory years.

An agonizing look at the headlines you glossed over on the subway

Against All Odds, Kardashian Wedding Expected to be a ‘Classy Affair’

Uh, Mr. Odom?  I don’t want to tell you how to handle your business, but I think you may have chosen the incorrect Kardashian.

The Littlest Teetotalling Hobo? Suspected Drunk Driver Bitten by Police Dog

We’re beginning to stretch the already-stretched Alanis Morrissette concept of ‘irony’ here.

Can U.S. Win War The Canadian Way? First Round of Sternly-Worded Letters Ready to Go

Most people simply aren’t aware that the heroic Canadian advances on Juno Beach in WWII were preceded by repeated warnings that the Germans ‘govern themselves accordingly’.

MacKenzie Phillips: I Slept With My Father; MacKenzie Phillips’ Father: I am Literally a Dead Man

Strangely silent in all of this? Supergroup Wilson Phillips.

This Week in Irrelevant Questions: Can ‘It Girl’ Megan Fox Actually Act?

Up next: Our review of the amazing 2009 Corvette ZR-1: Wither the Cup Holders?

Feds: Stadiums, Hotels Attract Terrorist Interest; Luckily, Plenty of Packages Still Available

In fact, if it weren’t for Al Qaeda bachelor parties, the Cleveland Browns would be in a blackout situation for nearly every home game.

Salut, beloved readers. It’s been a while since we took a stroll through the “anals” of history - join me, won’t you?

1598 – Ben Jonson is indicted for manslaughter. Years later, he would run 100 metres in 9.83 seconds at the impressive age of 389. He would go on to become the disgrace of a nation (not so much for the whole “steroid” thing, but more for his decision to partner with Frank D’Angelo in the sale of Cheetah energy drink…)

1792 – Primidi Vendémiaire of year 1 of the French Republican Calendar. The French would later use this same calendar as a means of determining how many times in a given year its military could surrender without losing face. When converted to the more commonly used “Gregorian Calendar”, the accepted number was 365 per annum.

1955 – In the United Kingdom, the television channel ITV goes live for the first time, ushering in an unparalleled era of television network proliferation in the UK that would see 2 more channels added over the next 40 years.

1980 - Fernanda Tavares is born. Life (and Fernanda) is beautiful.

2003 – David Hempleman-Adams becomes the first person to cross the Atlantic Ocean in an open-air, wicker-basket hot air balloon. For the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Hempleman-Adams have something other than their surname to be ashamed of.

2004 - Ray Traylor (aka The Big Boss Man, aka Big Bubba Rogers, aka War Machine, aka The Boss, aka The Guardian Angel, aka Mr. Identity Crisis) dies. Gourmet Spud mourns the loss of his hero (and possibly his father). 

What can I say - not a hell of a lot happened on September 22 in history. I should have probably looked into it before I started writing, but that’s just not my style (which style has been referred to by some as “astoundingly lazy”).

You know that TV show “Criminal Minds”? Yeah, me neither, but I gather it’s one of those generic police/crime investigation procedurals. I assume it involves a significant amount of sunglass removal and has a “The Who” soundtrack. Anyway, the star of the show is Joe Mantegna.

I like Joe Mantegna. He’s one of the only people on earth who can recite David Mamet dialogue without sounding like he has autism. Also, he plays “Fat Tony” on “The Simpsons”. Everyone loves Fat Tony, except of course for James Galdolfini, who cries in his pillow, eats frosting out of the container and wishes that someday, somehow there will be a spoof character called “Slim and Handsome Tony.”

 You know how when you begin liking an actor or musician, but you don’t really want to become a true fan because all actors or musicians are guaranteed to do something completely fucking stupid during the course of their career, and you will have to reconcile this with your unabashed devotion to them? Well, Joe, here is the tipping point.

Cat Fancy? Jesus, I would have been happier if you had pulled a Paul Reubens and been caught masturbating in a movie theatre. That at least has some dignity to it.

Still, this video nearly makes up for your feline predilections, Joe.

You know, I woke up feeling like shit this morning. Mildly hungover, lingering head cold, not too much sleep last night. I had a feeling like today was going to be a bit of a disaster with me fumbling around at work trying to make it until 5 p.m. However, everything changed when you stood next to me. There’s nothing that picks up your spirit like listening to grown man play Lady Gaga’s “Love Game” at full blast through his shitty, piece of crap, extra tinny headphones. Share the joy, my friend, share the joy. I too want to take a ride on your disco stick.

 I hope you drop something as you are exiting the subway car and get decapitated by the doors. Do you know how I would celebrate your death? Just dance.

 Thanks,

 Butter Chicken

Unlike the other three writers for this site, I was raised Roman Catholic (Blue = Buddhist, Tao = Zen Buddhist, Butter = Nudist). I was even an altar boy for a period during the mid-80s, which I enjoyed. And no, not for the reasons you are thinking of, smart guy. Against all odds, I somehow made it through my tenure relatively unmolested (Sister Mary Margaret winked at me once, but that was probably just her Tourette’s).

No, the reason I liked being an altar boy was that you got to be part of the show. Carrying the cross, ringing the little bell, handing the priest the Jesus loaf and wine - at certain points during the mass, all eyes would be on you, and it was, dare I say, intoxicating. I liked to think of Father O’Rourke as Lionel Richie, and us altar boys were his Commodores; not the main attraction, mind you, but it sure as hell wouldn’t have been the same without us. Actually, that may be a bad example. But in any event, we also got to play in the altar boy baseball tournament every summer, which in and of itself was pretty sweet.

As an adult, I now find that the best thing about being Catholic is the notion of confession (at least until they come up with the position of “altar man”). Christianity is a faith built upon forgiveness, which means that no matter what you do, ritualized repentance = absolution. Now, I haven’t actually been to confession in approximately twenty years. This may have something to do with the fact that the only time I make it to church these days is on Christmas Eves, for weddings, or when I’m scanning the church bulletin for a coded instructing message from St. Marvin, the patron saint of gunning people down at the office.

However, I don’t think that this extended absence means I can’t avail myself of my divine right to be forgiven, even via a blog post. And actually, when you think about it, writing or commenting under a pseudonym on the Internet really is the modern-day version of the confession booth, only better. You still get the anonymity and release of pent-up guilt, but instead of having to get up early on Sunday mornings, you do it on company time.

But what could a stand-up guy such as myself possibly have to confess, you are most likely not asking yourself? Well, racism is the hot topic again these days. And, like everyone else, I’ve dabbled in the ignorant arts in my time. So I thought that, in an effort to inspire others to do the same, I would lay out my stereotyping-related sins right here in this public forum. Why? Because, as a wise woman of the cloth once said, “only through complete honesty can we achieve t-t-t-total understandinngggg AHH GOD DAMN COCKSUCKING ILL-FITTING HABIT!”

One caveat: I refuse to apologize for the mercy rule beating we laid on those momma’s boys from St. Anthony’s parish that one summer in ‘87. You should have stuck to soccer, you uni-browed guinea bastards!

In no particular order:

• For a good ten years, I thought the guy who sang the theme song from Ghostbusters and the guy who played the black Ghostbuster were the same person.

 
Not even close

• On a related and more recent note, I also thought Rinku and Dinesh, the celebrated Indian-born pitching prospects for the Pittsburgh Pirates, were brothers. Thank God there is no permanent record of that one.
• Wrestling-related racism, part one: I once considered Sgt. Slaughter to be the greatest traitor in the history of the world, and this misplaced rage may have led me to refer to an Arab-looking kid at my school as a “camel fucker”. In my defence, I’m almost certain I picked up this phrase from my neighbour’s dad, who is to this day a truly great racist. In my further defence, the kid turned out to be from Chile.
• When I was 15, I could on more than one occasion be heard to proclaim that my favourite rap group was House of Pain. I even owned one of their t-shirts. What I did not own, however, was one of their albums.
• Speaking of music, I am a fan of T.V. on the Radio. However, if I’m being honest, only 75% of my fandom relates to their music. The rest is based on that curious form of reverse racism, whereby attending the show of an alt-rock band that is predominantly non-white secretly makes one feel enlightened. I believe social scientists refer to this as “Living Color Syndrome”.

 
Speaking of bands that I owned t-shirts but not albums of…

• I recently filled out an online application for a mortgage pre-approval. After answering a series of questions, I was presented with a choice of three representatives who I could call to finalize the application. No other information was given except for their names, the last of which were Syed, Villeneuve and Rothstein. Guess which one I chose?
• Wrestling-related racism, part two: coconut to the head = funniest thing I ever saw, at least until we discovered Eddie Murphy’s Delirious. Do you get it? People from Fiji wear sarongs, love fruit, and are so stupid they will fall for even the most obvious of set-ups! You’ll get that Nobel Peace Prize one of these days, Vinnie Mac.
• Without having the slightest understanding of how it would work, I’m in favour of health care reform in the U.S. I’d even be in favour of the death panels. But I actually could care less whether 40 million Americans are uninsured. I just like the idea of supporting President Corey Glover.
• When Rothstein came back with an excellent rate, I smiled a smug, knowing smile.
• Check my Google search history, and you will find the phrase, “do black people make up their first names?”
• I used to carry around a wallet-sized photo of a Chinese Junk, because I thought showing it to people and telling them it was actual size was funny.

 
I’d follow it up with, “if this thing had a left blinker, do you think it would be on continuously?”

• Wrestling-related racism, part three: this one also involves Roddy Piper, wrestling’s greatest racist. Let’s just say that if it weren’t for the dogged interference of a certain meddling parental figure, this very likely could have been my eleven-year-old self’s Halloween costume:

  

• The Raptors acquired Amir Johnson from Milwaukee this off-season. I don’t really know what he looks like. So every time I see a black guy over 6′4 walking around downtown Toronto, part of me secretly wonders if it’s him. Even if he is wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase.

 
Fact: 1/3 of these guys are in danger of having me ask for an autograph.

• Finally, I secretly wish there was a slur for Italians that carried the same weight as the n-word. Because God knows, those greasy bastards really could stand to be taken down a peg or two.

Phew. I feel better already.