We have nothing for you today but our hopes, dreams, and wishes for a better future for all our readers. Oh, and a list of titles that you could give to pornos that were based on Shakespearean plays. This was the best we could do on short notice. Have at it, readers.

• As You Lick It
• The Merchant of Penis
• The Two Gentlemen in Vagina
• The Shaving of the Shrew
• A Midsummer Night’s Ream
• Much Ado About Fucking
• The Tem-Pissed On
• Julius Caesar, Then Fucks Her (You have to say it to understand it)
• Hamlet Me Do Anal
• Tits Andronicus
• Romeo and Juliet and Juliet’s Friend
• Richard III-Way
• The Rape of Lucrece (Huh, it didn’t even have to change)

If you come up with something good for “MacBeth” or “Troilus and Cressida”, I will be extremely impressed.

A mercifully short look at the headlines that shape your world

(Apocalypse) Coming Soon: Labatt Blue, Brewed by Molson

Canadians are expecting an identity crisis the likes of which we haven’t seen since the “I am Canadian” guy was arrested for possession of child porn.

Muskoka Bear Cub Comes to Toronto to Have Broken Leg Fixed, Leaves with Heroin Habit

If I’m a mama bear and I’ve got a cub with a broken leg, I’m going to get it looked at in Sudbury? Yeah right.  Even wildlife know that Toronto is the centre of the universe.

Wyclef Jean Said to be out of Haiti Presidential Race, Fugees

Turns out the first four questions on the application form are: (i) Are you a resident? (ii) Do you Speak French or Creole? (iii) Do you operate a Fraudulent or at least incompetent charity? and (iv) Can you hold a tune?

Bully Street Broads? Women’s Hockey Debated at Summit

As a purist, I am heartened to see that the women have adopted the whole ‘playoff beard’ tradition.

Many US Kids Confused by Equal Sign Also Have Difficulty with Similes

That hasn’t seemed to stop them from using ‘like’ as every third word when they talk.  [ed. note: I hate teens].

Woman Dies in Hwy. 69 Crash, May Have Been Upended

Either that or she was going the wrong way.

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.

A few months ago I was out for dinner in Montreal with a group of friends, including the esteemed General Tao. Picture “My Dinner With Andre” but with three other people and an exponentially greater number of Batman and pro wrestling references. Classy, huh? Anyway, one of the attendees (we shall call him “Bibbity”) was in the middle of relaying an anecdote or story when he dropped the following sentence on the rest of us:

“It’s like that line in that Jay-Z song — I like a lotta poubada, and…”

Sorry, what?

“I like a lotta poubada.”

Collectively we had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

“You know, poubada.”

That’s not a word.

“It’s in the song.”

What song?

“You know, that one. The poubada one.”

…

“You know, “Can I Get A…”.”

Each of us at the table scrambled for our blackberries to find out what the hell Bibbity was talking about.

Let’s see the video for the song. Go to 1:55 of the video.

I have no idea what she says, but I am pretty sure it’s not “I like a lotta poubada.” Why? Because “poubada” is not a word. Not even remotely. We asked Bibbity about this.

“I don’t know. I thought it was some rap thing. I assumed it could be used universally as some kind of noun, verb or adjective.”

As in “I grabbed her poubada.” Or “Her ass is poubada.” Or “I am going to poubada the shit out of that.”

The actual lyrics?

“Git Up, Git Out and get somethin” Shit!
I like a, lot of P-rada, Alize and Vodka

Remember, folks. The Devil Wears Poubada.

I can understand getting the lyrics to a song wrong. However, hearing a made-up word and just going with that as the lyrics, that’s a new one.

We tried to convince him that “Alize” was made up as well. No dice.

Dear Baggage Handlers,

A quick side-note to start off this letter: I use the term “baggage-handling” to describe touching my own junk when I am sitting in my boxers watching TV. This letter is entirely unrelated to that activity.

I’m sorry to interrupt what is likely an extremely busy afternoon of loading and unloading suitcases, plotting drug and weapons-smuggling schemes and stealing souvenirs from the guileless rubes who don’t lock their bags, but I just want you to know: you guys win. I am not disputing it. Quite frankly, no one is disputing it. You are indeed incredibly strong gentlemen.

You see this guy? The one on the right?

You kicked sand in HIS face at the beach. Then you buried him up to his neck and face-raped him. You are that strong.

This guy?

Pfffft. All he does is stand there. Let’s see that lazy bastard try to put hundreds of those globes on a moving conveyor belt. He’s like a fucking trainee.

This guy?

Gay. Clearly gay. Whether he knows it or not, he’s gay. And significantly weaker than you.

You win, gentlemen. You are more than capable of hurling around luggage like the suitcases were mere tumbleweeds. You are the airport Krakens and our assorted Samsonites are just your average Greek peasants. You? Strong. Me? Significantly weaker. Now that this obvious source of insecurity is out of the way, can you stop throwing around my shit like you were Gator looking for crack money?

This might be news to you, but sometimes people put fragile things in their suitcases. It’s crazy, and they should know better, but it’s true. Sometimes they even put those fragile things in their luggage against their better instinct, such as in circumstances where they bought duty free alcohol in Europe and didn’t appreciate the fact that due to their stopover in the US on the way to Canada, they would be forced to jam that bottle of alcohol into their luggage as they raced to their connecting plane instead of being allowed to keep the bottle as carry-on. Because, you know, I apparently look like Richard Fucking Reid.

The author.

Anyway, the thing is, if you toss bags that have fragile items in them, the fragile items have a tendency to shatter. For example, there was a bottle of port in my luggage. When I opened my suitcase in Toronto, this was no longer case. Instead, there was a bag full of broken glass, extremely damp and stained clothing and a strong odour of port that continues to remind me of my apparent lack of appreciation for your folks’ strength and power. Oh, I also have a summer wardrobe that looks like it was purchased from Sharon Tait’s yard sale. So thanks for that.

“Don’t get down, man. I like the new look, Butter Chicken. The huge dark stains bring out your eyes, like mine when I stare into your soul.”

Again, let me reiterate my earlier point: you are powerful. Strong. Virile. It’s a given. It’s acknowledged. Now stop fucking tossing my suitcase around like you are recreating an Ike and Tina Turner afterparty.

Sincerely,

Butter Chicken

Setting: Sparsely decorated hotel room.  Bruce Springsteen plays loudly through iPod speakers while a man sings along in shower.

Telephone rings; An agitated Peter King enters room in bath towel, dripping wet.

Peter King:     Where is that damn Blackberry!  Hello?  Hello?

Don Banks:     Hi, Peter, It’s Don Banks.

Peter King:     Donnie Boy! How’s it hanging, good buddy?

Don Banks:     Things are great, Peter.  Thanks for asking.  Listen, the reason I’m calling is -

Peter King [interrupting]:     You seen Dexter yet? I’m hooked.  Did you get the DVDs I sent you?  You better watch them soon, because they’re from Netflix.

Don Banks:   I did get them, and thanks again.  You didn’t have to -

Peter King:     No problem, D-Man.  Hey, when are you and the missus finally going to check out our new digs?  We’re right in the heart of Beantown, you know!

Don Banks:     That’s very thoughtful, Peter.  I’ll have to check with Alissa and let you -

Peter King:     Say, I ever tell you about the time I was sportfishing in Chesapeake Bay with Bum Phillips?  Guy was half in the bag and nearly fell out the boat when his line got caught in the motor.  Hilarious!

Don Banks:     Yeah, I think you mentioned it once.  Hey listen, I just wanted to ask you a fav-

Peter King:     - and all I could think was - What kind of a name is ‘Bum’ anyway?  Hey - you know what’d be funny? If his last name was Butkus.

Don Banks:     Peter - I need to talk to you about something imp-

Peter King:     Bum Butkus!  That’s what his name would be!  Come to think of it, Dick Butkus is a pretty funny name too.

Don Banks:     That is pretty funny, Peter.  But listen -

Peter King:     Hey Donnie - Are you going to be in town for the SI event next week?  We should go for ribs!  I know this place called Tony Roma’s.

Don Banks [becoming agitated]:     Peter.

Peter King:     It’ll be just like old times, buddy.  K-Man and Donnie Brasco, out on the town!

Don Banks [yelling]:     PETER!

Peter King:     Hold the phone! What is it, Donnie Boy?

Don Banks:     That’s just it, Peter.  Now don’t take this the wrong way, but I was wondering if you could cool it with the nicknames in your columns for a while.

Peter King [deflated]:     You don’t like ‘Donnie Brasco’?

Don Banks:     Listen, you’re a good friend, Peter, but lately your columns make it sound like we’re two childhood friends.

Peter King:     I don’t know what to say.  I was just trying to send a little love to a good friend.

Don Banks:     It’s just that I’ve been getting some ‘uncomfortable’ emails from some of your fans lately.

Peter King:    What are we talking about here, Donnie?  Because if you’re talking about the so-called [ahem] ‘cock shots’, that’s Brett thing.  I was barely even there.

Don Banks:     I just think you might want to tone down the friend angle for a while.  And maybe cool it with the twitter updates.

Peter King [defensive]:     Oh, I can do cool, Don.  In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been at this game for a while.

Don Banks [back-tracking]:     I know, Peter.  You do top-notch work.  I never meant to-

Peter King:     I mean, I practically invented the hip and irreverent top 15 sports format!

Don Banks:    I know, Peter.  Everybody loves your columns. I love your columns.

Peter King:     They just want to hear about real life, Donnie!  That’s what I give them - a window into life on the gridiron!  I’m sorry if sometimes people think that makes me a hack.

Don Banks [defeated]:     Listen, I’m sorry I even brought it up.  Let’s forget I mentioned it.  Hey - how’re your Red Sox holding up?

Peter King [mood lightening]:     Don’t you count out my Sox just yet, good Buddy!  They’re not cooked yet!

Don Banks:     Attaboy, Peter.  Listen, I should let you go.  Please give my best to -

Peter King:     ‘Youk’s still got another post-season run in him yet!  Say, we should catch a game and some brews sometime.

Don Banks:     Sounds like a plan.  Bye for -

Peter King:     - or we could go for coffee!  Doctor says I need to stay away from the stuff, but a man’s got to have his java, am I right?

Don Banks:     I really do need to go now.  Say hi to the kids for me.

Peter King:     Speaking of Laura and Mary Beth, when are we going to set them up with your two boys?  Then we’d be in-laws!

Don Banks:     I don’t think it works that way, Peter.  And anyway -

Peter King:     You checked out that Tebow kid yet, Dubs?  I got a good feeling about that kid.  Good head on his shoulders.

Don Banks [perturbed]:     Okay, Peter, I’m going to have to hang up now….

Peter King:     And that body!  When I saw him at the Combine, I was ready to get on my knees and praise the Lord.  Talk about upside potential!

Don Banks [pretending to hang up]:     Click.

Peter King [pausing]:     You still there, Donnie?  Reminds me of the time I was interviewing Ralph Wilson over the phone.  I thought he fell asleep, but turns out he had a stroke!  Can you imagine?

Don Banks:     Peter….I really need to go -

Peter King:     COLDPLAY! STARBUCKS! COLGATE UNIVERSITY! GOLDEN RETRIEVERS! HUSTLE! BRETT FAVRE! DELTA! ALL-THAT-IS-GOOD-IN-THE-WORLD-OF-SPORT!

Don Banks [hanging up]:     Click.

So apparently all of my co-”writers” for this web-based masterpiece have all decided to go on vacation during the same week. I have been left back to man the phones at the FCL head office, and to feed the cat. In an effort to improve workplace efficiency, the cat is now in charge of answering the phones and is on a fasting diet. But enough about our pussy.

Since I have full creative control, I have decided to take this blog in a new direction (i.e., other than down). I am not entirely certain what that direction will be, but I will likely have it sorted out by Friday. In the interim, here is a collection of Mr. Show skits that get me through the day:

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?

We here at Food Court Lunch are nothing if not lazy responsive to our readers. And so when our legion of fans asked for a sequel to our riveting “What is the greatest Def Leppard album of all time?” debate (definitive answer: “Hysteria”), we listened. And so, as promised, we present our second of the “Great Debates”:

Who is the hottest Jessica?

First off, we have to define the field. The choices are obvious:

A. Jessica Alba - the star of “Into the Blue“, “Honey“ and some other lesser-known works is the clear frontrunner (due in large measure to the author’s shameless bias…)

B. Jessica Biel - obviously a fan favourite, notwithstanding her decision to be in “Stealth”

C. Jessica Simpson-functionally retarded? Perhaps. Retardedly hot? Yes. 

D. Jessica Fox - You may remember her from “The Muppet Christmas Carol“. You may not. Her name is Jessica, so she makes the cut.

E. Jessica Tandy - Who hasn’t dreamed of driving Miss Daisy?

F. Jessica Fletcher - She is old, saucy and she solves crimes. Enough said.

G. Uncle Jesse - which one, you ask? The portly moonshine runner from Hazard County or the dreamy uncle from Full House? Why choose just one?! The more Jesse the better…

And the winner, based on no analysis or thought whatsoever, is Jessica Fletcher. She is the hotty from Cabot Cove, Maine, who solved crimes like a motherf*cker (her words, not mine). If she dies in an unfortunate fishing trawler accident or is otherwise unable to fulfil her duties as “FCL Hot Jessica”, Jessica Alba has been nominated as runner-up. Please return my calls to sort out the details.

It’s taken a couple of days for my anger to cool down to the level at which I would be able to rationally respond to the complete fucking stupidity that General Tao penned here a few days ago. You know, his complete wrongheaded and baseless assertion that Def Leppard’s “Hysteria” is a better album than “Pyromania”. Great debate? Pfffttttt. I’m not going to waste time trying to argue that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, regardless of whether you are right or wrong. The truth is, I am completely right and General Tao obviously suffered some sort of severe head trauma during his child. I can tell because he never cuts his hair too short — we would see the imprint of the car fender or the table edge or whatever the fuck shorted out his ability to discern the simply musically good from the sonically phenomenal.

It is obvious that Pyromania is better than Hysteria. (And to the guy who thinks “High and Dry” is better? Brother, just pack up the tent and go home. That’s like arguing Tito was the best Jackson.) To keep things short and to the point, here are the five reasons why:

1. THE ALBUM COVER

This is the most bad-ass album cover ever. Who hasn’t dream of shooting something at a skyscraper causing it to blow up? Mohamed Atta, that’s who. He didn’t dream it — he lived it. So it’s settled — Def Leppard caused 9/11. We’ll make a few calls to Homeland Security and get this wrapped up by dinner.

2. THE START OF “ROCK OF AGES”

“Gunter glieben glauchen globen.” I believe that’s German for “Work Will Make You Free.” That seems like a rather inspirational…Oh. So they’re Nazis and Islamic fundamentalist terrorists. I don’t know how those views reconcile with each other, but I know for sure that Def Leppard are the true bad boys of rock, like the Scorpions, Nusret Fateh Ali Khan and RaHoWa rolled into one. You know, like Matchbox 20.

Fact: Kurt Cobain quoted “Rock of Ages” in his suicide note. Neil Young? Please — it was obviously the Lepp that the Mighty KC was immortalizing.

3. THE REST OF “ROCK OF AGES”

They don’t name awkward, flamingly gay, “Journey”-dominated Broadway musicals starring THE Constantine Maroulis after just any song.

4. “FOOLIN’”

Where’s the letter “G”?, you might ask. I’ll tell you where — in the back of his van fucking your woman, drinking a beer and smoking a joint - ALL AT THE SAME TIME!!! He’s going to ejaculate as soon as Phil Collen finishes his guitar solo.

5. THE ENTIRE ALBUM

There’s something unique about “Pyromania”. It has such a powerful and unique aura that is remarkably difficult to describe. It’s different than “Hysteria”, but I can’t exactly articulate why. It’s like the sound of one hand clapping. No, wait — it’s the sound of TWO ARMS DRUMMING.

There’s only one true song called “Photograph” and it certainly wasn’t done by a permed jackass out of Alberta. And there’s only one true Def Leppard masterpiece, and that’s Pyromania.