Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

5 MARCH 2011

—PROCEEDINGS OF THE HOUSE COMMITTEE ON HOMELAND SECURITY—1^st SESSION—

Rep. Peter King (R-NY): Ladies and Gentlemen, I call to order the House Committee on Homeland Security (or NAMBLA). Our purpose today is to root out unpatriotic, jihad-supporting behaviour amidst the Muslim community residing in these United States. There are an estimated 7 million Muslims in America today. To put that in perspective: 9-11.

Rep. Marjorie P. Fudgechasm (R-AL): This Committee recognizes Sayyid Talabani. Mr. Talabani, please raise your right hand—that’s your detonator hand—and repeat after me: I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. In this case we mean the real one.

Mr. Sayyid Talabani: What? I…uh…I do.

Rep. King: Good morning Mr. Talabani, thank you for joining us.

Mr. Talabani: I didn’t have a choice.

Rep. King: Before we begin, I couldn’t help but notice your family name. Talabani…that’s interesting. How exactly do you pronounce that?

Mr. Talabani: Talabani.

Rep. King: Talabani. Right. Good. Ok. Thank you. Emphasis on the first few syllables, or…?

Mr. Talabani: Generally on the third syllable. It was my father’s name, and my grandfather’s name. It’s quite common throughout the Middle East, and it has nothing to do with—

Rep. King: Quite right. Mr. Talabani, could you please state your age, occupation, and place of residence.

Mr. Talabani: I am 20 years old, and I am a junior sales representative for a major baked goods distributor—dealing pretty much exclusively in, ah, apple pies—based out of Salem, Massachusetts.

Rep. Fudgechasm: Well that’s irony writ large.

Rep. King: Mr. Talabani, as a member of the Muslim-American community, and as a working professional who has direct access to our nation’s food supply…[extended silence]…how would you rate your—[expletive] Sorry, sorry…I’m having trouble here with my flag pin. The backing fell off. Ok, this won’t stay on. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am forced to call a recess.

—RECESS OF SESSION 09:50 EST—

—RESUMPTION OF SESSION 11:58 EST—

Rep. Fudgechasm: Before we re-commence our testimony, I would like to very briefly call an expert witness to clarify a point that was made by the Chair earlier today in his opening statement. Mr. Chairman, I call Mr. Rudolph Giuliani. Mr. Giuliani, would you say: 9-11?

Mr. Rudolph Giuliani: I would.

Rep. Fudgechasm: Thank you, Mr. Giuliani. Mr. Chairman, you may proceed.

Rep. King: Mr. Talabani, were you aware that on 29 August 2004, Shahawar Matin Siraj and James Elshafay planned to detonate an explosive device on the New York subway system?

Mr. Talabani: I can’t say I recall that, no. I mean, I’ve probably since heard mention of it somewhere, I’m sure I’ve probably heard it discus—

Rep. King: As in, discussed through a network? A clandestine network of Muslim-Americans?

Mr. Talabani: Well no…I mean that in my community, generall—

Rep. King: To which community do you refer? Where are you from originally, Mr. Talabani?

Mr. Talabani: I grew up in Spokane, Washington.

Rep. King: Right. But you weren’t born there?

Mr. Talabani: No. That’s true.

Rep. King: Indeed.

Mr. Talabani: I was born in Seattle.

Rep. King: But your parents—they weren’t born in Seattle, were they?

Mr. Talabani: No, they are from Minnesota.

Rep. King: Although they weren’t born in Minnesota?

Mr. Talabani: No, that’s true; they were both born and raised in Chicago.

Rep. King: But THEIR parents weren’t born in Chicago, were they?

Mr. Talabani: They grew up in rural Illinois, where they were born.

Rep. King: But your grandparents’ PARENTS weren’t born in Illinois, correct?

Mr. Talabani: Correct. They were born in Lebanon.

Rep. King: Aha.

Mr. Talabani: Lebanon, New Jersey.

Rep. King: …but THEIR parents weren’t born in New Jersey?

Mr. Talabani: No, they were born in what is present-day Pakistan.

Rep. Fudgechasm: And there we have it.

Rep. King: Mr. Talabani, as a self-described Pakistani national, do you feel that you did enough to try and prevent Mr. Siraj and Mr. Elshafay from attempting to detonate their terror-bomb in the New York subway system on 29 August 2004?

Mr. Talabani: Um…what? I don’t understand? Why are—

Rep. King: I remind you, sir, that you are under oath. I’ll ask you again: do you feel that you did enough to try and prevent Misters Siraj and Elshafay from committing an act of terrorism against these United States on 29 August 2004, yes or no?

Mr. Talabani: I’m sorry, but I don’t understand your question. I didn’t even know a plot was going on. And what could I have done to prevent it even if I had?

Rep. King: Mr. Talabani, is it or is it not true that part of the job description of a junior sales representative is to be very persuasive in selling one’s product or point of view? Mr. Talabani?

Mr. Talabani: Well I, ah, I guess, but—

Rep. King: Mr. Talabani, if need be, I am prepared to call Ms. Kelly Jones, one of your co-workers at USA Apple Pie Distribution Inc., who is prepared to testify that you are indeed a very persuasive person.

Mr. Talabani: Mr. Chairman, I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. I was only 12 years old in August 2004. How could a 12-year-old have persuaded terrorists not to—

Rep. Fudgechasm: Mr. Chairman, I call Mrs. Dorothy Sanderson to offer expert testimony.

Rep. King: I’ll allow it.

Rep. Fudgechasm: Mrs. Sanderson, you were Mr. Talabani’s 6^th Grade English teacher in Spokane, is that correct?

Mrs. Dorothy Sanderson: I was.

Rep. Fudgechasm: And would you say that during his time in your class he demonstrated an aptitude for persuasiveness?

Mrs. Sanderson: Well now, let me see… When Sayyid wanted the green crayons, he certainly knew how to get them.

Rep. Fudgechasm: Thank you, Mrs. Sanderson, you may step down.

Rep. King: Mr. Talabani? Your response? Are you calling Mrs. Sanderson a liar?

Mr. Talabani: Of course…of course not. But this is absurd. It…it…doesn’t even matter if I am a persuasive person, or if I was persuasive when I was…12 years old!? I mean I lived in Spokane! How was a 12-year-old supposed to get all the way to New York City and persuade terrorists he didn’t know not to—

Rep. King: The FBI reported that in the 10-hour period before the attempted bombing, there was significant chatter detected on the grid. Once again, sir, in retrospect: do you feel that you did enough to try to prevent this bombing plot from taking place?

Mr. Talabani: It was thousands of miles away! I was 12 years old!? And what…in like, in under 10 hours you expected me to—

Rep. Fudgechasm: Mr. Chairman, I would like to call to the stand Mr. Christopher Lackman, Air Traffic Controller at Sea-Tac International Airport.

Rep. King: Mr. Lackman, was there or was there not a flight to LaGuardia that left Seattle at exactly 06:55 PST on 29 August 2004?

Mr. Christopher Lackman: Yes, there was.

Rep. King: Thank you, Mr. Lackman, you are excused. Mr. Talabani?

Mr. Talabani: This is absurd!

Rep. Fudgechasm: The witness is out of order.

Rep. King: Mr. Talabani, one final question: could you please direct this Committee to the part of the the Qur’an that deals with adherence to the Constitution of the United States of America?

Mr. Talabani: This is insane, the United States didn’t even exist at—

Rep. Fudgechasm: I declare this witness to be in contempt.

Rep. King: This hearing is adjourned. May God Bless America.
 

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

*All data is the property of Plenty of Fish Online Dating Inc. and may not be reproduced without permission.

CITY: Well, I personally view Ottawa as a delightful hamlet, but anyway…

SIGN: It’s a bad one, if you believe in this mumbo jumbo.

HEIGHT: As a happy matter of coincidence, I am precisely as tall as my ego is secure.

AGE: Young enough to still get it up; old enough to be able to recognize when she would be just as happy to receive a massage.

SMOKER? Not since I developed that pesky allergy to self-poisoning and halitosis, no.

ETHNICITY: Stupid & dangerous social invention with no scientific basis, next.

BODY TYPE: Mammalian

RELIGION: Stupid & dangerous social invention with no scientific basis, next.

I AM SEEKING A: Comprehensive carbon reduction plan that will hold big business accountable. But in the interim I’ll settle for your vagina.

DO YOU DRINK? I drink like a Republican Senator fucks underage boys. That is to say, frequently and with ardent and blatantly transparent attempts at denial.

MARITAL STATUS: My wife hates how this question keeps popping up on forms, Laugh Out Loud, I agree with her.

PROFESSION: Counselor for those who define themselves by what economic activity brings them remuneration. Business is good.

EDUCATION: Lifelong; humbling; sometimes involving books.

LOOKING FOR: Intelligent, compassionate dialogue and camaraderie. Bah just kidding I want to fuck your brains out.

DO YOU WANT CHILDREN: Yes, if only to sleep with them if they should grow up to become sexy, attractive teenagers.

DO YOU DO DRUGS? I think it would be more apt to say that drugs do me.

DO YOU HAVE CHILDREN? Only legally.

DO YOU HAVE A CAR? What is this, Grease? Shoo-bee-doo-bee-doo-bee-doo-be-dee-bop-dee-bop? What the fuck kind of question is that?

INTENT: To re-designate your clitoral hood as a Protected National Monument site. As a trained archeologist (thanks, Le Cordon Bleu Academy!), I will delicately, and with painstaking precision, uncover, polish, and otherwise lovingly minister to the treasure that is contained therein.

RELATIONSHIP HISTORY: I have had three, multi-year, serious relationships with professional, educated women. And I also blew a guy in the bathroom of a Wendy’s one time.
 

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

Self-Deprecanze       $11
Mild cajoling of one’s own character. Lightly braised ego matched with a witty barrage of auto-cannibalism and fragrant, purposeful devaluation. A house favourite.

A River in Egypt       $13
A sumptuous deflection of accusations, real and imagined, that have been slowly marinating in the mind’s eye. Served with mounting hysteria.

Steinem Cakes       $9
*Description unnecessary, dining partner will order for you.

The Louisiana Purchase       $0.04
A tranche of unknown potential, accrued with little fanfare and sprinkled with a curious lack of foresight. Served in the French style (vanity on the side).

Mains

Everest Cousteau       $21
A rapidly sautéed ascension, paired with an equally swift descent into shattered personal relationships and tattoos of later regret.
*Recommended pairing: Château de Lithium (2007)

Filet of Philander       $21
Pathological maintenance of flexible morality, stir-fried with venereal discharge, secret text communiqués, and a lightly pulverized spouse.

Chicken Caesar Salad       $15.99
Grilled Italian chicken served on romaine, with Parmesan, garlic croutons and Caesar dressing.

Mississippi Burning       $19
Illogical distrust, carefully inculcated, brushed with ignorance and externalization of self-disappointment. Cultivated directly from tiny white penis envy.

Leg of Lamb of God       $32
A trifecta of artisan-crafted manure. Flambéed with an initial helping of wretchedness, given a cool dousing of salvation through submission, and finally topped off with our signature lobotomy sauce. Served with or without foreskin.

Deserts

Sinai
A desert located on the Sinai Peninsula in Egypt.

Kalahari
A desert covering much of Botswana and parts of Namibia and South Africa.

Sahara
The world’s largest hot desert.

Desserts

Paris Tunnel Cake       $7
Part hubcap, twisted metal, splattered brain matter and expensive jewelry. Often precedes a modified Elton John composition.

Boston Cream Pie       $7,500 in child support payments
Behind O’Donnell’s in his Chevette that one time, after Bosio threw the no-hitter.

 
Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

I live in Ottawa, and I am in the minority in that I have yet to cohabitate with someone who can pass a small person through their vagina and then, you know, take turns feeding it and buying it plastic things that were made in China. Nor have I persuaded a bank to buy a house and then let me live in it (or “home ownership,” as the kids like to call it).

I am a 30-year-old with very little relationship experience, and until recently, I didn’t even know what a mucus plug was (look it up). When workmates bring their babies into the office, I am the only one holding the thing out at a 90-degree angle while it squirms in my grip and starts slowly rotating like a hunk-o’-meat at a Lebanese shawarma place (both raise similar sanitation concerns, now that I think about it). Eventually, I clip its head on the corner of a filing cabinet and then pass it over to Gerald from Accounting. At this point, I find it’s best to promptly leave the room. Unless you have a trick for getting bloodstains out of an Italian wool cardigan that I have yet to hear of, then it’s usually best to get out of there and leave things in Gerald’s capable hands.

In terms of relationships, I only know what I’ve seen in films like…Grease and…Grease 2… So I assume that it’s best for a woman to struggle through the challenges of understanding a potential partner’s differing worldview and then ultimately capitulate and completely change herself for the man and become a slut. I assume that’s still how it works. When I try to imagine sharing my life with another person, I am struck by how difficult it would be to stop using Subway napkins as toilet paper. Or to have to go to dinner with her hippie lesbian friends, Sarah and Joanne, and have to sit through another boring story about how they made love last night with an eighteen-inch cucumber and an old aerial antenna from a condemned farmhouse. Yawn. Sorry, organic old aerial antenna.

In terms of relationship sex, I only know what I’ve seen in films like…Co-ed Beach Fuckfest and…Co-ed Beach Fuckfest 2… So I am really quite worried about how this lack of physical intimacy experience will impact any future relationship I might have with a lady-person. Sure, I understand the basics: the man prostrates himself upside down on a jet ski while the woman mimics a person with Parkinson’s trying to do the YMCA (don’t worry, this phrase isn’t offensive). The few sexual encounters I have had almost always involved a box of wine, really poor lighting, and crying. While I don’t doubt that a healthy measure of give-and-take is important in the act of foreplay, I still don’t think it’s a good idea to have a 200-pound woman sit on your face. I stand by that.

As a non-home owner, or home non-owner, I am often looked upon with contempt and pity by my fellow tri-decaders. Why rent when you can BUY is perhaps analogous to why cuddle when we can DO IT. Or maybe it really isn’t. Either way, the truth is that my lack of home ownership places me outside of the adult discussion. I am still at the children’s table at Thanksgiving dinner, if you know what I mean. It’s like—I’m still at the…it’s like I’m still at the…children’s table at Christmas dinner…if you know…what…shit…

Unmarried, unattached, unfit and uncircumcised, I am the 21st century man-boy. I may very well end up as your weird old bachelor uncle, the one who shows up to family functions a little bit wasted, a little bit anti-social, and looking just a little bit like Rosie O’Donnell. What it was that set me on this path to emotional retardation, we may never know. But what is certain is that I am not alone; there are millions of us roaming the streets, hunting for frozen pizza, broadband pornography and tables for one at The Olive Garden. I get to have all the breadsticks to myself. And maybe that’s enough.
 

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

Exorcist’s Apprentice

Ballerina Leotard Inspector

Director of 1980s Division of National Archives

Food Taster for Diane Lane

Writer of Travel Books for Quasi-suicidal, Risk-taking Seniors

Cataloguer of Quebec Fashion Trends

Salad Bar Designer/Feng Shui Advisor

Expert on Zero Gravity Environments

Owner-Operator of Non-Denominational Confessional in Mall

Foley Artist for Adult Film Industry

Designer of First-person Shooter Seinfeld Computer Game

Tobacconist-Masseuse

Chef Who Prepares Last Meal for Death Row Inmates

Freelance Pallbearer

Male Escort for The Hard of Hearing

Stunt Double for Lacey Chabert

Judge at Star Trek Convention (various events)

Flower De-Arranger

Yoga Facilitator

Combiner of Soups

Professional Water Cooler Humorist & Anecdotalist

Auctioneer of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys™ Collectibles

Shopping List Editor

Costume Designer for Films Set in the Very Recent Past

Jesse Garon Presley Impersonator
 

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

Now, I would like to put it out there, right from the get-go, that I admit I have been entirely wrong about Stephen Harper. It turns out that he’s actually a witty satirist (and avid gymnast, who knew?). Why else would he, the man who recently denied to Third World women and girls the right of control over their own bodies, proclaim that a significant focus of the Summit will be placed on, quote, “maternal and child health in the poorest regions of the world”? This guy is off da hook, yo! This is, like, Stephen Colbert quality shit here!

What’s that? He’s serious? Oh…

Other topics to be addressed include: how the tar sands are actually good for the environment and besides Kevin Costner could just fix it anyway; why continued tax cuts for the top 5% makes economic sense and actually benefits the other 95% of the population (what’s that, this isn’t true? oh, hang on, this isn’t one of those things that’s actually literally the exact opposite, is it? because we already printed the brochures…); and just how quickly can we start digging into Afghanistan’s $1 trillion mineral wealth without the Afghans noticing? (I recommend a big fucking tarp.) Oh yeah, and there’ll be an indoor lake at the Summit. So bring your bathing suits. (I’m looking at you, South Korean Minister of Strategy and Finance Yoon Jeung-hyun. You are just adorable.)

Interestingly enough, if you should for some reason feel the need to oppose the spending of over $1 billion on a two-day party for the same people who last year brought the world economy to its knees through greed and gross mismanagement, then you will very possibly be treated to the musical stylings of the world-renowned ISU. The Integrated Security Unit, which will also be getting a Law & Order spin-off next fall, will be blasting sound cannons at protestors at a level of up to 143 decibels. Incidentally, the U.S. National Institute on Deafness notes that sustained noise above 85 decibels can cause permanent hearing damage. But then again, Marlee Matlin is really hot.

Apparently, although 90% of the world’s GDP will be present in Toronto, 90% of the world’s countries will be absent. Surely, this is a sign that the current system is working quite well. I think this calls for a party. If at all possible, let’s make a LeBron James-sized carbon footprint while we fly 15,000 dignitaries and journalists across the planet. (Ten bucks says all 15,000 of ‘em try and get on the plane during the ‘pre-boarding’ segment. Douches.) And we’ll just call it a ‘bonus’ if we can trample the civil liberties of the local population while we host this opulent, oligarchic orgy. [**Note: stay tuned for next week’s feature, in which I highlight fun activities for U of T employees who will be on mandatory unpaid leave during the Summit. Spoiler Alert: Legally Blonde The Musical…]

I suppose that if you want to discuss how the North-South inequity of callous globalization continues to ravage and oppress the poorer countries of the world, then it really makes sense to have, at a meeting, the people who cause the North-South inequity of callous globalization that continues to ravage and oppress the poorer countries of the world. That’s just common sense. While there is no indication that any of the leaders present at the Summit intend to discuss any innovative or progressive policy alternatives to the failed strategies they continue to employ, it is also true that Toronto boasts top chefs with impressive culinary offerings.

So great, Stephen, you found your G-Spot. Congratulations. No wonder you have this little smile on your face these days when I see you on the TV. It only cost one billion dollars. Next time, try just sticking your fingers up your rectum. It’s cheaper. And that way, only one person will be getting fucked in the ass.
 

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

“Wild Rose Country.” Yeah, maybe like twenty years ago. These days I’m pretty sure they’re all dead from oil run-off. I’d go with something like…

“Beautiful British Columbia.” A tad vain, are we? Perhaps something more practical…

“Friendly.” Well that’s just sad. My proposal…

“Be…in this place.” Well, yeah, I guess technically…that’s…true…uh… But don’t you mean…

No slogan. I can respect that. I’d propose…

“Canada’s Ocean Playground.” Mmmm, too inviting to the pedophiles. How about (and I know NL really deserves the title)…

“Explore Canada’s Arctic.” With the polar ice caps melting, I really wouldn’t be advertising if I were you. Let’s just be honest…

“Explore Canada’s Arctic.” Seriously. You’ve been your own territory for like, more than 10 years. I think you can stop borrowing NWT’s slogan now. Seriously. You might as well just say it…

“Yours to Discover.” Well that’s just fucking lazy, isn’t it? In other words: “look around on your own, because frankly, we just can’t be bothered.” This is probably more appropriate…

“Canada’s Green Province.” Don’t be a self-righteous douche. Don’t you mean…

“Je me souviens.” Puhleeze. My proposal…

“Land of Living Skies.” I actually don’t blame you for this one. When there’s just…nothing there…one has to think creatively. I get it. But I’d go with…

“The Klondike.” What is this? The fucking word-association game? What, after going moose tipping one night, you said ‘Yukon’, and Larry said ‘Klondike’, and you went straight home and printed license plates? I’d go with…

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

* FYI, this whole piece is narrated by James Earl Jones. So keep that in mind.

A man once said that taking the stairs instead of the elevator on your smoke break is like fucking with a condom: what’s the point? That man now pays child support. Love you, Dad.

My point is that if we want to fight the obesity, illiteracy and douchebag epidemics in our society—epidemics that take hold in our formative years—then we need to start calling a spade a spade. Or in this case, a widely used telecommunication medium for transmitting and receiving moving images. Damn you wikipedia. I wish I could quit you.

Two years ago, around the same time that Jessica Simpson got fat, I discontinued my cable TV service and entered the brave new world of Wednesday nights without Law & Order reruns. It was one of the best things I ever did. The other being to stop wearing sandals with socks. I’m not gonna lie—the first few weeks were wicked hard. Especially since my newfound boredom from lack of TV was causing me to talk aloud to myself in a fake Boston accent.

But after a few weeks of sitting around the living room reenacting scenes from Good Will Hunting, in which Matt Damon’s character has a genius-level intellect, eidetic memory and a profound gift for mathematics, but despite this remains working as a janitor while living alone in a sparsely-furnished house in a rundown South Boston neighbourhood (wikipedia, goddammit!!) I came to realize that there was so much more I could do with my time now that my schedule had opened up.

First, I stepped up my porn intake. Hardcore, lesbian, threesome, amateur, teen and orgy had already been my staples. But now I was really branching out: golden showers; public; voyeur; bondage; squirting; facials; anal; bukkake; fetish; and milf. Incidentally, this got me reading again, which is another bonus of turning off the TV. [Going Rogue: An American Life (Hardcover) ISBN-10: 0061939897, Harper Collins Canada, 1^st Ed.] Admittedly, the further and further I went down this road, the freakier things got: tranny; midget; grandma; midget + grandma; tranny + grandma; goat + tranny; goat vs. tranny; midget-tranny on goat vs. grandma.

So naturally, I started to diversify. Indeed, as I said before, I found myself reading more books, magazines, academic articles, blogs and personal injury legal services ads on urinal cakes in the men’s bathroom at the Wendy’s®. My intelligence quotient, a score derived from one of several different standardized tests designed to assess intelligence, began to climb, and immediately I felt the pride of not having wasted my evenings and weekends as I did during my Price is Right and According to Jim days. By the way, if you need a personal injury attorney in the Kitchener-Waterloo area, Paquette Travers & Deutschmann will help you get full compensation for your injuries and won’t get paid unless YOU get paid. They also validate parking.

Pulling myself away from the boob tube also got me out of the house, out on my feet, and before I knew it I was getting in shape and needing a whole new, killer wardrobe that would fit my slimmer, sleeker form. I was shedding clothes faster than an 18-year-old boy working for a Republican Senator. I felt great.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I was no longer being bombarded with the advertising messages that had thus far allowed corporate America to control my life. After getting rid of my Jetta, my Slap Chop, and my Justin Bieber CD, I found myself in a public park, with book in hand, breathing the crisp, clean air, and enjoying human life as it was always intended. And streaming American Idol from Fox.com on my laptop.
 

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

 
Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

“The infidels killed my brother Tariq. They killed my uncle Mahmoud. They flew drones over my village and destr—“

“Cut! Hold it. Hold it. Mustafa, my friend, listen, you don’t seem to be getting your motivation in this scene. I mean let’s not EVEN get into the quality of the script-writing—Kafeel, I’m looking at you—I mean, your village was just destroyed, your six best goats have gone up in flames; this is not the best day of your life, OK? Now let’s try it again, but this time, I want you to internalize your rage. Really feel it on the inside, and let it shine through in your performance. Remember how you felt when Mark McGwire admitted to using steroids?”

“…I just…don’t know where he gets off thinking he beat Roger Maris’s record…”

“Couldn’t agree with you more, Mustafa. Now, let’s use that anger for your ‘method’, and let’s get that next take before we lose the light.”

“We’re in a cave.”

“Shit, Mustafa, I know. I know we’re in a fucking cave. Don’t you think I’ve talked to Osama’s people about this? Hellooooo? How am I supposed to get quality cinematographic lighting in a fucking cave? I mean really. Do you think Scorsese had to deal with this? ‘Pardon me, Mr. De Niro, but could you maybe amplify your facial expressions a little when you shoot Harvey Keitel in the stomach, because, you know, we’re in a FUCKING CAVE?’ ”

“Um Khalid—“

“What!?”

“Boss is here.”

“Khalid, brother, nice to see you, Death to America Even Under Obama.”

“Osama, an honour as always, Death to America Even Under Obama.”

“Khalid, what is this Kafeel has been telling me about you causing trouble on the set?”

“Um, I was just saying to Kafeel and the crew that I really don’t think we’re achieving the, ah, quality that we could be with these suicide bombing films. Or even the whole Jihad line for that matter. I mean, that is, did you get the email I sent you about us maybe meeting with the Weinstein Company?”

“The Weinstein Company…”

“Yes, the Weinstein Company. They did Transamerica, Derailed, Rambo, Clerks II…“

“Clerks II?”

“Yes, Clerks II.”

“I loved Clerks II.”

“A quality sequel, unlike Meet The Fockers. See, this is exactly the type of filmmaking I aspire to, with your support, of course. I mean, every Director needs an Executive Producer, am I right!?”

“Like Brian Grazer?”

“Exactly like Brian Grazer. Osama Bin Grazer.”

“I don’t know, Khalid. The budget is already spread pretty thin. I mean, we blew $3million on that interview with Better Caves & Gardens. You told me that would be a PR slam-dunk. But I just came across as looking stupid. I mean lichen is pretty much the only thing a guy can grow in a cave, and I had twenty-six varieties going, but do you think the reviewer appreciated how hard I worked?”

“What about fungi?”

“Isn’t ‘Better Caves & Gardens’ a pretty lame and worn-out joke?”

“Don’t you live in a fucking cave with your dialysis machine?”

“So what are some of your ideas, Khalid?”

“Ok. Well. For starters, have you seen James Cameron’s new film Avatar? Now, can you imagine how we would win hearts and minds if we could have 72 virgins literally JUMPING OUT OF THE SCREEN?”

“You could do that?”

“Shut up Mustafa.”

“As I was saying, with a little more funding we could really improve our production value. I’m talking new sets, better lighting, HD widescreen formatting, and how about…guest appearances?? Picture this: Mustafa over there is struggling to put on his suicide vest—“

“It’s true. The straps cut into my shoulders.“

“Shut up Mustafa.”

“So Mustafa’s struggling with the vest, when who should suddenly appear to give him a hand but…Mr. Neil Patrick Harris!”

“That kid from Doogie Howser?”

“Well he’s really branched out in recent years.”

“Oh.”

“And can you imagine if our suicide bombing films had episodic tie-ins? Like, end of Season 9, we have Jafaar fail to blow up due to a faulty vest, but then just before Season 10 begins, with, you know, a ‘cliff-hanger’ type deal, we have Jafaar find out that Saif is actually his son!”

“Ooh, I like it.”

“And then this is where we could bring in the corporate sponsors.”

“I don’t know Khalid. That seems like a bad idea.”

“Oh c’monnnnnnn. I’ve had some very promising preliminary talks with Pepsi™ and General Electric©.”

“General Electric? Don’t they own NBC?”

“Yes.”

“Well I don’t want to do anything that would make it look like I’m siding with Leno over Conan…”

“Understood. No GE.”

“OK, Khalid. You’ve convinced me. How soon can you start making the changes?”

“Well, just let me phone Mel Gibson.”

“That’s a funny ending!”

“Shut up Mustafa.”
 

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Toronto with his dog Richard.

This past September, staff reporter Tandelayo Breckenridge sat down with Captain Planet (Ret.) during the 2009 Pennsylvania Eco Career Fair to discuss his views on the environment, his legacy, and his retirement.

TRANSCRIPT

TB: Welcome, Captain, thank you for joining us today.

CP: My pleasure, Tandy. Now where are you from that they make reporters who look like you? [laughs] Have you ever done any modeling? You should. I’m actually something of a photographer…

TB: Um, I’m from Canada. Now Captain–

CP: Please, call me Barry.

TB: OK…Barry. Barry, I understand that you have been retired now for several years, but many young North Americans remember you as a champion of the environment, a passionate advocate for progressive action to address climate change. I understand that you’ve written a book, and we’ll get to that in a moment, but first maybe you could tell us a little bit about what you’ve been up to as of late. How are you finding retired life?

CP: Well, Tandy, I divide my time between my condo here in Pittsburgh, and a time-share I have down in Cancun. I like getting some rays. I like broiling down by the pool. You know, plus, let’s be honest, that Mexican pussy tastes damn fine after months of frigid American tang, and you can basically bend ‘em over for twelve pesos and… [unintelligible]. That’s pretty much it…I mean…I keep busy.

TB: Right…um…right….

TB: Sorry, you can’t smoke in here.

CP: Fuck me, since when? Whatever.

TB: Um, so you were saying you’ve been keeping busy?

CP: Well yeah. Got some projects, you know. I mean, about once a month MacGyver will come over and we’ll go up to New York City, check out the titty bars, buy a dance or two, you know, that sort of thing. Sometimes Dave Coulier comes along, sometimes he doesn’t.

TB: I see. [extended silence]

CP: I’m also an avid golfer. Me and Bill Murray hit the links whenever we get a chance.

TB: Really? Cap–, sorry, Barry, that surprises me. Many commentators would point out that using precious urban greenspace for the amusement of predominantly rich, white–or in your case blue–males, while the urban poor have nowhere to build social housing, is a bit unethical, not to mention bad for the environment. As studies have shown–

CP: Hold on. Hold on. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize your name was Captain Fucking Planet. Ohhhhhh. Myyyyy mistake. My bad. My bad. So I guess it’s actually you who has two honorary PhDs in the Environmental Sciences from The DeVry Institute of Technology? Ohhhhhhh. Of course. Of course. What was I thinkinggggg. How stupid of me to make that mistake. I clearly was confused. I’m sorry. No. How dumb of me. Of course. Of course. No. Please, go on.

TB: Ah…Um…So, Barry, things seem to be going well for you now, although I understand that the mid to late 90s were a tough time for you.

CP: Yeah, definitely. Around ‘93, after the show got cancelled, yeah I think it was ‘93, I was dating Alicia Silverstone, snorting lots of coke, you know, it was a tough time, and I mean that bitch was a stone cold jailbait fox, don’t get me wrong, but she would never put out. Chronic blue balls. I had–chronic–blue balls.

TB: Maybe we could get back to–

CP: Then I tried acting. I very briefly in the mid-90s had a walk-on role in a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie of the week, starring Melissa Joan Hart. But I got fired after two days of filming for finger banging an intern at the craft services table. You live, you learn, I guess.

TB: Um.

CP: Anyway, so it was soon after this, around 1995, that I moved to Pittsburgh and got my Real Estate license. I was specializing in those modular homes, you know, those prefab units? Anyway, I also started making appearances at conventions like this one. Used to rake in a nice appearance fee back then, too. Shit. Not like now. Now all they fucking want at these environmental gigs is that cunt Al Gore. Ooh, look at me. I’m Al Fucking Gore. I won a Nobel Prize. I won an Academy Award. I ran for president and actually won. Fuck that cock.

TB: I would have thought you would have supported Al Gore…?

CP: Listen, that assjanitor stole my livelihood. Before him, who else are they gonna book for these enviro gigs? No one. No one. I was the only show in town. Captain Fucking Planet. Now I got nothing. I mean, do you know what my pension is on Captain’s pay? What a joke! I mean, never mind the fact that I should have made Admiral by now, at least. Admiral Planet. Fuck. Then the subprime mortgage crisis hits, so my real estate business goes in the shitter. So here I am. Back doing these things. Whenever Al Fucking Gore isn’t available.

TB: Let’s switch gears a bit. Tell me about the Planeteers. Have you all kept in touch?

CP: Well for the most part. I mean, Wind ended up becoming a total Soviet Hottie. Mmmmhmmm. Man. I tried to bang her when she turned eighteen, but…Anyway, Fire is a hair-dresser now, lives in Ohio, has three kids. Heart got AIDS, and died. I think we all saw that coming. Water…now I can’t remember what Water does, but I know it’s something in finance… Anyway, we all try and get together once a year at a Red Lobster off Interchange 3 south of Buffalo. Of course, he never shows up. Shit.

TB: He?

CP: Fucking Earth. Yeah. Earth, who’s “too busy” to keep in touch. Mr. Messiah. Mr. Hotshot. Mr. “They Gave Me The Nobel Peace Prize For Doing Jack Squat.”

TB: Wait a minute. Earth’s name was Kwame. Are you somehow implying that Earth was actually…a young Barack Obama??

CP: What, you didn’t know? Yeah, even back then, he was the de facto leader of the Planeteers, he was the voice of reason that kept the group in check when the others started losing their faith in a given situation. Gave ‘em hope. I brought the audacity back then, let’s just be clear on that.

TB: But his name was Kwame…?

CP: Sure it was, back then. ‘course, he changed his name later in life, said he didn’t want people to know he was from Kenya, or something like that. I don’t really remember exactly. Anyway.

TB: Unbelievable. Unbelievable. So Glenn Beck was right all along…

CP: Anyway, these days I’m trying to get back into doing these environmental gigs.

TB: Let’s talk about that. I have a quote here, from sixteen years ago. Congressman George Lafayette (D-Arizona), former Chairman of the Congressional Sub-Committee on Environmental Affairs, was quoted in the Washington Post as saying: “Captain Planet, he’s our hero, gonna take pollution, down to zero.” Now that was more than fifteen years ago. And yet I think even you have to admit, Captain, that you have failed to meet this target. What is your response to that?

CP: Listen, Tandy, well first of all those weren’t really “targets,” they were “aspirational goals.” Totally different. Totally different.

TB: Ok. But you can’t deny that at Kyoto, in ‘97, you were the main proponent of a Cap and Trade plan, which as you know, has now been discredited by leading scientists and environmental thinkers, including David Suzuki.

CP: How is Dave? Man, that guy and I used to smoke a shitload of BC Bud back in the 70s. Good guy. GREAT guy. And funnnnnnnny? Man, I never laughed so hard. But listen, listen- just because Cap and Trade turned out to be a bullshit way for politicians to get out of actually doing anything about the environment, doesn’t mean that I can be held responsible for every country except Denmark not making any progress on Global Warming. Say, Honey, you know, I got my Prius out back. Maybe you and I could wrap this up, and–

TB: Captain, how do you feel about the recent success of your former rival, Captain Pollution?

CP: Oh. Him. Well. He had shares in Halliburton, so, you know… so yeah, I heard he did well. I mean, whatever. He’s done well…

TB: Have you been to see him yet on Capitol Hill where he’s established his permanent offices?

CP: No, yeah, you know, I’ve been…busy…really, really busy…

TB: So tell us: what does the future hold for Captain Planet?

CP: Well, Tandy, I will be going on a book tour shortly, talking about my experiences with the Planeteers, my time in rehab, my relationship with Sarah Palin, my battle with bulimia–which I talk about in the book–and just some general reflections on the state of environmental politics today. I’m also in talks to do Dancing with the Stars, although that isn’t confirmed yet, I’m still trying to get a new agent, so, yeah, we’ll see. I may also be in some Quiznos commercials for the 2012-2013 season, so you can watch out for that, they will be featuring a brand new line of subs, Earth, Wind, Fire, Water, etc. And I’m working with Justin Timberlake on a new clothing line for the eco-sensitive consumer.

TB: Well, Captain Planet, thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts with our readers.

CP: Any time. Any time. You know I have a bottle of Sake back at my place that’s begging to be opened, and a hot tub–

TB: Goodbye.
 

Tandelayo Breckenridge writes for no one and has no impressive resume. She lives in Toronto with her cat Gordon.

“I’m keeping your last name, you piece of shit, because it’s good for business, but don’t think it means I will think about you or give a damn about you for one second...

…I’m going to put a mahogany-framed picture of you inside a condemned building, take a two-month heavy equipment operator‘s course, and then bulldoze it to the ground, you sick fuck.”

And thusly ended my twelve-year marriage to Gillian, although I honestly feel like the thing’s been over since 2004 when she moved in with her personal trainer. Incidentally, I had stopped being a good person since around 1996, so I don’t really hold it against her.

Her allegations against me, however, are totally false. First, I did not make a pass at her sister in her bedroom and then later claim I’m a "sleepwalker racist", one who in an unconscious state thinks all Asian women look the same. That was a misunderstanding, and the Korean-American Community Center can attest that I donate all the time. Besides, I have tax receipts.

Second, I may have punched her mother in the face, but she was always trying to undermine me, and she’s strong like a man, and I was just defending myself. She fought in the Korean War from ‘50-‘53 on the North Korean side, and was the only woman admitted to the infantry. She killed twenty-three men, a mule and some kind of travelling Gypsy family. She used to date Kim Jong-Il but was “too crazy” for him.

“She scares the hell outta me! If she calls, make up some shit about me being looney tunes and watching WrestleMania covered in Jell-O. I don‘t care what the Western world thinks. Just make something up. I mean she killed a fucking mule! Who kills a fucking mule!? Now watch me hit this drive.”

The other allegations I don’t even feel like airing here, although let’s just suffice it to say that I have never defecated in a public fountain. Crown corporations aren’t public property, not in the strict sense.

Looking back, I realize that my twelve years with Gillian were far from ideal, but at the very least, they were real. When I wanted to open my own seafood-themed dental clinic, it was Gillian who froze our joint account before the deposit went through. That was Gillian, always one step ahead of me. Gillian, who decided that my suggestion of bringing her sister into the bedroom was a "violation of the trust that was our marriage.” I don’t even know what that means.

When she served me with the divorce papers, I argued loudly and tirelessly for custody of our children. I said, “Gillian, you may have left me a broken man, but don’t you dare take them away from me. Don’t you do it. Don’t you take away the only thing that means anything to me. I will fight you. I will fight you to the end on this. With my last breath. With my very last breath.” Of course, just like with everything else, the judge sided with her, citing the fact that we don’t actually “have” children. It’s like everyone’s out to get me. It’s bullshit. It’s just such bullshit.

You know what, I’m going to give Gillian her damned divorce. And she and her personal trainer can live in MY condo and drink from MY wine cellar and sleep and do God knows what in MY Posturepedic® bed.

Yeah, her personal trainer noticed I had a Serta Sleep-o-matic 5400. I said, “Oh yeah, you like that bed!?” And he’s all like, “I think you made a great investment. As a personal trainer, I can tell you that sleep health should be a person’s number one health concern, and I can see you’ve learned that lesson.” So then I was all like, “That was really kind of you to say.” And then he was all, “I have season’s tickets to the Raptors, are you free Saturday?” And I was like, “I’m planning on some antique shopping around noon, and then I have to go to my urologist by three, but I think I can fit it in.” And then he‘s all, “Great, I’ll pick you up around six, six-thirty.” And then I was all like, “I'd like that."

 

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Toronto with his dog Richard.

In other words, we 1) generally don’t give a shit and b) all saw it coming. So, then, what are we to make of this uninspiring news? I think if the past decade or so has taught us anything, it is that there is virtually no difference between the Conservatives and the Liberals. Both are corporate-backed brokerage-politics poll-enslaved status-quo-maintaining centrists. The only difference is in how they whore it up to get votes at election time. Make unsubstantiated and inconsequential promises to middle class sheeple who wear berets on the one side, or make the same type of promises to middle class sheeple who wear cowboy hats on the other. A baguette or a burger; a Prius or a pickup; bathing oil or bitumen oil; an Uncle Gustave in Paris [FR] or an Uncle Gus in Paris [TX]. It’s all the same in the end.

But Rick, the Grits are caring, sharing, hoping and feeling Trudeau-ians! Yeah right. And if polling suggested that middle-class white people stopped liking grandparents, Ignatieff wouldn’t announce a Metamucil Tax tomorrow. You insult me. And you insult Metamucil. It really works. I’m so fucking regular right now…

Let’s recall that it was Iggy who in the May 2, 2004 edition of the New York Times, argued: “To defeat evil, we may have to traffic in evils: indefinite detention of suspects, coercive interrogations, targeted assassinations, even pre-emptive war. These are evils because each strays from national and international law and because they kill people or deprive them of freedom without due process. They can be justified only because they prevent the greater evil.” I mean, Jesus, can you believe it? The New York Times. He’s such an academic stud! Do you think he’d sign my bejeweled iPhone slip cover?

And, of course, let’s remember that Stéphane Dion’s carbon plan, which would have at least moved us in the right direction in the fight against climate change, has been conspicuously dropped by The Iggmeister. And this week he’s for a plan to protect overseas Canadians only because last week he was against it (ooh, I sound like an attack ad there). So to recap: same foreign policy as Harper, same stance on civil liberties as Harper, same (lack of) climate action as Harper, and same Phil Donahue haircut as Harper. Seriously, change it up man. I don’t care if it’s Flock of Seagulls. A mullet, a skullet, a mohawk, a fauxhawk, the Raving Panda, the Smoking Leotard, the Belgian Hula-Dancer…it doesn’t matter. Just get to Supercuts and get it done.

I suppose that at the end of the day the only reason I’m keen to see Ignatieff in the Prime Minister’s Office is so that at a bare minimum we won’t have Harper in the big seat in case of a game-changer catastrophe. Terrorism, a major weather event, economic collapse, the end of Roll-up-the-Rim to Win, you know, that kind of apocalyptical development. We all know what happened in the US when things got panicky; I don’t want to see Ralph Klein pulled out of retirement to become head of the Canadian Department of Homeland Security (or NAMBLA). “Today’s Terror Alert Level is…‘Bourbon’! Arrrrggph. God Willing, we’ll be back down to ‘Rye’ by next week…”

Sure, Paul Martin as Finance Minister was a better bookkeeper than Jim Flaherty, and the Libs do tend to direct more funding toward the arts (the 2003 Poutine Festival in Trois-Rivières is still a decade-long highlight for me). But let’s not kid ourselves and think that this nameplate exchange on the door of 24 Sussex will lead to any meaningful change whatsoever. Change that we desperately need. Change that we require in our economic, environmental, welfare and electoral systems. Change we can believe in. Hey, now that would be a good slogan right there…
 

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Toronto with his dog Richard.

“…it’s like my armpits are vomiting in your face.”

I recently moved to Toronto. I did so because I like the weather here during the summer. When I ‘high-five’ someone, it’s like my armpits are vomiting in your face. And the nice thing is, being in Toronto, I can walk down Church St. and find someone named Anton who’s “into that.” I also relocated to Toronto because I don’t like breathable air, safe streets or women without Chinese-symbol tattoos and piercings in their ‘special fun areas’. (I looked that up on the internets; have you seen the things they have on there!? I also managed to get a Dolce & Gabbana bejeweled iPhone slip cover autographed by Michelle Obama for two hundred and fifty dollars. I could have had it for a hundred if s_hawking21@nasa.gov wasn‘t such a little bitch…seriously, who‘s on their computer that often anyway?)

Observing those around me, I was stunned to come to the revelation that I, myself, am perhaps an unknown entity. Sure: short, fat, white and flaccid. But beyond the essentials from my eHarmony page, where do I fit in to this—and I don’t think they’d mind me saying this—freakish feces-stained garbage rectum with streetcars and the giant penis tower? Being around so many diverse and lively young people, I cannot help but ponder my own predicament.

Am I hip? Am I square? Am I Huey Lewis? Am I interesting? Does my ukulele playing mean I will never get laid? Does my face mean I will never get laid? Will I never get laid? Will my face never get laid? Does Huey Lewis have a face? So many questions. I do like vegetarian food, but I don’t really like rap music. I claim not to be motivated by materialism, but I don‘t have a purse dog either. Will anyone accept me!?

I’ve also noticed that in a metropolis such as this, it is necessary to have a swagger in your step, a self-image, a “film version” of yourself that you project to those around you. You know, just in case Ben Mulroney comes around the corner with a camera and makes me a star. Then I could meet Ashlee Simpson. She’s the one who was in the Parent Trap, dates ladies and made a sex tape with Kim Kardashian, right? Sometimes I think I could take up fencing and raise Tibetan snow dogs…but then I…tend to drift…in my thoughts…so it’s…cake…

There seems to be so much pressure on youngish people to “be all that.” Or am I only imagining this? Perhaps there is no “cool” any longer, if there ever was. Mostly, I guess the best we can hope for is that each one of us finds a happy medium between self-authenticity and peaceful integration within the social systems that are woven around us, and through us. And, of course, being in Toronto, I have to do all this in a hemp shirt with holes around the nipples while wearing sun glasses made out of the soft underbellies of llamas from Peru™. Wait, that’s completely ridiculous. That was so last season.

I may have come to this town as a naïve country boy with big dreams and a suitcase full of condoms. But I think I will one day leave this town as an enlightened global citizen with rich, vibrant memories and a suitcase full of condoms. To think one could ever sum up a place or a way of life with a cursory glance is a fallacy. You have to at least once wake up under the Don Valley Expressway with a hangover and burning questions about the nature of your sexuality. Then and only then can you peel back the layers around the delicate flower that is Toronto, that enigma wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in a puzzle, wrapped in intrigue, wrapped in a shawarma. And, like all those who have come before me, I’ve lost my keys at a nightclub. Can somebody help me? I have nowhere to sleep. Please help me. It is cold at night. I can’t get inside. I’m becoming scared, and I can’t shower or prepare my own food.
 
  
Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Toronto with his dog Richard.

Believe it or not, this photograph actually brought me back towards the NDP fold (that man’s got legs like an Orion slave girl). But, alas, it alone was not enough to firmly re-entrench me in the left-wing clusterfuck that is the New Democratic Party.

When Tommy Douglas spoke in Regina in 1983 at the 50^th Anniversary Convention, warning that Medicare would slip away, warning, that, taxing us like head of cattle might actually be a “fucking stupid idea, bitches” (his words), I sat up in my crib and listened. At one year old, my British Columbian head started partitioning off a sizeable chunk of my brain matter, labelling it: “FOR SOCIAL DEMOCRATIC USE ONLY.” Don’t ask questions, that was the law in BC at the time. We also had to listen to four hours of Yanni cassettes per week. I don’t want to talk about it.

As I grew into a pimpled, awkward adolescent—one who bore a freakish resemblance to McLovin from Superbad—I felt comfortable in letting Mike Harcourt and Glen Clark captain my ship on our quest for social democratic treasure. Of course, how was I to know that the ship was to become a FastCat Ferry? And the treasure: skimming off Bingo charity proceeds? Yes, by the time the 90s were over, BC was broke, our progressive social ministries were closed, our government-activist ties were in tatters, and perhaps worst of all, I still looked like McLovin. (Yes, Jack, that was me at the 2000 Convention in Seattle; I was dressed as Counselor Troi. I thought we had a moment by the Klingon Bloodwine stand.)

Don’t get me wrong. The NDP’s platform still rings true for me: environmental protection; increasing corporate taxes; reducing poverty; renegotiating NAFTA; gutting the Senate and turning it into an indoor botanical garden/ gay leather bar. I like your ideas. But then the 2008 Federal Election came around, and suddenly Jackie was all “Mr. Kitchentable,” thinking he ran the coalition because he was doing his best Barack Obama impression (needs work, by the way; try putting Olivia in a sleeveless Jason Wu number). And that’s when I realized that at the federal level you were all set to fall apart like you did in BC. If I wanted you to run huge deficits, employ a cap-and-trade carbon plan that even David Suzuki won’t endorse, and try a socialized economy in a country whose neoliberal business community runs 86% of our exports into a country that’s even more neoliberal than we are, well, then, I’d exhume Pierre Trudeau, flip Alberta the bird, do a pirouette and say: “Just watch me.”

I suppose what I’m saying is that when you have a corporate-run media that will always err on the side of big business; when you have a population that will never accept Scandinavian-level taxation; and when you have an electoral system that doesn’t represent diverse interest groups and that makes the governing party throw principles out the window to ensure re-election—you need to come up with a better fiscal strategy than “we’ll tax corporations until they bleed orange.”

So, I sit here, weighing things, and I’m trying to decide why I’d pick Jack Layton over a leftist Grit like, say, Gerrard Kennedy (sorry, Ignatieff, I’m not impressed by big-business sluts from Harvard). Both speak with a common sense and empathy that resonate with me. Both have significant challenges to overcome: Gerry has a club foot and can’t speak French; Jackie has…his personality. I know, I know, that’s not fair. What personality?

The more I look at it, the more I’m convinced that the New Democratic Party—both federally and provincially—is more lost and confused than Jim Flaherty in a basic economics class. I want to support your party, your activist MPs like Paul Dewar, and your attempts to fend off Neanderthalian Tar-Sands Torries, but I just can’t do it until you have something meaningful to say beyond: “You may lose your job, but we’ll hire an extra civil servant to look into that!”; or “Look at Stéphane Dion, he’s gonna cry!”; or “Hey, remember Ed Broadbent?” Socialist principles are fine, and like any good officer of the Star Trek Fan Club of Canada (or NAMBLA), I espouse them regularly. But unless you learn your lessons from Bingogate in BC, or Rae Days in Ontario, then you are going to get nowhere and fuck up our country while doing it.

Jack, I’m not surprised that you wear a Starfleet uniform on the weekends, because in the Star Trek universe, utopian economics have done away with money and capitalism, and humanity pursues social justice ends via benign, non-competitive means. Famously, Captain Kirk made his date pay for dinner because ‘we don’t use money in the future’. What a space-douche. But Jack, this isn’t Star Trek, and you aren’t Captain Kirk (or Picard, I can see that you’re trying). I truly like and identify with the ideas you are bringing to the table (non-kitchen variety). But I beg you, Jack: take me out to dinner, but before you do, come up with a plan where you won’t just be stiffing me with the bill at the end of the night. Because otherwise I’m going to have to keep voting Green in protest, and seriously, Elizabeth May is one Borg drone short of a collective. (OK, even I don’t know what that means.)

 
Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

Indeed, there was a time when British Columbians could be counted upon to be the hippie socialists of Canada. My best friend in Grade 2 was Filipino and that was a non-issue in my community. Men were buttfucking up and down Davie St. and nobody cared. BC Elementary schools all decided at precisely the same moment to teach their students “Kumbaya” on the recorder, and that was OK too.

But fast-forward to this election year of 2009, and suddenly things don’t feel so…uh…groovy. The voting public turned out at the lowest rate since 1928; they re-elected a conservative movement that erroneously operates under the label “Liberal”; and they rejected electoral reform because, seriously, a system that drunken Irishmen can figure out is far beyond our intellectual ability. Then again, maybe if the Campbell government hadn’t consistently cut funding to education over the last eight years, our childrens could have learnd good too figger out the Single Transferable Vote.

Sadly, I fear that my beloved province is on the path to becoming—dare I say it—Ontario. In other words, the political equivalent of Ben Affleck. Dull, irrelevant and happy to maintain the status quo as long as there is a never-ending supply of money and clothing from The Gap. Ontarians vote-in anyone who keeps big business running, which in Ontario traditionally means the auto and auto-related industries. That’s what makes it so curious that British Columbians have followed the same strategy in voting-in El Gordo, the man who can be counted upon to protect BC’s primary industry of __________.

What is so tragic about all this is that not too long ago we were Matt Damon: interesting, substantive, talented, and with something meaningful to say to the world. Now I don’t know if we are just pulling a Talented Mister Ripley here, and are impersonating Ontarian tediousness, but the fact is that we are looking more and more Ben Affleck-like by the minute and this latest election has placed us squarely in Reindeer Games territory. BCers are becoming centrist hollow political animals: neither passionately leftist and progressive, nor stupidly rightist and moroni—sorry—Albertan.

It is not yet too late for BC to slap itself in the face and re-discover what made it such a gem in the first place. Environmentalists, Vietnam Draft-Dodgers, Aboriginals, Pacific Rim immigrants, stoners, hippies, outdoorsmen (and women, oh the women) and free-thinkers of all stripes populated the slopes and valleys of BC and created an unparalleled progressive forum for innovation and engaged citizenship. It seems to me that not too long ago we were producing David Suzukis, Emily Carrs, David Lams, Bill Reids and George Bowerings. But now all we can manage is…Seth Rogen?

That’s not fair. I actually like Seth Rogen.

The 2009 election may in the long run be naught more than a blip on the screen, an Ocean’s 12 in an otherwise commendable career. BC is still geographically protected from the inanity that dominates the political culture(s) of the rest of the country. There is certainly still enough time to turn this thing around. But it cannot be forgotten that it is a slippery slope from innovator to conformist, from citizen to consumer, from Damon to Affleck. And shit, folks, BC has a lot of slopes.

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

A few months ago, I had to rush to the emergency room because I had a purple lawn dart up my butt. Everything from the bus ride to the hospital, to the twelve-hour wait to see a doctor, told me that our socialized healthcare system needs a drastic overhaul. Did you know that public transport employees are discouraged from letting riders on the bus if they have a lawn dart sticking out of their butt? That’s racist.

The re-definition of procedures as “elective” (pray tell, how is an analdartectomy an “elective” procedure?); the hidden fees (“lube fee”? never heard of it); the wait times; the understaffing; the substandard equipment (are those pliers!?)—all these point to the failure of Tommy Douglas’s dream.

Indeed, it was upon pondering the subject of Our Father of Health Care, Hallowed Be Thy Name, that I remembered that Tommy Douglas’s grandson is none other than Jack Bauer! (If this works out, maybe we can get Ben Mulroney to fix NAFTA.) If anyone can save us, it is Jack Bauer. If no one can save us, then obviously, yeah, there would be no point in getting Jack Bauer, but that’s pessimistic, and I take little green and yellow capsules so that doesn’t happen, which aren’t covered by my provincial healthcare.¹

The following takes place between 8pm and 9pm:

“I’m a Federal Agent! I want to know why I’ve been waiting five hours just to see a nurse?!”

“Did you fill out Form T165-A?”

“I’m with the Counter Terro—wait, what? T165-A? I filled out Form B.”

“Sir, it says here that you have dual citizenship, but do not reside in the Province of Ontario. Is that correct?”

“I live in Los Angeles.”

“Then have a seat, sir, and fill out the correct form.”

“…but I was in the movie A Time to Kill, the Matthew McConaughey vehicle…”

“Oh I love that movie, my sister bought it for me on VHS, but we didn’t own a VHS at the time, so I was all like ‘Michelle!? Why are you giving me this VHS tape, I don’t even have a VHS machine’.”

“Are you going to help me?”

“No.”

The following takes place between 11pm and 12am:

“The President has ordered me to fix this healthcare system! There is no time, I’ve been waiting here in the lobby with forty other people for over eight hours—”

“Sir, did you take a number when you came in?”

“Of course I did—wait, what?”

“When someone comes in to Emergency, they take a number from the machine, and that determines the order of service.”

“I don’t have time for this! Let me speak to your supervisor.”

“We don’t allow that.”

“But I’ve just wasted seven hours!”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Do you drive a Ford™?”

“No.”

“You really should. They’re superior vehicles.”

The following takes place between 3am and 4am:

“So do you think Jeff was telling the truth when he promised Gloria he’d find Kevin?”

“I don’t know, man. All I know is that Jana’s headaches are getting worse.”

“I’m mostly just worried about Victor’s and Ashley’s scheming over Adam…”

“Sorry Jack, they’ve called my number, gotta go. Let me know if they find Kevin, and if Victor and Ashley are actually planning something for Adam. And don’t let the crazy woman with the swimming goggles and the shopping cart change the channel. Just call the desk nurse if she tries to hump your leg.”

“What the fuck!? His number comes after mine! You said we’re served in order of the numbers?!”

“Yes, usually, but his condition was more serious than yours. So he gets to move to the front of the line.”

“That’s bullshit! I’m fucking Jack Bauer!”

“Please be patient.”

“I have to get in there and save the healthcare system, and also, I can’t help but wonder why I’m continually yelling in a strained voice!”

“I’ve wondered that too.”

“Maybe I should get that checked out when I’m in there!”

“You’d need a new number for that; back of the line.”

“This is the worst day of my life!”

The following takes place between 5am and 6am:

“Excuse me, but you’re twenty-five numbers beyond mine, how come I haven’t been called??”

“We called your number, but you didn’t respond. If we call your number and you don’t respond, then you lose your place in line.”

“I fell asleep watching The Young & The Restless in the waiting room, how was I supposed to know you were calling me!? I’m a Federal Agent!”

“That’s not my problem. You should have brought a buddy with you.”

“I’m like totally Jack Bauer. A lonewolf. I don’t work with partners.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“What’s taking so long?!”

“Some guy came in with a purple lawn dart up his butt. We needed both of the doctors on duty—he’s a bleeder.”

¹This is an example of Morissette-level irony.

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

I used to think that new iterations of the “American Dream” were to be found in endless supply. There never felt like any pressure to re-invent the traditional storyline: pimp my horse; child-bearing hips; more square footage; grandpa’s drooling let’s put him in the shed. It’s a beautiful thing. We haven’t improved on it in at least five hundred years.

But with the minor aggravation that is the collapse of the international banking, mortgage, manufacturing, trade, and energy provision systems, we are suddenly thrust into a situation where even adding another third-world child to the Bradgelina family isn’t enough to “one-up” the American Dream. We can’t add yet another SUV to our garage; we can’t add yet another garage to our 10,000 sq/ft home we acquired on a subprime mortgage; and we can’t add yet another architectural atrocity to our one-quarter acre of suburban paradise. Have we topped out?

Before 2009, I wouldn’t have been worried about the possible downfall of the American Dream. There was always more shit to acquire! But today I’m looking around, and I’m legitimately worried that buying a car, house, and home entertainment system, all on credit, can no longer be improved upon, if by improved upon we mean a bigger car, a bigger house, a bigger home entertainment system, on a bigger line of credit. Our televisions are fifty-two inches; our super-value meals come with eight-hundred and fifty ounce soft drinks; our computers fit into our cell phones; our cell phones fit into our mp3 players; our mp3 players fit into our asses—wait, something’s gone wrong here…

The point is that I really don’t see how we can sustain the next version of the American Dream. Well, short of living in hover-houses, driving hover-SUVs, and watching hover-American Idol. Admittedly, hover-Jonas Brothers would be something to see. You really couldn’t beat that. But beyond that, there’s nothin’. Can’t be done. Can’t beat it. Forget it. Let’s go home.

And that’s the problem.

I don’t think that I need to remind you that if we can’t keep the American Dream alive, then the terrorists win. I will happily accept suggestions for how we can turn this around. To qualify for the American Dream, the conditions are that the innovation has to: be aesthetic; be unsustainable; use bitumen oil; kill polar bears; pollute the waterways; make Sean Penn and Jane Fonda use a megaphone; and not change or improve on any aspect of human civilization. And it’s preferable that it be offensive to the Muslim world. But that would just be a bonus.

In these trying times, there are radical anal-sex-loving gay godless socialists who want to try models of North American development that don’t fit in with our traditional storyline. Why don’t you just go back to Cuba and boil yourselves a potato. Tell Noam Chomsky I said hello and that he can suck my enormous Scandinavian MSG-laden ball-sack. He’ll know what it means.

The American Dream is what makes us North Americans the envy of the world. It is hard being the best. But now all that is threatened. Indeed, in retrospect, it may very well be the case that when we figured out how to make Kraft Dinner in the microwave during the commercial break of Wife Swap, we were really sowing the seeds of our own destruction. We should have seen it coming. We peaked too soon. We peaked too soon.

 
Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

Neve Campbell, noted social movement leader. Copyright 2009 Bryan Bedder AP / Getty Images

When Party of Five was cancelled, a group of patriots promptly escaped into the Los Angeles underground. Their goal was to create a new civilization based around Party of Five, and now, twelve years later, they have emerged from the sewer system near Monterey, to issue their demands, and to teach us all how to love again.

Their leader calls himself “Neve Campbell,” a tough, simple man, prone to partial nudity and profound introspection. I sat down with him at his Glendale apartment to discuss the future of his movement, and to find out whether Lacey Chabert dates shorter men. I mean at all. Does she make exceptions?

“Good afternoon. Does Lacy Chabert date shorter men? I mean at all. Does she make exceptions?”

“I don’t feel comfortable answering that question.”

“This conversation is over.”

There can be little doubt that this group aims to restructure the way our society operates. They want everyone to operate in units of—you guessed it—five. This should be achievable, but they are expecting resistance from the six-man luge teams.

I caught up with a man who calls himself “Matthew Perry,” a man who grew disaffected with the Party of Five reformers, and who had a falling out with Neve Campbell after he took exception to the leader’s dogmatic use of the terms “violin protégé” and “boyish dimples.”

“Hello. Thank you for speaking with me.”

“Not at all, I appreciate you taking the time.”

“Before we start—I just couldn’t help but notice…but…your name is ‘Matthew Perry’…you know that it was Matthew Fox who was in Party of Five…”

“What?”

“Oh, I assumed you knew…”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?!?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out!”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck you!”

“I’m so, so sorry.”

“Just get the fuck out!”

“I thought you knew!”

With the growth of this movement, we are witnessing a shifting paradigm in America’s inner cities. No longer are the politicians, condiment heiresses and inside-the-beltway elites determining the emerging structures of daily urban life; rather, a brave new generation of anti-counter-culture actors is shaping the landscape.

This journalist does not know whether this movement, or others, will succeed. But what is certain is that the risk is great that should these movements be allowed to develop unhindered, the day may well come when less venerable shows be used as the new social blueprints. Can you imagine the damage that might be done if society were restructured around Full House? Imagine the sheer number of identical twins forced to sacrifice their individuality, to kill the “me” inside them, and to inevitably launch profitable straight-to-DVD media empires? The thought is terrifying and keeps me up at night and during the day as well, but mostly at night, when I usually sleep.

Should we take only one thing from the Party of Five reformers, it is that no problem is so great that it cannot be solved by the killing of one’s parents, the impromptu leadership of an elder brother who doesn’t shave nearly as often as would be expected, and the establishment of a booth at a restaurant that can house, at minimum, five people.

 
Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

For my feminist friends out there, don’t judge me too harshly—the one in the green bikini’s a dude. Or at least ate a dude.

At the time of the end of the Second World War, America cast itself as the Saviour of Europe, the antidote to fascism, the Pepto-Bismol for the world’s chronic socio-political diarrhea. And indeed this was true. Unless of course you were an African American. Or a Native American. Or a woman. Or Japanese American. Or a Latino American. Or gay. Or a Socialist. Or an environmentalist. Or an Atheist. Or just brown. But yes—America had and has every right to presuppose its own destiny as moral leader of the world. It is, after all, more Jesus-y than anyone…and then there was that whole Hiroshima thing…so…(too soon?)…

The bottom line is that we, the other 194 countries of the world, aren’t baby-eating genocidal Commies. Well except maybe for the Dutch. But I think the Japanese are pretty moral people. Canadians, not bad. Swedes probably do the right thing more often than not. New Zealanders aren’t immoral, although they do occasionally have intercourse with sheep. South Koreans look after their elderly. So the point is that you export your “Democracy” like doctors used to dispense thalidomide to pregnant women. Your intentions are good, but at the end of the day you’re just creating piles of dead babies [see: Iraq].

So listen. Barack, Baby, I’m a huge fan, and I’m not a Yankee Hater. Heck, at least your Constitution doesn’t have the word “God” in it, so you’ve got me on that one. But you have to wake up and realize that just because you’ve managed to make more shit produced in China than any other country, doesn’t automatically translate into moral supremacy. Just because Collin Farrell has the most STDs doesn’t mean he should automatically be the Surgeon General. Perhaps a poor analogy, but I just wanted to remind everyone that Collin Farrell has, like, a Costco-sized amount of STDs.

There are so many progressive-leaning, well-intentioned statesmen and stateswomen in the United States of America who are trying desperately to save the rest of us from ourselves. Maybe this is their über religious thing once again dominating their political thought; maybe sticking its nose in Gaza, or in between the Koreas, or into Afghanistan and Iraq, is simply America’s modern-day “Crusades Lite”. But like all people that partake in products that are “Lite,” they end up getting half the taste and are left with as much belly fat and flatulence as they had before the diet. Plus, it pretty much makes you an asshole. Albeit an asshole with a permanent seat on the Security Council.

 
Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

I am a fortunate man who walks across a most venerable landmark every day on his way to work. I extricate my scotch-soaked corpse© from bed, clothe and—let’s say for argument’s sake—bathe myself, and begin my twenty-minute walk from Ontario into Quebec. Pont Alexandra is a delightful steel truss cantilever bridge that in many ways is my magical wardrobe to a foreign land. Except of course in the C.S. Lewis tale, when I pop out on the other side, I’m confronted with a strange and bizarre people, with unusual manners of dress, with perplexing customs, creatures of peculiar character and culture…wait…I forget where I was going with this…

A handsome span of some 1,848 feet, Interprovincial Bridge juxtaposes various homeless-produced bodily liquids with the NASA-crafted skin-tight jogging outfits of the upper-middle class. Its walkways are populated by such notable characters as Pedestrian #4, Anglo Yuppie Couple, Jailbait From The Catholic High School, and my personal favourite, Mini French Canadian Mike Duffy On A Bicycle. Imagine television political commentator Mike Duffy, equally rotund, but at 5:3 scale. And French Canadian. And on a bright red bicycle. I wave but he never acknowledges me. I really have to stop taking LSD.

This historic landmark has borne witness to great events and figures in Canada’s past. In 1957, it was upon the wooden surface of the Pont that noted Canadian author Margaret Atwood shared her first same-sex kiss with future Governor General Adrienne Clarkson. Said Clarkson, “She tasted like Ben-Gay and Worther’s Original…honestly, at the time, I thought he was a dude.” In 1901, shortly after the bridge opened, Sir Wilfrid Laurier famously received fellatio at the mid-way point, ably serviced by his wife and confidante, Lady Zoé Laurier (née Lafontaine). “She did fellate her spouse most vigorously,” wrote one witness. “Were I to infer certain things, I would most heartily proclaim that the Prime Minister was certainly not Jewish!”

Walking across this noble structure, I am often struck by how it brings two great nations together. And as I approach the provincial boundary line I trouve que mes pensées deviennent de plus en plus occupées par le sujet de poutine. I have an unhindered view of Parliament’s shapely ass, of the Supreme Court of Canada, of the cesspool-esque Ottawa River, and I feel my spirits soar. In many ways, Pont Alexandra is a microcosm of Canadian life. The smell of hobo juice, the churning foam on the river, the sounds of the two Official Languages, the Tim Hortons cups strewn here and there, all tell me that I am home. I am in the heart of Canuckdom.

Sometimes I feel down. Sometimes I feel uninspired. Sometimes I feel constipated. But then I walk across this historic bridge, I survey the vista before me, and even the piles of vomit cannot sour my brightened disposition. Like the capital itself, Pont Alexandra is a shining beacon of hope. It says to adolescents and young people from ALL cultures and backgrounds: you can be a crack whore, or a civil servant, or both! The world is your oyster. Which reminds me—don’t eat the seafood you catch in the river. Seriously. It will give you gills or something. It’s disgusting and contaminated. I’m not kidding. Don’t eat it. It’s not good. YOU WILL DIE.

“Scotch-soaked corpse” is a copyrighted term. ©2008, Rick Largesse.

 
Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

But I will put forward the entirely unpopular view that our mundane, watching-paint-dry, I’d-rather-be-having-a-thirty-six-day-colonoscopy borefest is in fact a positive thing. My reasoning is simple: being boring is what prevents us from metastasizing into AMERICANS. Let me say that again: as hair is to Sampson, being boring is to Canada. It is our superpower. In the United States, flashy computer-game graphics and sound bites about flag pins effectively sway the electorate in what becomes, every four years, the largest exercise in dumbing down a population.

Admittedly, a certain party that is running in this election has brought some of that American-style, Orwellian propagandic nonsense across the 49th parallel. Fortunately, this remains an aberration to an otherwise outstandingly dry and dull Canadian election. Hoo-wa! I delight in every single instance of an unsexy Canadian political barrage:

“If you elect Prime Minister Dion, who would impose and raise carbon taxes and run deficits, interest rates will go up…” – S. Harper
SNAP, SON!!

“If the United States doesn’t agree to respect its treaty obligations and to refund every penny collected improperly in this dispute, we favour a polite, clear, neighbourly warning that Canada is prepared to impose export duties on oil and gas exports…” – J. Layton
NO YOU DN’T!!

“I may have to slow down the pace by which I want to implement the changes but I’m very confident that at the fourth year of our plan, the plan will be implemented…” – S. Dion
HONKY, PLEASE!!

See, isn’t that deliciously dull, bodaciously boring, tantalizingly tedious, momentously monotonous? I love it. I must admit, I was briefly alarmed when Jack Layton had his “under your sweater” moment during the English language debate. That was running dangerously close to being mildly entertaining. Fortunately, things quickly reverted to normal.

For months now, people have been asking: “Where is our Barack Obama?” This, of course, is the wrong question to be asking. What we should be asking is: “Where is our Matt Lauer?” Where is that special someone, man or woman, who is so outlandishly dull and uninteresting that even Katie Couric would need to run away from them? Fortunately, Canada continues to rise to the challenge, placing on offer five such Matt Lauers for the 2008 election cycle: Captain Sweatervest, Mr. Potato Head, The Train Conductress, The Little General, and The Professor. If the Americans put forward the lively, larger-than-life characters that inspire them, then I say we, the Canadian voting public, must remain what we have always been: necrophiliacs. It is what will keep our country strong, sovereign and free from polarizing punditry. And it is what Jesus would do.

 
Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

In our society, belly fat—a.k.a. flab ab, beer belly, central obesity, the Spanish suburb, the tortured penguin, the four-cent chin monkey, the oriental hairspray jam locker—is always treated like a defect, something of which to be ashamed. Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but do I not hold a signed picture of Susan Sarandon in my hand!? It seems clear to me that my belly fat, although unimpressive compared to the tummy lard of others, has upsides that far outweigh any possible downsides. For starters, it just allowed me to make a delightful pun.

Let’s begin with what my belly fat does for me, personally. First and foremost, percussion in the shower: when I really get grooving to some classic Creedence Clearwater Revival, and I’m really rolling on that river, I need some strong drum accompaniment for my smoky baritone voice. The acoustics of the shower stall, coupled with the “smacking” sound, make for a kit that even Ringo Starr would envy. I’ve been taking hour-long showers for months now (bonus: cleanliness). Just don’t ask where I keep the “high hats.”

My belly fat also serves as a counterweight to my ass. Now, when I walk, I feel like my centre of gravity is where it’s supposed to be, and it has literally been years since I’ve suddenly fallen over for no reason. There are other great uses for my belly fat, which I can list briefly: it makes sure I don’t sit too close to the keyboard when I play the piano; it acts as the perfect cup holder for my scotch glass; I don’t have skin cancer because I’ve been too ashamed to go to the beach; I could withstand a beating; I can use it to generate momentum for standing up by rocking back and forth with it in my hands; and it is a lot of fun to walk up behind a seated person and gently rest my belly fat on their head. It’s the same principle as tea-bagging. Except you don’t need testicles. So it isn’t discriminatory to women, which I hate.

But most of all, my belly fat is there to remind me that I’m not perfect, that I don’t have to be, and that I don’t have to agonize over the possibility of “losing my figure.” I can just be myself, eat what I want, and concentrate on bettering my mind and my soul. Plus, I’ve always been embarrassed that I had an “outie” instead of an “innie,” but now with the belly fat, it just looks like an innie.
Oh Belly Fat. Is there anything you cannot do?

Lest one should think that my belly love is selfish, let me speak briefly to how my belly fat helps others. My belly fat brings joy to small and mid-sized groups of children. I like to entertain them by molding my belly fat into exciting shapes, and I even do impressions. Squish, squish, squish: Mount Rushmore; Squish, squish, squish: Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’; Squish, squish, squish: screen actor Orlando Bloom. If you give me glasses and a microphone I can even do Phil Donahue. Also food for thought: if I’m standing in profile between a woman in a wheelchair and a gang of hate-mongering youths, then my belly fat prevents her seeing the hateful sneers and jeers being thrown in her direction. Think about it. Finally, if I’m on a plane that goes down in the Andes, as is bound to happen, well then my belly fat will save countless others. How can there be any doubt about how good my belly fat is for the world: it prevents discrimination and saves lives!

Sadly, there are those in our society that would try and belittle my belly fat—don’t listen to these people, they are haters. These “healthy” and “attractive” people, as they are known, have gotten so used to being able to see their own genitals when they look down that they have forgotten the magic that is the flabby stomach. To them, I pity their ignorance, and I say: “B.F.F. Belly Fat Forever.”

 
Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.

My neuroses are divided by a sandwich. When I awake in the morning, untie myself, put the leather mask and chains back in the closet, and walk to the Sandwich Shoppe, I wear my sunglasses and mentally attack any other pedestrians walking with me on the sidewalk. They stare too long. They stare too long. Why are you staring at me? I hate you. Then I eat a sandwich, immediately feel better, and depart for home, this time keeping my eyes averted, thinking, “you all rightfully hate me…I’m not mad at you, I wouldn’t like me either.”

So my point is life’s hard enough. Enter my sense of social responsibility. I certainly have a sense of it, just like Keanu Reeves has a sense that everyone else in the room is smarter than him, but I find it rather hard to act on my principles.

My initial thought is to not give my business to any enterprise that is owned by the Americans and their monopolies. Unfortunately, today that list includes Tim Hortons, The Bay, Labatt’s, Blockbuster, and the PMO. What to do? I can buy fair trade coffee, but an organic squash available within walking distance for $12.50 is simply out of my price range. I can pat myself on the back for not owning a car, but not all Canadians have that option, and I can only claim that victory because I don’t have a family to provide for (probably due to my acerbic personality and questionable hygiene). Shall I only wear clothes produced in Canada to reduce my footprint and dependence on child labour? Good luck. As my mother recently informed me, one simply cannot buy quality tube socks that last more than a week that aren’t made in the GBA (Greater Beijing Area; includes Richmond Hill).

Usually, the self-righteous are sell-outs anyway. You go into an independent coffee shop where every second person is playing a sitar and thumbing their nipple ring through their hemp shirt, and you initially glow with pleasure at having found free spirits with a conscience. But look closer: sticking out of their front pocket is their iPhone and the keys to their Jetta, and the tag on their hemp shirt reads: “Lululemon: $120.00”. What they don’t know is that they all are wearing the same uniform that was designed for them by corporate marketers who relish acquiring a new niche market. It’s a multi-million dollar industry, I’m sure.

Am I any better? Of course not, I’m a hypocrite. But that’s exactly my point.

I’d also like to be “culturally deep,” but 11am on a weekday IS the loneliest time of the week for ME, so how can I resist finding out about Barbara Walters’s latest self-admission that has nothing whatsoever to do with superficial publicity? Did you know that in 1973 she actually ate and regurgitated a baby?

As long as I am flushing a toilet hooked up to the sewer system, using electricity that comes from hydro or nuclear, buying any product that has plastic packaging, wearing shoes made in a third world country, or paying taxes to a country that is complicit in the activities of the WTO, then I’m…well…Keanu Reeves.

Rick Largesse writes for no one and has no impressive resume. He lives in Ottawa with his dog Richard.