Crackstarter

Own up and feel better, bobby, nothing like dead letters and past philanderings with the truth to unsheathe you as truly ruthlessly delusional, uncouth, rude and blinkered, boinked and buzzed on purple juice. Crow not that dogood nazis and driveways nuts did you in. Your sin was in not singing. Your win is winding down anyhow, loud as you are, fond as you are wagging fingers at foes, trusting no one cept those Etobicoke hos. Dial me and I'll return your call: you must resign, that is all.

Esoteric Insults Revisited

You masticating Marmaduke, fraught with impotent friction-making malarkey, all sparks and spithammers, lacking any lust for levity! You drink the pigeon's gall and call it a tasty grilled-cheese sandwich. Lend me a time machine so I can smite your ancestors; meanwhile I'll blacken your every nanonotion across the wide Web's comment boards. O crabcake-eating micelicker, lighten your dungarees from their present shade of brown, O bepampered poopulouse! Scram from my boardwalk, you lurching orangutan, lest I unleash a quiver of quartz-quilled moronocide to shatter every non-sense in your ululating husk. O big flamboyant monk in a monastery of Melvins, I shudder at your puissant horsebuggery and general lack of concern for what even a dying vulture has the basic sense to blush at. I could calculate the sum total of your ignorance but my abacus is spent for zeros, you null-set and non-existent irrational number! Leave this wasted realm and surrender your sideways scupperheadedness!

(See original Highfalootin' Insults)

Forced to remove my literary niqab

This is how I write angry.

Today's random insults

1. I am witness to a horrific belching trend.
2. We are undone by pitiless boinkery.
3. Woe to wicked! They have seven extra toes.
4. Shall I call you Shasta, or shithead?
5. Your brogue is a vulgar shrieking thing.
   
6. I have often considered you a leech-pig. I am proved right.
7. Swim in my pool and I will forcefeed you a mutton bazooka.
8. You are a man of hardened cheese.
9. Your Swedish-princess tickler is now in the mail.
10. Oh, Mr. Sludgemuffin - your hair's blown away in the wind!
11. I agree the coastal towns should sell more butter! But you've absconded with my churn.
    
12. Vicious meadowlarks defy my every ordinance. I shall torch the mountainside and begin anew.

Mass Email for New Years 2001

[When it was still an art form]

Date: Sat, 30 Dec 2000 07:36:33 -0500 (EST)
From: ##### <####@qlink.queensu.ca>
To: ##########
Subject: Mass email for New Year's

Dear People On This List,

I swore I'd never do it again, but newly ingrained habits die hard, harder than old habits die hard. Yes, this habit of making everyone feel depersonalized via the odious mass email is dying hard with a vengeance.

I blame the cold weather. You might say it has frozen all the human feeling that is left in me. Some of you might also say that I was a soulless monster anyway, what with already having sent three other de-individualizing mass emails out in the past eight months anyways (I reluctantly recall a May 6 mass email and September 8 mass email, and a short, some would say nasty and brutish Dec 13 mass email). If you have already dialed up your OPP bureau, asking for my head on a plate, and demanding that my email-writing fingers be cut off and preserved in a jar as a symbolic act of retribution, then I understand.

Yes, I understand if you would do that. Just know that I am wilier than any of you.

Yes, I am both foxy and wily, and if you think I will lie down and let you cut my fingers off without some evil payback of my own somewhere down the line, then think again, peasants! I will reveal nothing more. Revenge is a dish best served cold. With a side order of humiliation. Go ahead, enjoy my severed fingers preserved in a jar! I still have my very capable and evil reptile brain to plot and hatch future machinations (indeed, the brain is the root of all email, 'mass'ive and otherwise, and even a stumpy-fisted evil mastermind can have tricks up his sleeve, though there be no mittens on his on hands). Maybe you should be thinking long term with your acts of retributive justice, instead of scheming these near-sighted and downright petty digit-severing childish acts of vengeance. You ought to think these things out before you start brandishing a saw willy-nilly and demand my fingers in a jar. I just admitted (my facade of wiliness breached in a moment of openness andtruthfulness, probably sparked subconsciously by the one remainingcompassionate sector of my brain, the one part not yet wholly consumed by reptilian evil, the one part of me fighting to break free from the rest and proclaim itself human, and good), that my brain is reptile. If my brain is evil and reptile, why wouldn't my fingers be reptile as well?

Like the wily salamander who's had its tail cut off in a life-or-death 'imbroglio', why couldn't I simply regrow my fingers in time and recommence writing mass emails, continuing the evil all the more, adding to it like a small child adds Lego bricks to a castle, until the castle (and, in my case, the evil) reaches the heavens and thereupon only God Himself can stop me! Oh, the wickedness of it all!

If the harsh Canadian winters have taught me anything (and they rarely teach me much--indeed, the sub zero extremities of the season usually slow down the blood flow in my brain to a Saharan trickle, resulting in an evil mastermind who, though wily, is at his most relatively dull-witted in winter-time, hence the possibility of having his fingers cut off and preserved in a jar becomes a veritable concern, whereas in other climates an evil mastermind of comparable scale would never have fear of getting part of him amputated, because the warmer weather would allow blood flow in the brain to be at maximum, and such finger-chopping conspiracies would be nipped in the bud, perhaps by an evilly-masterminded pre-emptive counter-offensive, plotted and hatched by a smoothly functioning reptile evil brain. For example, before you had the opportunity of dialing up your local police bureau and calling for my head on a plate and my fingers separated from my hands and displayed, label and all, in this now-clichéd finger jar, a warm-weather, brain-well-lubed evil genius would have done something evil to prevent you from accomplishing your goal of retributive mass-email penance, before you even picked up the phone. Say, for example, that I fire-bombed your house. Good luck amputating my fingers then! I would think that rescuing your cat and your loved ones from the charred inferno would be higher up on your 'to do' list than making examples out of workaday evil masterminds! But I am completely abusing this parenthesis. Remember, I was trying to make a point before all this talk of how a warm weather evil mastermind would fend off a finger-chomping conspiracy much better than I would be able to, in my frigid 'lukewarm if I'm lucky, blood flow at a trickle' state...here goes what's on the other side of this bracket. Props to my friend ####...'if the harsh Canadian winters have taught me anything..') it's how to die hard with a vengeance.

Wow, I have now been writing this email for an hour and a half. That's how much this topic concerns me.

To sum up my introduction to this email: All of you can kiss my ass!

ON TO THE REST OF THE EMAIL:

I just wanted to say Happy New Year to everybody on this list, and Happy New Year to everyone else too. I hope you still love me. Forgive my hair-trigger tangents. Let this be my belated XMAS
present to you. I know mass emails aren't a unique gift, but at least you don't have to fight off crowds in the GAP to exchange it. Small consolation...

Lata

####

Admiring my empire from inside a bottle of ketchup

O, rude people, sad citizens, drowning in your thick-necked wizardry and donkey-minded back-and-forthery--will there be a peaceful moment for my clucking to cash your quickness? Hep, young lackeys! Untether my goats. I am hastened toward doom if no wench can cut through ear crusts and mend her wayward belching. If I sneeze in your face, and your brain is beslimed, your guts unsteady, then inhale that wet whisky and redouble yourself all the more!

Yech. I am agog, filled with brine. I rain these invectives for a reason, yet you quiver as toads under a shepherd's boot. Do you choose life, or loathing? Parcels of piffle, or proof and providence? Alliteration, or agony? All the more I impel you and yet you crumple in your daily quagmire. A martyr's death I'll choose before lurching under your bloodfisted baron's capricious yoke.

What there? An unassuming Olympiad? Call my mile-long trains and plunder them for a feast. Oh bottler, a million buckets of creamed soda! A tyrant's end to the unworthy! A joyous clanging amid the cock's drudgerous crow! A re-boinking of all redundancy and extra melting under the warm watery sun!!!

Mucus poem + Highfalootin Insults

Oh a man
A green thing on his hand
A bit of snot
Let it not be said that I dreaded the mucus
I embraced the sneeze!
I lurched forward with every intention of snatching your soiled rags!

Or did I?

You grease-monkey turdball. You little piece of skypenugget. You bilgerat with a wastewater mustache! O Grand Poobah of Sludge! You foul the noses of the Skunkerati themselves! Be gone, not to Stonehenge but to SewerHenge! I wish you the intimate company of a dozen ugly wenches! You have eaten nothing but the minds of the wise; you are a cesspool of skulldragon soupbroth… O - why has the Supervisor of Stupidity plopped you at my side, shackling me with eleven lifetimes of lummoxery?

O bacon turd! O flopsy shred of incandescent muttonheadedness - you generate a vortex of scowls. O green scaley thing! Spit on my eyes to blind me, I’d rather not gaze on your ebullience of pus!

esoteric insults for the stressed out reader

(your friends will be shocked; your enemies will be puzzled)

• Quit crackin mirrors, you nose-necked fishgurgler!
  
  
• Your ass-crevice is canyonesque.
  
  
• You put the dope in dopamine. The pinhead in ePINephrine. The tone-deaf in seroTONEin.
  
  
• Hey, I need nincompoops for blender-play - and you look just the type.
  
  
• Drop the attitude or no one will fertilize your ovaries.
  
  
• Wipe that clown grin, putznerd.
  
  
• Yo featherhead - methinks you got roosters driving your cockpit.
  
  
• Is Elvis alive? Hell no! He thought of you - and killed himself again.
  
  
• You bloody box of earwax; you make me puke out snotrags of shit.
  
  
• If you were a musician, you'd have a 'worst of' album. And it would be called 'Greatest Hitlers'.

(FIAC: on the cutting edge of phrase-coinage since 2004)

How to become one of my bitches

(found this in the email pantry...for Sass)

Nov 23, 2000

Dear Sass,

I commend you on your desire to be included among my fold of bitches. If you'll excuse the extreme and unattractive arrogance (which you must submit to if you truly desire bitchiness--after all, why have bitches if you can't be extremely and unattractively arrogant around them?)--wanting to be one of my bitches de facto guarantees you a spot twixt the others of your ilk. Congratulations, welcome to a life of sugar daddying and ho-ing it up--the life of one of my bitches.

Don't worry about what to do--let it happen naturally; do what the others do (Indeed, let it not surprise you that I be surrounded by three or four of your bitchy brethren, in addition to yourself, whenever I am "seen" "in public"). Take fashion cues from the others: short skirts, plenty of cleavage; giggle and be ticklish. It helps if you don't talk that much (that could be a tough one)--let your sexy body speak for you. Try never to complain--except if you're complaining that the other bitches get more attention than you--that sort of in-fighting, while emotionally destructive amongst bitches themselves, tends to pump up the ego of the bitch-master (and in this case, I would be your bitch-master), and there's plenty of good things that go along with a massive ego. Be honoured that you even know me, and say wonderful things about me in my absence (even though I may treat you with occasional and wanton coldness, when another bitch in particular has momentarily seized my insatiable attention span). Intermittently thank your lucky stars. Directly link your self-esteem level to the various snippits of my grunting and acknowledgments that you might construe as some sort of compliment (e.g. you say "[Cupcake], I just got my hair done for you. Isn't it marvy?"; I say "Huh? Who are you? Where's Diane?"- this sort of romantic exchange should be the highlight of your evening). When I smile, feel good about yourself; when I am upset, find a way to take the blame (if indeed I don't take the initiative and blame you outright). Sexual favours are not necessarily compulsory--you may find that you achieve orgasm simply by touching my leather jacket, in which case all other romantic activity would be redundant. Otherwise, most of my bitches are not offended when I read porn (sometimes even gay porn) WHILE getting it on with them, so try to go along with that too. At all times be courteous to my family, especially my mother. Being a hot-blooded Latin, you can expect that, while I allow you to be one of my bitches, I will nonetheless describe you as "just some bitch" to my dear mamma (who is truly the only female I could ever respect), and complain to her how there aren't enough marriageable bitches out there who are willing to both cook me dinner AND mop the floors (you do mop floors, don't you?). Never swear, except when talking about your rival bitches, and be nice to children, even though you will never have any with me.

Once again, congratulations. We're glad you could join us.

Your stepsister; your uncle

(pointless and violent... just like _________?)


Your stepsister

Your stepsister is a hog
she wants to hold a rave
dance upon the table
and toss her saffron recipe
she likes to cook
man does she like to cook
shake it up and shake and bake
things are interesting in
the kitchen ’round here
we are having a wild burlesque orgy
things are pretty fun


Your uncle

Your uncle is a demon
he spits and calls for Jehovah
he likes to roll the dice
he destroyed a rack of spices on a wall
and didn’t repay the owner
the owner got upset
and purchased a large sharp weapon
which can be found in
your uncle’s skull, now
messily cleaved in two

your granny

(speaks for itself)

your granny

your granny is addicted to bacon
it sizzles in her arteries
she gives new emphasis to the phrase ‘arterial cloggedness;'
so much bacon has your granny eaten in fact, that
the authors of bacon.com
asked her for an endorsement
--she would gladly have given it
but alas,
she is a total moron

London!

(written in the Curzon House hotel, after a tough day of travel; unedited)

London (first impression)

Town of soot
and snoot
Tubed up and tied up, traffic-wise
You are grand
But also a slap in the face to
good sense pricing
I enjoy your architecture
But your women are skanks
a bit snaggly-toothed;
Your men are the worst
I wish they were all hospitalized with
chest pains
Oh London you are an island
Of garbage
In a sea of snotty mucus
That is Britain
Which is also an island

yet there’s glory on every corner
And the British Museum is prêt-ty fancy
And the tall waiters in the cafes, they earn
Their 5 quid an hour with dignity

Ah, London! Town of cobblestones
Awash in Boroughs, swimming with shortbread, and fudge
imported from Scotland
Ah! I have eaten at one too many
Persian restaurants which you ward over;
You who play host and
Salon-keeper to the World,
the grand world! yet, per capita
It’s only one tenth or so as grand as thee

Oh London, it’s a rough test
Whether to stay or go when
Faced with your ridiculous
Double-deckered buses.
Which is Wherefore, Oh Londinium of Roman times
I bid thee, despite the row we
Have oft suffered, I bid thee, yes, thank you!
For London is Lloyd’s and Life, and Leisure
And repressed emotionless laughter

Simply put: you people
make me retch.



(ps things were a lot better after that first day ... really ;-) )

The Saucy Cello

I can't take it any more; the cello in my basement is giving me conniptions!

I pound out most of this cupcake stuff in my basement, see, and there's this cello sitting there, and it's got a blue nylon cover slip with metal zippers dangling off it; it sits atop the brown bookshelf below the east wall of the house and laughs at me. Occasionally it asks for a glass of water, which, since I am a gracious Canadian, I do not refuse it; yet my goodwill and diplomacy is met with vitriol, condescension and (dare I name it) mockery!

I have decided to call this cello 'The Saucy Cello' because of its egregious output of sass. Everything in the world is just a big laughable 'paper tiger' to the Saucy Cello; all life but a fluffy pinata to be poked at with the stick-pins of a frivolous rhetoric. "A pox on vegeterians! How I mock their utopian pedantry!" the Saucy Cello says. "Who's more foolish? the fool, or the fool who writes about fools?" it bellows, and--this last one really crosses the line--"blogging is pseudo-anarchist claptrap; you folks need to get a life!"

Can you believe the effrontery, the impolity? Talk about a load of petulant cra-zap. And what a whiner too. Yesterday I was at my desk, minding my business, contemplating all manner of things--evolutionary psychology, the miracle of transparent plastics, and how Fiddle-Faddle is a preferable alternative to Crunch-n-Munch--when this dad-blamed Saucy Cello resting behind my swivel chair starts whinging away: about how lonely life is when you're an underappreciated cello; how cellos ought to be running the civil service and the RCMP and be given tax breaks on account of not having any arms or legs, etc. "Pity the poor cello," it whinges, "always playing second fiddle to the violin." Self-pity, from a saucy cello? Rot and balderdash, I say.

Then it starts in with the abuse. On several non-consecutive occasions this most noxious viola has called me things like (and I quote) 'a lizard-toed loather of the arts', a 'mealy-mouthed trumpet-blowing suck-wad,' not to mention, the unkindest cut of all--'a preposterous scallywag'!

Me, a scallywag?? Can I get a freakin' witness*?

This very morning the Saucy Cello was all 'up in my face', rhyming off a salvo of saucy limericks, viciously crafted at my expense. Here's an unsavoury sampling:

'There once was a bloke in the basement
whose skull was a mere empty casement
where there should have been brain
is a wasteland moraine
and so I exult in his debasement!'

Enough slander and libel, enough salaciousness; enough confrontation! How much insensible poppycock must I tolerate from this rambunctious orchestral stringed instrument? What measure of reprimand is appropriate for the Saucy Cello? And is there no impound lot or rubbish removal van that will forever cart the bastard away?

Sweet sizzling sausages I say!

*exclamation c/o ABM

monkey on my back

(to be read ALOUD)

Let's talk about the monkey on my back:

He is fat and has ticks, he's four feet tall and his stuttering makes me sick; he squawks like a parrot, his hands are so hairy, his dialect is Prussian and his accent--oh so scary. He wobbles in the courtyard like a zombified primate, he sniffs at his armpits in olfactuary fits, and his strategies are German--he takes me tanking in the Blitz! This monkey's like a unicorn, rare and tragic; he's perverse, a miraculous exhibit, yet thick with musky odours, like a mouldy catcher's mitt.

This here chimp is (sadly) quite a gimp, a weak noodle hanging limp, a slucker and a sucker, a poodle-fooling moronic mule-minded back-attacking beasty! A most mystifying monkey, clinging so chunkily, is robbing me of all fair feeling as he feeds into my funkery; he's a skunk-rumped gallunk, a nasty growth or a shoulder-hump, a hardy barnacle on my torso, I plead and beg but he just annoys me--he baffles, even more so.

Yes, according to my latest check there's a monkey around my neck; he's force-feeding me this dreck, so why not, what the heck, I should trade him for a gecko or a lighter kind of creature, a wizard-lizard, a courteous kissing cobra (I'd offer one of those a peck), a black mamba I can samba with--not lurch around with an ape, perched atop me clumsily and wonkily, so nefariously stuck. It's some bottom-barrel luck that's plucked me for this monkey; so until I can untie him, if we're whooshing by you'll spy him, the sly gorillish grin on him, his hand over my eyes and blinding me, driving me unto insanity. Yes yes yes! There's a monkey on my back, and alas and alack for poor Patrizio T, he is here laughing at me, a four-footed chimpanzee, adhering to me, married together, we, like horse and harness tethered, glued as one (it's the opposite of fun) unto eternity...

Dear Lobotomized Cosmo Girl,

Why aren’t you in love with me yet? I’m tall, athletic, smart and rich.

I like the way you dress and walk and smell. You have a nice body, and a wonderful personality too. I would love the chance to physically demonstrate just how wonderful I think you and your personality are; I’m convinced we’ll both enjoy that. I could sing you a song first--will that make your personality become naked? Singing a song or playing guitar is something I could do; it’s called being romantic. I will do whatever is required. Getting your phone number is a good first step, but I hope that eventually you’ll want to practise making babies. One day you may decide to carry my child, and care for it while I’m outside moving piles of dirt and money around, in my career. Usually I like to destroy things, but to create something would also be great--a person in your belly for example, someone who looks just like me.

So yes, I think it's best that we practise making babies. A word of warning though: I have no idea what ‘menstruation’ is, and I don’t ever want to find out.

Sincerely,

Typical Boy


Dear Typical Boy

Thank you for the letter. If you’re serious, I suggest you make reservations at a restaurant for this Friday evening, or perhaps you could plan an evening out for the 14th of February (all my best girlfriends think it’s very important that we do something as a couple on the 14th of February). When we’re out together, please pretend that you like dancing, at least for the first little while. Also, I quite enjoy ‘cuddling’—this is something I cannot do without, so please practise that. Oh, and for the first few weeks, you will find it rewarding to compliment me on my appearance, as often as possible. Mention my ass, as I spend most of my free time worrying about it.

I would be happy to carry your child, but please understand this: as soon as you impregnate me, you will no longer be of much use; therefore stay out of my way during all child-rearing years. And if you don’t mind me forsaking my appearance once we have finally finished making babies, then I won’t mind you watching sports on television every single week night. Do we have a deal?

Also, don’t ever lie to me, except when it is appropriate. Did I mention that you are a dreamboat? Well you are. Now please buy me a ring.

Sincerely,

Lobotomized Cosmo Girl

wtf

Consider the rose—a fruity and colourful flower, full of intrigue and trepidatious to the smelling. A man of citizenship might fain try; a pig can belch, yes he can emit the loud and gaseous tremulous rumblings from the inner intestinal ovens of his corpus. And thence will fall the most odiferous rotten stench that could ever be imagined. I am a man of gustiness, a real fop of a delinquent who asks for butt slaps. And you, you trollop, you donkey’s wench, you crenulated finger food, you fjord dwelling, troll smelling, toll belling, roll swelling, hole jellying horse pig! You are the reason I am a trout. You are why I tie figs to my ankles and emit the harshest cries of woe. Victoria Day cometh and who do I celebrate with? A real tiger of a dame.

And you with your face of plaster, your teeth of titanium, you crack your jowls and reach for your sharpened saber. You really make me sick! A man must not fight in a duel without making sure his shoelaces are tied, and you what do you do first? You rub cream into your cheeks, butt and face, and then only when your skin is moist enough do you fight—not like a man, for you are not a man, but rather like some effeminate goat. That is how you fight, you stellar dweeb.

Loveless Rita

(for those who know what it's like)

*ahem*

Loveless Rita

Loveless Rita, metre maid
power trips in single file
perches, swoops as time expires
pitiless tagging parking cars

Arrive at dash, five minutes late, the
coldblooded bitch doesn’t hesitate
what can you do, it’s all she wrote
all she left is a yellow note

Her methodical cop car, outta the blue
I rush inside to tell you, then
it’s acrobatic adrenaline haste to
outrace relentless Rita’s pace

Mocked, loathed, scorned, feared
sows resentment with her pen
the eight by ten notice clearly warns of
Rita’s wrath in rush hour

But we despise you Rita; you’re who we blame
(bottom of police food chain)
our every meeting is the same—it’s
20 more smackers, down the drain.

In angry defense

(I have no idea...)


Empty blue crates resting against the newspaper boxes. The yellow sign slathered with tasteless, large sans-serif advertisements, ‘Have a break! Have a … Kitkat’—wow; worming its way into popular consciousness. But I don’t break the fast; it’s still Lent.

Speaking of which, I’m walking by the Cathedral this afternoon, and I catch quite an earful:

My god you secular atheists are lazy; always so pale. Don’t you at least believe in sunshine? Maybe you’re outside today to get a tan?... Ha, I pity anyone who never even learned their basic Bible stories. Say what you like about faith, or lack thereof; that’s a huge gaping hole in your education. Hello—Noah, Abraham, John the Baptist—ever heard of them?... How can you call yourself a member of Western civilization? Oh wait, I forgot, we’re in Canada—‘cultural mosaic,’ blah blah blah. ‘Deluded cultural wasteland’ is more like it. Face facts, your parents did you a myopic disservice by not bringing you to church, and your wishy-washy ignorance is the result. Huh, what’s that? Oh there I go again, you say. The Holocaust? No, you’re wrong—Hitler wasn’t Christian, any more than Stalin or Pol Pot: they were all practising secularists; what Hitler believed in was the rational mechanization of the state, not a higher power. True, faith gone wrong may lead--every few centuries--to brazen crusades like the current insane terrorist jihad; I grant that, but look at the numbers: it’s cold, rational reason—that’s what fuels a genocide. ‘I’m just following orders, it’s for the ultimate good; the betterment of society.’ God is dead, right? Well so are six million Jews, 25 million Soviets, 1 million Cambodians; who knows how many in China? That’s the spiritual lesson of the 20th century. So don’t insult my intelligence by dredging up that ‘why is there suffering?’ chestnut. And don’t dismiss or mock me because I know the words to the Lord's Prayer or 'cause they forced me into a confessional when I was only eight years old. I feel sorry for you; as you get older, you will realize how much you missed. And you won’t catch my kids within 50 miles of a public school; not even close... Just remember: you and I both are going to die someday too, whether it’s by genocide, jihad or falling down stairs and cracking our skulls. Yes, the death rate’s still at an all-time high: 100 per cent. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you secularists are scared shitless about that. ‘Rage, rage, against the dying of the light?’ Forget poetry, forget those insolent academics; you still gotta pay the piper... Me? I’m fine with mortality—this planet isn’t the be all and end all of the world; I’m not afraid of that crossing… What, leaving so soon? Ok, ok; I’ll shut up and leave you be. It makes you uncomfortable? Fine, I’m kidding about the whole thing… I’m just playing on your massive spiritual insecurities…hahaha. Ok? Ok. Last laugh.

By this point he is red, veins bulging; grotesque. I turn and tell him—politely—that I’d been to Mass already that morning; that I’d given up chocolate for Lent, and how about him? Haha, you shoulda seen the look he gave me—priceless. ‘Oh… sorry,’ he says eventually, and I go on my way. Haha. I chuckle. Preaching to the converted. Jesus, what a world.

(But I lied about going to Mass.)

I wrote this in November

...but I don't think I showed it to anybody. If you care about municipal politics and senseless verbal abuse, this is for you.

Two friends are at a restaurant discussing the Toronto mayor race.
(one of the friends has borderline personality disorder.)

John: Can you pass me the pepper?
Marilyn: No. Get it yourself. I don’t give you no pepper.
John: Why not?
M: Because your breath stinks.
J: Well, your chest is too small.
M: Fuck you.
J: Well I just want some pepper for my sandwich
M: I don’t have to listen to this crap.
J: You can always cut your ears off
M: If you're going to be like this, I'm going away...
J: Then go, Van Gogh.
M: Hmph, trust me to sit at a table with a total smellenk.
J: What did you call me?
M: I wish I had called you an assless dickbutt, but I didn’t; I just called you a smellenk
J: And that is…?
M: A lake fish, one that swims with only the ventral fins
J: Ventral fins? Lake fish? Since when did you get into marine biology?
M: Since last weekend, and the TLC special on Great Lakes ecology, ass master! Duh!
J: Huh? Ass master?
M: That’s right, butt lord! Try learning a little science, Lonny Luddite!
J: Lonny… who? What the heck--why the belligerence?
M: Why the shmelligerence??
J: You are on medication, right, because right now you don’t make too much sense
M: At least I don’t make big black poos like you do!
J: What?
M: I snuck into the washroom last night, before you had a chance to flush. I took it in with my own eyes, and it was not a pretty sight, Señor Logjam! Maybe eat a few less corn chips, huh
J: You are a psychotic monster
M: At least I know how to accessorize my lipstick with my shoes, zitface! And at least I don’t leave no Chernobyl disasters in the goddamned toilet!
J: There’s no call for potty talk. And why are you talking about my shoes?
M: What else is there to talk about, huh? The provincial government?
J: No I’d much rather discuss municipal politics. But not with a jibbering loony…
M: Who’s a loony? You’re a big baboony
J: You're acting like an infant. Who are you voting for mayor?
M: Probably someone with integrity, and who isn’t a loser. So I guess that wouldn’t be you.
J: I for one am tiring of your attitude
M: I for one am tiring of your whining stuttering squawking.
J: Anyway--let’s see, mayor: Miller doesn’t want the island airport expansion, but that could just be a leftist pipe dream. I hear it’s a done deal, and—
M: Yeah, a done deal, just like your stupidity
J: And then there’s Tory, this dude’s a corporate baloney—
M: You know what’s baloney? Everything you say! Know what else? My shoulder is sore, would you mind rubbing it with some of your oily hair grease?
J: Huh?
M: You know, Johnny Gino, cuz you’re such a greasy Gino, your stupid hair must be oozing that oily stuff like pus from a gonorrhoea patient.
J: Hold up—while we’re bringing up stale hags festering with VD, let’s talk about you, Ms. genital warts queen of the world!
M: Yeah, nice comeback. And now I am going to take these toothpicks and rip your vocal chords into bacon strips—
J: Try it and you’ll be eating your meals through a straw
M: Silence your moronic brain, noodle-head; we were discussing the mayorship
J: Right. I am convinced Nunziata is the man for the job…
M: Yeah, maybe if the job was called 'Worst candidate ever!' Any other predictions, Johnny the Greek? Maybe the Zulus will win the Boer War?
J: What? That happened over 100 years ago!
M: Yeah, 100 years ago-- right around the last time you said something intelligent
J: Your psychosis really troubles me, you know. I recommend you shove your afflicted head into a blender and press 'on.'
M: I recommend you learn how to debate politics like a man, not cry like a pansy every time I point out your lameness, Lonny Lame-o
J: Who is this Lonny you’re always talking about?
M: Someone just like you: a pimple-necked, gruesome hunchback—only he’s much better looking than your lame-ass face of turd droppings.
J: What? First, you are the ugliest person in this city. At least I am not a toothless witch with split ends and a lazy eye. And 'turd droppings?' It’s enough to just say ‘turd’--that is a redundant insult
M: Maybe redundant like me talking to you, when I would be better off talking to my own mucus
J: That’s it, I am sick of this abuse. I’m gone. (leaves)
M: Wait! What about Tom Jakobek! I think he’s got a chance!
FIN



(epilogue: Hostilities aside, Marilyn was quite optimistic with her final comment—Tom Jakobek received just 1.2 per cent of voter support in Toronto's November 10, 2003 mayor election. The other candidates were David Miller, John Tory, John Nunziata, Barbara Hall, and Tom Jakobek. David Miller won with 44 per cent of the vote)


ps to anyone reading in Germany or Italy--I miss you!

A threatening letter from my Arch-Nemesis

He's on to me--I thought I could avoid him, but after just one day online he's tracked me down, and is already trying to do me in. I received a letter in my mailbox just this morning; I opened it up only to see him, lying in wait with some kind of toothbrush. I'll say no more, except that I got away from the lunatic this time, but next time I may not be so lucky. Read what he wrote, and pray for me. -P


My dear Patrick,

It has come to my attention that you are a scoundrel of the first order, and have acted in monstrously wicked ways for some time now.

Now, it would be very easy for me to denounce you right now to the local magistrate, for he would have the good sense to pinch you on the ears until you are humbled. But I care only for your continued health and your ultimate success, Patrick; which is why I have requested permission from the authorities to punish you myself, slapping you upside the buttocks with a wooden paddle, until you have learned a thing or two about the truth.

We live in a world of powerful forces, such as the inexplicable and dangerous force that makes you act like an utter buffoon.

Truly, you remind me of the foolish characters once written about in novel lore: I can think of a few examples, such as ‘The Foolish Dolt’ by EK Fingers, and ‘Mercy denied to the Fop’ by Solomon McSinister. Remember what befalls the antiheros of these works, O Wencherous One: they are cast into ditches and pelted with gourds, forced to take their families and livestock with them into exile; they are drowned in rivers and then fed to penguins. I don’t want to scare you with such talk, but I must avert you of your brain-addled jiggery!

You need direction, you need a mentor. You do not, as you claim, need extra cheese on your ‘already-cheesy’ pizza, and a large bucket of melons for dinner. You do not need a life-size statue of Giles Rankin-Snifter, the infamous Austrian ecologist, in your shrimping parlour.

Giles Rankin-Snifter is a fraud, a quack, a phoney; you ought to expunge his teachings from your mind. He has said that we need to clean up the air and wipe the soil with ammonia to make grow more robust soybean crops. This, Patrick, is folly beyond the acceptable scale. Remember well that Rankin-Snifter too was threatened with an ass-slapping by paddle, until he swore off his heresy, and his punishment was lessened to a few kisses on the cheek by his distant aunt, who had nasty tuna breath and multiple boils on her neck.

But while it was not too late for Rankin-Snifter to turn from folly, I fear it is too late for you.

Let us consider some of your heinous malfeasances:

1)You have threatened to collapse the root principle of the universe into an omnipotent theorem called ‘The Answer to Everything including Why Hummus tastes Gross’. I beg you, do not do it; allow us to cure you instead! Also, 2) You have drawn a cartoon of a talking light bulb named ‘Clarkie McBrightness’ on the back of a sheet of cardboard, and sold it to Ping Poy Loh the one-legged grocer on Bilbo Boulevard--an act which galls me. Could you conceive of a more blasphemous effrontery to the truth?

You have much perverse devilry in you, Patrick and it is this I must correct, whether with paddles to the ass, or by gluing a carrot to your nose and having you attacked by a corrective jackrabbit, until you recant, due to the many scratches on your face.

You dare to rub your elbows in a muddy peat bog and prance about the sidewalks of the Cathedral District, showing your muddied limbs to the townsfolk and asking them directions to the Plumbers Convention? Well, that sort of foolishness may go unpunished in laxer counties, but you forget that I have connections with the township. The bureaucrats, when I say ‘fart!’, they ask me ‘how loud?’, ‘how long?’ and ‘how gaseous?’

But what is your response to my warnings? More tongue-clucking, more rebellion? Fie, fie, you have tested my patience beyond the limit. Out with the electric armpit-enhancer!

Yes the armpit enhancer will be your first lesson in remorse and regret.

Now I will give you a taste of my special instruction; you will feel shock, first in your armpits, and then in other places, so long as you persist in this delinquency. In my hand is a toothbrush, yellow, and bristled at both ends; because it is not the usual type of toothbrush I have decided to call it an ‘armpit-enhancer.’ When your armpits feel the brushing tip of the armpit-enhancer, you will howl in helpless ticklishness; you will be helpless in your agony and I bet that you’ll renounce yourself at once! You shall dare not laugh at me, while I tickle you!

Sincerely

Your Arch-Nemesis