One of the buildings near my work is doing a toy drive for underprivileged kids this Christmas season. Actually, they have done it the last few years, and each and every year it just creeps the shit out of me. A toy drive? Creepy? Well, yes. I have no problem with the concept of giving toys and gifts to underprivileged children (although I am sure that there are always a few cases of fourteen year-olds getting Duplo sets because the numbers “just didn’t work out this year. Sorry. Also, your Dad’s not getting out of prison this year”). It’s a wonderful gesture, and I have participated myself quite a few times. I sure hope those kids liked my homemade shurikens. My problem is the name of the toy drive: the “Snowball Express”. Sure, it may sound innocuous. It’s probably just named after this shitty movie:
No problems there, right? It’s just that every time I see the signs for the “Snowball Express” I think of this:
Nothing says Christmas like a mouthful of ejaculate, kids. And by God, we’ll do it quickly — “Express”, if you will. Now open wide and think of Santa and egg nog.
I think I’m going to donate to the CHUM Christmas Wish instead. I’m pretty sure the “Snowball Express” toy depot is nothing but a bunch of bearded guys in thick glasses and trench coats trying to convince twelve year-olds to come back to their place, “play some Nintendo, chill, and you know, see what happens.”
Happy fin de semaine, everyone! A particularly warm Food Court Lunch welcome to those of you south of the 49th parallel celebrating “Thanksgiving” (a mere six weeks late…). For anyone heading to the stores to do your Holiday shopping, please be careful out there - we know how much you Yanks love your sales on this Blackest of Fridays, and we’d be lying if we said we weren’t looking forward to tales of mall maulings and Walmart bludgeonings for our Monday post…
That said, if you find yourself surrounded by a swarm of insane shoppers with murderous glints in their (lazy) eyes, please just follow the teachings of Olympic Gold Medalist Kurt Thomas: (i) immediately make your way to the town square (assuming you live in 18th Century England) or the mall parking lot; (ii) find yourself the nearest pommel horse (it will be there - trust me); and (iii) unleash the hounds on the converging crazies in a flurry of precision gymnastic kicks and awkward cut scenes:
You’ve probably noticed a lot of people talking about the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver these days. And who can blame them! They look pretty exciting, what with the world’s best athletes coming together to compete in the spirit of amateur athletics, coupled with a celebration of world culture.
Heck, truth be told, we’ll probably watch every minute of it on TV.
But there’s another athletic competition that you might not have heard about. Not a lot of people talk about it, but we think that once you have all the details, you might just be even more excited about it than the Olympics.
We’re Toronto. And we want to tell you about the PanAm Games.
Just what are the PanAm Games, you ask? Funny you should …er… ask. The PanAm Games are just like the Olympics, but more exclusive. Just how exclusive? Well, while the Olympics invite the world’s best athletes to compete, the PanAm Games only extend the invitation to athletes from the Americas. That’s right: Just imagine the best athletes from across North, South and Central America competing for Gold-like medals!
But it doesn’t stop there; It’s even more exclusive than that. You can forget most of the best American athletes attending. Because the PanAm Games occur prior to the Olympics, the best athletes are usually scared away from the PanAm Games with worries about injury. And you know how the Olympics sometime suspend the rules to let in professional athletes from big-league sports? You can forget about those guys. Simply not amateurish enough for the PanAm Games.
But the PanAm Games are not just about athletics. No sirree. But while the Olympics purport to celebrate cultural diversity with a lot of flashy lightshows and grand-scale choreography and song, the PanAm Games focuses on the important issues by holding various workshops and seminars throughout the week, with riveting topics such as “The Pan-Latin Diaspora - Death and Rebirth” and “Cultural Ethnography”. Talk about a rush!
Now, you might have heard about the mad rush to find accommodations for the Whistler Olympics, with residents allegedly renting out bachelor apartments for $1000/night. And we expect the same thing to happen in the months leading up to the 2015 PanAm Games in Toronto. So book early!
A couple of other differences between the Olympics and the PanAm Games?
Athlete’s Village:
Whistler: Self-contained units harmoniously grouped around living spaces in modernist style
PanAm Games: The gritty authenticity of the York University student ghetto
Opening Ceremonies:
Whistler: Cirque Du Soleil-inspired acrobatics; medley of prominent Canadian artists
PanAm Games:If You Could Read My Mind, The Music of Gordon Lightfoot (presented by Murray McLaughlin)
Torch-Carrying Ceremony:
Whistler: Torch carried across each of Canada’s provinces and territories
PanAm Games: Prohibited by City of Toronto fire code
Gold Medal Favourites:
Whistler: Russian Men’s hockey team (loaded with the NHL’s best)
PanAm Games: Modern heptathlon phenom Grace Liu
Television Coverage:
Whistler: 24-hour coverage by world’s biggest networks
PanAm Games: AM radio; possible telethon
Sponsors:
Whistler: Coca-Cola, Bell, Kodak
PanAm Games: Ron & Louise Keller, 46 Argonne Crt., Scarborough, Ontario
Now you’re probably asking yourself: How can I get involved in the PanAm Games? Well, that’s the beauty of the PanAm Games: While your friends who are trying to get tickets to the Whistler Olympics will be at the mercy of arbitrary lottery systems, long line-ups and price-gouging, tickets to the PanAm Games are given out on a walk-ups only, first-come first-serve basis! It’s a win-win situation, people!
So sit back and enjoy the show as the momentum builds in the months to come!
That’s right, fun boys - it’s the 329th day of the Gregorian calendar, and you know what that means! It’s time for another look back at the historical events that have shaped the depraved world in which we live. A crazy world where mindless people who have 8 kids get prime-time ratings, but Andy Richter can’t seem to hold down a job… Join me while I try to figure out where it all went wrong, won’t you? Let’s stroll through the November 25ths of yesteryear together (no hand-holding):
1034 – Máel Coluim mac Cináeda, King of Scots dies. Donnchad, the son of his daughter Bethóc and Crínán of Dunkeld, inherits the throne. Years later the English would slaughter the Scots for their flagrant use of non-existent accents and misplaced vowels.
1783 – American Revolutionary War: The last British troops leave New York City three months after the signing of the Treaty of Paris. Due to their love of beaver, most of them head north to Canada, where they insert pictures of their Queen onto all known currency, re-name couches as “chesterfields” and add the letter “u” to words like “colour”, “favour” and “smut”.
1826 – The Greek frigate Hellas arrives in Nafplion to become the first flagship of the Hellenic Navy. Outside of the booming metropolis of Nafplion, the Greek navy continues to be known solely for their substandard response time to repeated Greek ferry disasters (and their love of ouzo).
1973 – George Papadopoulos, head of the military Regime of the Colonels in Greece, is ousted in a hardliners’ coup led by Brigadier General Dimitrios Ioannidis. Webster is devasted, but is comforted by Ma’am.
1984 – 36 top musicians gather in a Notting Hill studio and record Band Aid’s Do They Know It’s Christmas in order to raise money for famine relief in Ethiopia. Not to be outdone by their UK counterparts, Canadian musicians (all seven of them) would offer their reply one year later in the form of Tears Are Not Enough (performed by the aptly-named supergroup, Northern Lights), shaming an entire nation in the space of 4 minutes and 33 seconds. Anne, Gord, Bryan, Corey, Geddy - take it away:
Murphy: What, you’re just going to sit there acting dumb?
Doug: (silent)
Murphy: You fuckin’ believe this guy, Kev?
Millbanks: No. I don’t.
Murphy: He’s just going to sit there and pretend like he doesn’t know what we’re talking about, when I can smell the sauce all over his breath. Let me guess - you’ve got short-term memory? You don’t remember nothing until, what…your lawyer shows up?
Millbanks: Heh. That would be something, eh? Wearing a tiny little suit and tie.
Murphy: (smiles) Ha. Yeah. With a little briefcase. (suddenly stern) But don’t change the subject! Because guess what, Dougy boy? You don’t get a lawyer. You get to show us where you put them, or else we toss you back in the pen. And I bet some of your pals in there aren’t going to be too happy with you. What do you think of that? (more…)
Here’s a question for our readers: if you are swimming in water (lake, river or ocean — not swimming pool or Mr. Turtle pool) and you have to take a dump, would you run out of the water to do it, or would you just drop your britches and go where you are wading?
I only bring this up because I recently saw a TV commercial for Dukoral*, an anti-diarrhea vaccine that they advertise on Canadian TV. The TV commercial (which for some strange reason is not on YouTube) involves someone getting out of the water with flippers on and lining up at a bathroom to take what is hyped up to be a volcanic diarrhea shit. Big Daddy Drew discussed this on Deadspin recently (which proves my theory that he is inside my head and steals all my good ideas, leaving me to write the garbage that you guys end up reading) and was on the “crap in the water” side of the debate. Still, Drew’s was a normal log, not a diarrhea shit. There’s got to be a school of thought that sees a difference between the two.
I have to think that it is worth risking a diarrhea shit in the water and the requisite downside (a liquidy oil slick chasing after you while you swim — a chocolate Exxon Valdez if you will) than risk leaving the water to take a diarrhea shit and accidentally squirting out a dump while you are running down the beach trying to find a moderately sanitary bano. This is because shitting while wearing a bathing suit would be like trying to catch chocolate milk with a strainer. It’s not going to work. You are going to end up leaving a foul trail across the sand, like Hansel and Gretel in a schiesse film.
I say fuck Dukoral’s propaganda and shit in the water.
The floor is open, folks. Try not to step in the brown stuff.
* You can find out about Dukoral at www.travellersdiarrhea.com. It’s amazing that catchy URL was not snapped up earlier.
Well, it’s my turn again, and for crying pete I have nothing. That being the case, please sit back and enjoy the latest installment of a breathtaking gander at the headlines that taunt the illiterate.
Never mind the pandemic angle; CNBC viewers want to know: Who is making money off this thing? Seriously though, I was off last week with Swine Flu and it sucks.
Well, it’s official - I am old. All of my hockey heroes have now retired, leaving me a broken shell of a man living in my parents’ basement, clothed in nothing but memories (and velour). As everyone in the Great White North knows, Mr. Brendan Shanahan announced his retirement yesterday after 21 glorious seasons. I would be lying if I said I did not cry when it was announced. I would also be lying if I said I did not masturbate at work, but that is not important right now - try to stay focused.
Shanny’s retirement probably hit me harder than most, as he was the last of the hockey icons from my youth (along with Gretzky, Messier, Yzerman and Sakic). Growing up, I worshipped the ice he skated on. I remember spending an entire week begging my dad to buy a new car from Shanahan Ford in the hopes that, for some reason, Shanny might actually be on the lot selling cars that day (a reasonable assumption, as it was the off-season). Admittedly I didn’t do my research, given that I don’t believe there is actually any familial connection between the franchisees and the hockey player (aside from a distant Mick heritage), but it didn’t stop me from pestering my father incessantly. He left us the following week for a stripper named Jiggles.
I once met Shanahan at a burger joint in Etobicoke (Apache Bruger) when I was about 18 years-old (I am frankly surprised he didn’t mention our encounter during his retirement speech). His shoulders were literally wider than the length of my entire body. I know this because I leapt onto his shoulders and wrapped myself around his neck as a sign of affection… I believe our brief (but meaningful) exchange went something like this:
Me - Aren’t you Brendan Shanahan?
Shanny - Yes, I believe I am.
Me - I like you… well, I don’t “like you”, but I like the way you play hockey. But maybe if I got to know you better, this relationship could grow…
Shanny - Please don’t touch me. I don’t want to have to snap you in half.
Me - I wouldn’t mind…
Anyway, you get the picture. It was generally pretty creepy…
In closing, I offer this video homage of one of my favourite hockey players of all time. Brendan, I will be at Apache Burger all week if you want to talk about retirement…
As an added bonus, here is a reminder of how sports interviews should be conducted:
After work last night I jumped into a cab at a taxi stand outside my office. I sat down, gave the cabbie the directions, and he pulled away. I then realized that the cabbie must have spent the last hour in the cab farting like he had a spicy form of chronic colitis with the windows closed and the heat on. It was like someone was shitting week-old jambalaya into the back of my throat (it’s a terrible experience, take it from me). It was like a steamy rectal stew in there. If the power window hadn’t opened I am pretty sure I would have shattered the glass with my face just to get some fresh air. Thanks a lot, Toronto cabbie. You are now the inventor of some sort of Masala-powered Gaswagen. I look forward to your prompt ethnic cleansing of Toronto commuters.
Once again, we are about as organized and prepared as a virgin with ADD dropped off at a porn set. I have no idea what that means, but what I am implying is that we have again failed to put up a post. Do we just let it slide today, or do we throw up a hastily-produced screed about things that piss us off? The B-side wins again, people.
1. People on Escalators Who Stop Fucking Walking When It Almost Reaches The Top
I commute to work every day, which means a ride on the subway every morning. Every time I arrive at my final stop, I have to take the escalator. People in Toronto (at least commuters) are generally smart enough to follow basic subway escalator etiquette, which is that people who want to stand in place on the escalator stay to the right while people who want to walk up the escalator stay to the left. I usually go on the left side, because standing in place on an escalator is pretty well the height of fucking laziness. I mean, they are providing you with electric-powered stairs. To not even participate in the movement process is the first step in complete capitulation to morbid obesity. If this keeps up, the thin, stair-climbing Asian hordes will overtake our fat asses in no time at all. This is for God and Country, people. Use the legs that the Baby Jesus gave you.
Anyway, basically every morning when I am walking on the left hand side up the escalator, some fucking idiot decides to stop walking because the escalator ride is coming to an end. This means that everyone behind them has to stop, or even worse, someone doesn’t notice the trail of commuters stopping and ends up walking into the back of the person in front of them. It’s fucking infuriating. Who doesn’t have the motor skills to step off a moving escalator? It’s not like they greased the floor at the end of the escalator. You can probably do it if you, you know, JUST STEPPED AND KEPT WALKING. If you cannot handle the Fred Astaire-esque choreography of simple bi-pedal movement, maybe you should stick to the right side.
2. Women and Doors
Yes, this is entirely sexist. But, yes, this is also entirely true. If you are a guy and you are walking through a door (such as a mall entrance), you either hold the door or push it open far enough so that the person behind you can follow right behind you and push it open for the next person. It’s common courtesy. If you don’t do it, you are a complete dirtbag. This code particularly applies during morning commutes. There is a massive wave of people going in one direction, so holding the door is out of the question. Therefore, you just do your best to push the door open for the next person. But no, not women, particularly young women. These selfish bitches come to a door that’s about to close, and instead of pushing it open, rush and slide through the opening so they won’t have to exert the effort of pushing the door. The door then slams in your face as you are right behind those women and assumed that they would show a modicum of consideration by keeping the door open. I don’t even have anything funny to say about this (although this hasn’t stopped me so far). Those women can fall off a bridge. I hope they lose their hands in car door accidents. Honestly, just fucking die.
3. The Really Fat Naked Old Guy In My Gym Who Stood Under A Hand-Dryer While I Shaved
It was just awful. It was like someone had anthropomorphized a boiled potato.
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