Who among us doesn’t enjoy a little creative trademark/copyright infringement?  Maybe it was the time you bought that ‘Magnasonic‘ TV and got it all the way home before realizing it did NOT combine the best traits of both the Magnavox and Panasonic brands.  Or maybe you’re a Chinese person who bought a ‘Chery‘ car because it sounds like ‘Chevy’ with your accent and you’re desperate to embrace American culture.  Either way, you probably thought to yourself: “Oh, those lovable scamps!” and resigned yourself to watching TV as a curtain of black fuzz descends across the screen, or dying in a car crash caused by the fact that your car is entirely made out of melamine.

That’s how I feel when I leave my desk and descend into the food court to buy lunch at the Soup Nutsy.

That’s right, I said Soup Nutsy.  ‘Cause you can damn well sure the Third Reich’s lawyers would be drafting up cease and desist letters macht schnell if this enterprising Canadian fast food purveyor deigned to call the place the Soup Nazi.  Or maybe they were worried about turning off the lucrative ‘holocaust denier’ market segment.

Besides, ‘Soup Nutsy’ makes more sense anyway.  It’s like they’re saying, ‘Hey! Come over here! We’re kinda crazy about soup! Just try this squash and Jack Daniels vomit blend!”

Now, before you get on the phone to Viacom or Larry David or whoever owns the rights to the idea for the “Soup Nazi” character that made it cool to like soup again, consider how the ‘Soup Nutsy’ people have carefully crafted a business model to skirt around trademark/copyright laws.  To begin with, the actual ‘Soup Nutsy’ is clearly distinguishable from “The Soup Nazi”:

The Soup Nazi:

The Soup Nutsy:

As you can see, while The Soup Nazi is a vaguely Middle Eastern man who is somewhat stocky and intimidating.  Conversely, the Soup Nutsy is a snide and self-satisfied Frenchman dressed in all yellow.  Clearly not the same person.

Then there’s the issue of the actual soup on offer.  According to Seinfeld lore, The Soup Nazi’s soup was so good that customers would be willing to be subject to The Soup Nazi’s menacing demeanour and punishing rules just for a chance to taste his delicious mulligatawny soup. 

The Soup Nutsy, on the other hand, features watery blends of nondescript vegetables and nary else (did we say meat? Sorry, that should read “meat essences”).  They wouldn’t sell any soup if it weren’t for the clamouring masses of office employees looking for something to eat quickly before running back to their offices so that they can work on new ideas for how to sell mortgages to people who can’t afford them.  It’s shitty soup, and if you put a bowl of it beside the soup your mom used to make before she moved out, then you wouldn’t want to touch the stuff.  Also, you’d probably cry.

I know the marketplace is devoid of new ideas, but stealing from TV is not a recipe for long-term success.  What’s next, America?  The Regal Bagel?  America’s Funniest Home Remedies? Hamsterdam spiral cut Virginia Crack ham?  WKRPB&J?  Actually, a Johnny Fever-based chain of sports bars isn’t a bad idea.

So I was perusing the latest issue of cough Esquire cough yesterday (oh, like you’ve never been curious about the latest advances in shoe polish), when I happened upon this little ditty in the classifieds section, tucked between the testimonials for “Orly, the World’s Best Match Maker” and an ad for titanium clothes hangers:

Hmm. The Goatee Saver, eh? Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What’s it do?

 Well. That was oddly disturbing.

“Your goatee is much more than just facial hair. Your goatee helps fashion your identity.”

Yes, and that identity is apparently that of an Ed Hardy-afficionado with Patrick Bateman leanings.

“As an added bonus, your Goatee Saver can be used as a mouth clamp when recreating your favorite scene from Saw VI on an unfortunate sushi delivery man. ”

Look, the goatee is the facial accessory of the slovenly, obese man - period. Its purpose is to mask a weak/double chin or to give one something to stroke in lieu of an inaccessible, paunch-shielded junk. Adding the element of cold, angular precision to it is like putting lipstick on a beautiful pig. If the Goatee Saver takes off, what’s next? A utensil designed for chip-eating? A porn-viewing monocle? XXXL tuxedo t-shirts? Monogrammed sweat rags?

If you spend any more than 15 seconds each day shaving your goatee, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s creepy enough when people have perfectly straight lines on their beards, but at least they’ve made a full commitment. Your goatee should say one thing and one thing only - my facial hair doesn’t fill in on my cheeks, and I’m waiting for the hipsters to relinquish the moustache.

So thumbs down to the Goatee Saver people. Next time, focus your half-ass entrepreneurial efforts on, oh, I don’t know…a mouth guard with bristles in it, so you can be brushing your teeth while you sleep. Those extra two minutes in the morning are a killer.

We here at Food Court Lunch always take the view that if you are going to do something, do it right. We take this view, but generally fail to apply to our careers, friendships, driving, masturbation, horseback riding or anything we actually try. We’re fucking lazy, is what I am saying. Also, we talk a lot of shit. Also, we constantly steal from “Take A Penny” jars. Wow, this confessional is becoming pretty cathartic.

Because we are such sloths, we find it inspiring when someone actually plans on doing something then properly follows through. It’s an incredible motivator to us. Sure, we follow it up with brutal green-eyed jealously and general cattiness, but underneath it all we are impressed. Take the act of invading the field during an athletic event. You could just leap on to the field, run around shirtless and wait to get tackled by security. You could do that, but why? Why go halfway when you could get on the field and PUT IT IN THE BACK OF THE FUCKING NET!!!! BOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!

Well done, bloated and pasty Englishmen. Well done.

Come on, guy - why all the hate? This isn’t like you. Normally you’re very even-keeled in your policies, but your recent ban on Libyan visas for all Canadians seems a little extreme. Sure, we got a little pissy with you when you threw a jamboree for Abdel Baset al-Megrahi, the convicted Lockerbie bomber, but let’s not kid around - the Canadian version of “pissy” (apparently) involves sending a high-ranking minister of state to meet your plane during a layover to express our country’s moderate displeasure. It’s not like we banned you from the country, or cut the fuel lines on your jet, or threw a party for someone convicted of murdering your citizens… 

And who are the real victims here, Moamer / Muammar (other than the passengers on Pan Am Flight 103)? It’s the literally tens of Canadians each year who travel to your country for your legendary beaches, your kick-ass wine and cheese parties, and your romantic getaway packages. Where the are these three Canadian families going to vacation each year if not in Libya?!

And don’t get me started on our foreign trade relations! Our economies are mutually dependent - we send you ice, you send us sand. You are the Balki Bartokomous to our Larry Appleton! You complete us… We are two national peas in a pod, Big M. We both love socialism, we both enjoy old-time hockey (I assume), and we each have defined geo-political borders. What more could you ask for?

So come on, you lovable Gene Simmons doppelganger - let’s stop all the fussin’ and feudin’, and let’s make sweet love down by the fire. After all, I think we can all agree that both countries should be devoting our collective efforts to more pressing issues, like the decline of reality TV…

Your 2009 World Series slate is  set, people!  Those lovable underdogs, the New York Yankees, will take on the original Broad Street Bullies, the Philadelphia Phillies in this year’s October classic!

But before we bring on the dulcet tones of Joe Buck, the inimitable wisdom of Tim McCarver, and the endless wave of Must-See television promos and Swiffer(tm) product tie-ins, let’s take a look back at that amazing ALCS between the Yankees and the Los Angeles Angels who are from Anaheim but would nevertheless like to attract Latino fans.  Here are your award winners from the ALCS:

MVP of the Series:  A-Rod

Rodriguez also wins the award for “most likely to cause viewers to adjust colour settings on television in a futile attempt to reconcile the unnatural colours of his skin with the colour of his lips”

Orel Hershiser Award for Shutdown Starter:  C.C. Sabathia

Continuing to give hope to endomorphs worldwide who dream of a career as a pitching ace.

Manager of the Series:  Joe Girardi

Some might say that a team with a line-up as powerful as the Yankees could win with any manager, but I think the key question you have to ask yourself is: How many games would the Yankees have won if Jim Leyritz managed the team instead of Joe Girardi?

Player Most Likely to Draw Over-Exaggerated Platitudes from the Announcers:  Mariano Rivera

Yes, I know he’s amazing.  Yes, I know he has been basically unhittable for the last decade and a half.  But just a little cautionary story for Yankees fans:  It won’t last forever.  We too once had a pitcher who was infallible.  That man’s name? Tom Henke.  And what is Tom Henke up to these days, you say? He works at Lenscrafters.

Key Play of the Series:  Vlad Guerrero Forgets the Count (Game 6)

Watching Vlad forgetting the count and trotting self-satisfied to first on a 3-2 count, you couldn’t help but think: These guys think they can play in the World Series?

Funniest Moment:  Kazmir’s Moonball to First (Game 6)

Okay, look alive, Scott!  It’s a simple comebacker.  I can handle this! I’ll just pick it up, turn to first, and WHOOP! Shotput the ball to that fan in the 8th row!  Damnit!  This is soooo hard!

Bitch-Ass Punk Award:  A.J. Burnett 

You know why, A.J. 

Most Likely to Fold Like a Cheap Deck of Cards:  Scott Kazmir

See Moonball, above.

Best Concession Item:  Nachos with Shredded Money Topping

Runner-up: Special Cask Reserve 12-Year Old Pabst Blue Ribbon

Best “Bridge & Tunnel” Look:  Nick Swisher 

Hey, Dumbass! Watch the paintjob!

X-Factor:  Residual Effects of Steroids

Residual effects of a proper steroid program administered by a professional = A-Rod

Residual effects of a mail-order steroid program administered by a cousin = Gary Matthews Jr.

Food Court Lunch is nothing if not current. Indeed, all of our “news” items are ripped from today’s headlines (sometimes literally… I’m looking at you on this one, Blue). Every now and again, however, a story falls through the cracks of our inimitable news desk only to resurface months later on a slow, rainy Friday morning (like today…).

Today in “Stuff We Forgot To Mention” is a topic that is near and dear to my cold, dead heart: Gary Bettman. Thanks to the ever-current “Elevator News” in our building, I was reminded yesterday that Bettman’s salary and benefits for 2008 came in at a cool $7.1 million. For such unsurpassed douche baggery, I would have thought that he was easily worth twice that. Yet what irks me more than the total dollar figure is the fact that this sum represented a 27% salary increase from the year prior. To paraphrase the Bard, what the fuck?!? I feel like I am taking crazy pills! Was his mother responsible for setting his salary? How on earth did the League think that his so-called “work” merited an unparalleled salary increase? Perhaps it was his brilliant “move the NHL to southern climates so that we can get a TV deal with the Versus network” policy that made him such a hot commodity. Or it may have been his petulant manner and complete lack of business acumen. We will likely never know, but I think one thing is clear: if I ever see Gary on the street, I will visciously assault him with a tack hammer.

For future reference, Mr. and Mrs. NHL, you don’t need to pay Gary any salary increase whatsoever - he’s not exactly a flight risk. There aren’t a lot of professional sports leagues out there right now looking for the “right guy” to undermine an entire league, usher in an era of repeated player strikes, ruin the franchise by moving teams around like three-card monty, enter into pitched court battles on the basis of personal feuds, run his mouth off at press conferences so as to demonstrate his complete lack of understanding of (and respect for) the sport, and generally act like a raging ass wipe. Well, maybe MLB.

In conclusion, Gary - you suck. NHL - you suck. Leafs - you really suck. Gretzky - you’re still cool.

I enjoy living in the modern, cutting-edge world that is the city of Toronto in 2009. We have the finest igloos, the fastest canoes, and the most technologically-adept beavers in all the world. Our Mounties are now rocket-powered! It’s all very exciting, but sometimes I forget that not all of our fair city’s denizens are in touch with the future, or even the present, like I am. Behold a recent (two weeks ago — yes, I am lazy) article from the Toronto Star. Actually, they call it an “investigation.” I call it “Jesus Christ, are there really people who believe this shit? What’s next? Witches? Fairies? Multi-armed deities? Come on!”:

Public health officials in Peel are warning people, especially pregnant women, against popping illicit pills following a Saturday Star article about the pressure on young women from India, particularly from Punjab, to give birth to boys.

“Women should be very leery of taking any kind of medication from unlicensed dealers. It’s not without hazard,” Joan Davison, family health manager, said Monday. “If you have any questions, you need any pills at all, please go to your family doctor.”

In the article, a Star reporter bought random, supposedly gender-shifting pills from some guy in a parking lot. That’s awesome, because that’s where my wife and I go for all of our fertility treatments — back of the lot at Dave & Buster’s. This guy has got stirrups in the back of his minivan and everything. However, in our case, to ensure it’s a boy, we fuck while I am wearing a football helmet. It puts out good, manly vibes.

Eyes on the prize, ladies!

How much would you pay for a parking lot narcotic? $100? $200? I suppose that would be fine if you wanted a faggy she-male baby. But for a manly-man baby, the going price is $750.

Davison made her comments after the article – which highlighted the desperate measures women are taking to avoid giving birth to girls, including aborting female fetuses – reported that a man was selling pills he claimed could increase a woman’s chance of giving birth to a boy by 85 per cent. He told a Star reporter, posing as a pregnant woman, that they were herbal pills, had no side effects and cost $750.

Davison pointed out there is no “known pill that can determine the sex of a fetus. That happens at the time of conception,” she said.

The last time I tried to give a woman a pill that I claimed was herbal and had no side effects, I got arrested. Mind you, my claims were made to the police afterwards. I had actually just dissolved the pill in her drink without telling her. Then I got thirsty and accidentally drank it. I woke up raping myself. In an elevator. At a mall. That reminds me, I owe myself $750 dollars. And I owe that mall janitor a serious apology.

A critical look at the headlines the government doesn’t want you to know about

FBI Most Wanted Hitman Had Plastic Surgery; Is Now a D-Cup

The public is warned to maintain a safe distance from the alleged hitman, who is presumed to be armed and extremely seductive.

Berlusconi: It’s a Difficult Life Leading Italy, Chasing Underage Tail

Excuse me if I have trouble feeling sorry for an egomaniac whose weekly hair gel budget exceeds my annual salary.  He’s like Mussolini, but with more business savvy and a tailor.

Manny Showers While Dodgers Lose; Joe Torre Stammers For an Explanation While Cameras Click

Strange. I always had Manny pegged as a bath guy.

Board Pushes for ‘Boy-Friendly’ School; To Compete with ‘Boy-Crazy’ Catholic Residential Schools

Now boys are having trouble with school?  I always thought it was girls who were bad at math.

CC Stands Tall, Wide, for Yankees

Reminds me of playing Hardball IV on my Commodore 64.  When you swapped out the pitcher with an outfielder, every pitch he threw was called ‘fat pitch’.

Poland to Accept New U.S. Missile Defence Deal; Excited about Prospect of ‘Magic Missile Net’

For anyone keeping track, the “coalition” now includes both Poland and Vanuatu.

Meatloaf Lookalike Charged in Taxi Incident May Cause Nightmares

I can just picture Meatloaf’s publicist doing her usual morning google news search for Meatloaf-related news items and coming across this one.  “Oh Jesus.”

There’s not much in this rich tapesty of life that I don’t cherish. There are, of course, a few notable exceptions: country music, Gary Bettman, two-fifths of the Backstreet Boys, Minnie Driver, Mini Drivers, France, the Irish, the French-Irish, Dick Cheney, Dick Pound, Moby Dick, Dick (other than my own), white people, and “ethnics”. A fairly discrete and equally justifiable list, I think we can all agree.

Recently, however, I have been forced to add a new category of people to my hate list: golf marshals. On the spectrum of detestable human beings, I have determined that they fall somewhere between Hitler and the guy who ran over my cat when I was seven. In fact, now that I think about it, I am pretty sure my cat was run over by a golf cart with an annoying green flag on the top of it…

As far as I can determine, golf marshals exist for the sole purpose of ruining my 4 games of golf each season (which in Canada lasts only for 6 weeks). They invariably manage to appear over the horizon just in time to watch me shank the ball into the forest or a nearby orphanage, which usually elicits some form of infuriating advice from the smug pricks such as “stick to hockey” or “get off my lawn”. Their utter futility is matched only by their penchant for power trips. I am certain that they all attend some secret golf marshal college (Vasser?), where they are told repeatedly that they are Gods among men in the golf world. To my mind, it is only a matter of time until they start carrying rifles in order to carry out ritual killings on the course of all those who stray from the strict code of Marshal Etiquette.

Most recently I was admonished (from afar, mid-stroke) for parking my cart “too close to the green”. You know what you really need when you have paid exorbitant sums to golf in the freezing cold and you’re in the middle of the worst round of your life? You need some 55 year-old unemployed virgin to take out his sexual frustrations on you by making reference to so-called course rules that exist solely in his imagination. The sheer distance between myself and his shitty little golf cart was the only thing that stopped me from rogering him repeatedly with the business end of my putter…

In conclusion, I hope and pray that a horrible “accident” befalls this year’s Golf Marshal’s Wine and Cheese Mixer (preferably one involving killer bees, a raging inferno, and a mob of recently escaped convicts on the prowl for love). 

“Alright, let’s see what all the damn hype is about. I’m telling you, if this sucks and we could have seen Where the Wild Things Are, you’re not picking for a month. Far as I’m concerned, you should still be on parole for My Sister’s Keeper.”

Day #1

“Hey, I didn’t know Casey Affleck was in this. Nope, I’m pretty sure that’s him. Oh, like I’m going to listen to you on this - you still think Stringer Bell and Avon Barksdale were played by the same actor.

I have no idea why they wouldn’t have advertised that he was in it. I wasn’t involved in marketing the film.

Wait a second - Micah is the guy’s name? Ha. I bet he’s looking forward to being haunted by a ghost for a while, instead of those painful childhood memories.”

Night #1

“Hey - whose bedroom does that look like? Just imagine if the door was on the other side, and the bed was a queen instead of a king. Ha! Weird, eh? I can almost see your copy of Devil in the White City on the night table.”

Day #2

“Ooooooooooh! Keys on the floor! What an unsettling display of mind games!  What’s the demon going to do next, leave the fridge door open? Mix the recycling in with the regular garbage? Lame. ”

Night #2

“Wow. The door opened and closed. Somebody hold me. Yawn. Seriously, keys on floors, opening and closing doors - who’s this supposed to scare, obsessive compulsives?”

Day #3

“Pfft. I don’t know what they spent $15,000 on, but it sure as hell wasn’t a script. And where did they find this guy playing the doctor? He looks like he’s going to crack up any second. Probably because he knows he’s in a shitty movie. And of course, when Dr. Giggles says don’t use a Ouija board, you just know later on they’re going to use a Ouija board.

They should have called this movie, “Para-noying Cliches.” Heh. That was pretty good.”

Night #3

“You know, I read that they filmed this at the director’s actual HOLY SHIT! Gah! Okay, that one got me. Heh. Kind of shouted there. Sorry about that. I’m embarrassed.”

Day #5

“I’m so sure they would be this calm about the whole thing. Shouldn’t she have started pulling her hair out by now, at least? The thing’s supposedly been stalking her since she was a little kid, and she’s acting like they’re dealing with raccoons who keep tearing apart their garbage.

Oh, and of course buddy boy here has all the latest audio software. Hey, here’s an idea, Micah - if you’ve got all this cash to spend on fancy computer programs and a big ass camera, how about buying a television that isn’t eight feet thick? Seriously, you could put a one-bedroom apartment in that thing. Get a flat screen.

I’m sorry, but if they really want to do the whole ‘blur the line between reality and fiction’ thing, these details matter. They’re distracting.”

Night #5

“Alright, these night scenes aren’t bad, but there’s no way it should be getting all this attention. Fuck Film Threat, I’m taking them out of my bookmarks first thing…wait. Why is she just standing…

Oh my. Oh…oh my.”

Day #10

“Oh, come on! Baby powder? Baby powder? What, you need more proof you’re completely fucked? CALL THE DEMONOLOGIST, IDIOT! His number is right on the god damn counter! Even for a day trader, this guy’s obnoxious.

And why is she still letting this moron make all the plans for them? Seriously, go get eaten or whatever. See if I care.”

Night #10

“OH, SON OF A BITCH! (kicks seat in front) WHAT’S DOING THAT?

Sorry, sir. Sorry. It’s just…Jesus.”

Day #16

“Is he calling out the demon? Did he actually just do that? What, is he going to challenge him to a Call of Duty match for his girlfriend’s soul?

(cupping hands to mouth) CALL…THE…FUCKING…DEMONOLOGIST! This is his chosen field of study! You’re a glorified cell phone salesman from New Jersey! Let the expert do his job, for Christ’s sake!”

Night #16

“IT’S COMING UP THE STAIRS! IT’S COMING UP THE STAIRS!”

Day #17

“And heeeeeeeeere comes the Ouija Board! I mean, why not? He’s only been told by a ghost doctor that it’s the worst thing he can do. Honestly, I hope he gets killed. I hope he gets gang raped by whatever the hell is out there, and I hope it fills up the rest of this movie. Fuck this.”

Night #18

“MOTHERFUCKING COCK SUCKING BED SHEETS!

I’m going to the washroom. Just for a second. I’m not leaving you. I just…fine. FINE. I’ll stay. Jesus. (looks at watch) How long is this movie, anyway?”

Day #19

“Huh? My legs are shaking because I have to go to the bathroom, which you wouldn’t let me do. And they need to make these day scenes longer, because those night ones are starting to…aw fuck! AW FUCK! IT’S GOT DAY TIME POWERS NOW!”

Night #20

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE! WHERE IS IT TAKING HER? WHERE IS IT…

You know what? I’m leaving. No, you shush! I DON’T GIVE A SHIT HOW IT ENDS! I really don’t. I’ll see you in the car.”

Back at home. 3:30 a.m.

“Hey babe. What are you doing up? You want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot. Oh, and you were right, it wasn’t Casey Affleck. I just checked IMDB.

Huh? Oh, no thanks. You go back to bed. I’m going to sleep out here from now on.

TURN THAT LIGHT BACK ON!”