Anti-Social Justice

Today, I'm highlighting an example of vigilanteeism that receives the K-Dough Good Cell Keeping Stamp of Approval. Some moralistic inmates decided that child murderer Anthony Ray Stockelman (read HERE) should be scarred for life- on the forehead -- with a crude, yet potent, reminder to all of his egregious misdeeds. Inmates held the bastard down and tattooed the word's Katie's Revenge - in reference to the 10 year old girl he molested and brutally killed- clear across his cro-magnon hollow gourd (you can see a pic of the tat taken by prison authorities on a blog called Lost in Lima Ohio HERE.)

In Japan, during the Tokugawa regime, criminals were regularly tattooed to distinguish them from the general population. There was no going back from your big mistake; no hiding in anonymity; no chance of a feel-good, big hug reintegration into society. (The only downside was that the practice lowered the status of tattooing in the country and the higher culture art form that eventually developed never recovered from having taboo and dark connotations. )

Anyway, my thought: If you kill a child and it's proven beyond doubt (i.e. via DNA) you get a free huge fucking face tattoo like Anthony Ray Stockelman on the state's dime. I'm willing to bet somewhere, some arteest is firing up a tattoo gun for the guy who killed Holly Jones as I type...

Ahh, revenge. It can, indeed, be sweet when perpetrated on a piece of human trash.

Public Notice: I'm Very Busy

Yeah, I know- like we all aren't. But I thought I would let you know I'm not dead, incarcerated, keyboard shy or spending the week at that Zen retreat that I never have time even to look in to. And sorry for ending that sentence with a preposition and starting this one with "and". I know the editors among you will be shaking your heads and adjusting your spectacles at this very moment.

In lieu of any new, fresh post today, I will leave you with this - one of my various and numerous ruminations, which has been digitally preserved for just such an occassion:

We are constantly hearing about about reducing or ameliorating the negative effects of smoking, cancer and heart disease on our economy. I wonder if anyone has studied what effect it would have on our economy if people stopped dying of those things? Think about it. Unemployment would increase exponentially. Pension payouts would cripple corporations and industry. Renewable resources would be outstripped. Doctors, nurse and surgeons would be jobless. Stupid, fat, lazy people would be living far longer. Cats would be sleeping with dogs. Darwin would roll over in his grave. Total chaos would engulf the natural order.

Please discuss.

K-Dough Helping the Melancholy

In quiet times, my mind often drifts to pondering the pain and anguish that those poor EMO kids have to go through. Some say I feel too much, but you know what, that's who I am. Contrary to popular belief, K-Dough is compassionate. I have even read a few pages of a book that someone bought for me, which outlines the Dalai Lama's teachings on compassion. Incidentally, the person who bought me the book sheepishly and tearfully pleaded with me to read it because she was spineless and lacked any semblance of self-confidence. But, I digress.

I want to help those EMO kids who have no one to hug at night as they weep themselves into a dark narcosis while listening to old Cure songs. That's why I created Comfort-Me Emo- the only over-sensitive, broody stuffed red toy with an addiction to benzodiazepines (Zanex for the lay person) and Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia. Yes EMO kids, you can now have a personal confidante to wile away hour after dreary hour staring at your own myspace profile, wondering why no has messaged you.

And the best thing is that Comfort-Me EMO doesn't talk to you -- because that's what you prefer in human relationships. He merely sits there lifeless, staring off into the distance like you don't even exist, completely ignoring your long-winded, boring stories of heartache and social dislocation.

And we've incorporated some amazing technology into Comfort-Me EMO. Just pull the string on EMO's back and he will either tattoo a solemn tear on your cheek or slowly slough away to nearby closet where he will write dark poetry and sulk until his episode is over.

So get 'em now kids, while they're still around- or before the entire human race becomes extinct in the coming firestorm of death, due to the injustice, cruelty and insensitivity perpetrated by the soulless, dark-hearted mouth-breathing creatures that populate this disgusting ball of filth we call the world, that dismally revolves in the dark wheel of pain and misery that we call this galaxy.

Get Your Business Black Belt!

Yesterday, media across North America carried a story about a new report that claims "Graduate business students in the United States and Canada are more likely to cheat on their work than their counterparts in other academic fields". What the story didn't say, however, was that students found cheating are likely given preferential treatment by teachers precisely because they cheated. These polyester-skinned little Trump-omatons are probably the first ones trotted out at corporate job fairs as the schools' best prospects. Cheating is an art especially useful in business, and requires deft ability - whereas bullshiting is more of a liberal arts virtue.

One can just imagine the so-called business professors locked up in Zen-like retreats, planning how they will circuitously instil profound lessons about their trade in the minds of the their empty-vessel, grasshopper-like protegees. They probably devise ridiculous rules like "Don't Cheat!" and post them, written on wooden planks above the chalkboards in the classrooms, just to weed out the weak from the crafty, or as they like to call the cheaters: Innovators.

Whether or not this study has any methodological merit, it makes one ponder how many of these paper-peeping plagiarist pupils end up plopped into political office positions though, don't it?

Animals, Asses and Appropriateness

"Guy Fournier, the chair of CBC's board of directors, resigned yesterday amid a growing furor over his remarks about the joys of defecation and the legality of bestiality in Lebanon." (TO Star)

Ooooooh-k then. So he made some jokes about sex with animals and talked about pooping. I don't get it. What did he do wrong? I thought the CBC was part of the entertainment industry? Aren't funny jokes and a sense of humour crucial factors in the field of entertainment? On second thought, judging from CBC programming (AirFarce!) there may be strong cases against that assertion.

In any case, Mr. Fournier if you are looking for some online exposure for your inappropriate comedy routine, I hereby invite you to become a regular contributor to K-Dough's Canada! Of course, you'd have to change your name to Guy "Mandude" Pornier, but trust me- you'd be gold baby! Gold.

Do Psycho Groupies Read Newspapers?

Apparently not. Judging from Ashley Harrison's myspace page (if that is indeed the infamous Ashley) she has no clue that her e-mails to one of Canada's most read columnists were publicized yesterday. Who can blame her though- with all the crap on TV that needs watching and the countless line of black-lipsticked necrophiliac vampire guys that need flirting with online. I think that one of you - the sensible public - should take it upon yourselves to find her page, cut and paste her publicly available e-mail address in to an e-mail and let her know what a flap her teen tard comments have caused. You know, give her a chance to defend or explain herself. A friend of mine let Rosie DiManno know yesterday, but has heard not a peep back fom her yet.

I want to run something by y'all and see what you think. Ashley has a graphic posted on her page which reads: 4-20 Remember the Real Victims. The date 4-20 refers to the date of the Columbine massacre and the graphic contains the pictures of the two teen monster killers and a rose. It is a tribute to the psycho-geeks who killed all those innocent victims and destroyed so many of the survivors' lives. Under the graphic, Ashley wrote this:
"R.I.P. Kimveer Gill... you fucked up! but there are a few of us out there who understood you, and know you weren't a bad person, you made the most sense out of everything... good people do bad things too."

Is this tolerable free speech? Isn't there something someone somewhere should be doing about this kind of evil crap? How do you reason with such callous ignorance? To me, it indirectly preaches hate and glorifies murder. Is it the same as those empty gansta culture threats or different? To me, it seems conspicuously different. At least rappers have a discernible goal in glorifying violence- ass, money and social injustice. But this is an entirely different twisted mind-set. It's the glorification of the senseless murder of innocent people by immature, morally bankrupt urban white trash kids without consciences. And worse, it is the deification of killers as if they were victims - literally forced to kill because society made their lives too painful. It is the ultimate in childish irresponsiblity, but it is coming from young adults.

Or maybe I'm reading too much into this. Maybe it's just that kids like her thinks it's cool and iconoclastic to play devil's advocate. Maybe they get street cred points for crying a sympathetic black EMO tear for the killers, because well, you know, teen life is hard.

I don't know if you can tell but this shit is really bugging me this week. Though I know its wrong to tar and feather all kids, it makes me want to smack every sullen teen freak I see right in the neck. But as my friend Harding pointed out yesterday, justice is the only way to sort such things out. Violence does not end violence. Damn- when did I get all grown up?

Teen Psycho Groupies

I am addressing this post to whoever wrote to Rosie DiManno, prompting this piece (click HERE), published today in the Toronto Star. In e-mails to DiManno, some ignorant, melodramatic kid, who says her name is Ashley Harrison (*see update below!), defended Kimveer Gill's actions and sympathized with the psycho-geek. In lieu of any powerful or potent reply from DiManno, likely owing to the constraints imposed by her medium, I have composed my own response to the pugnacious Ms. Harrison, below.

Letter to Ashley Harrison, somewhere in Quebec:

Listen up, you out-of-touch teen tard: You think Kimveer Gill experienced insurmountable pain? He experienced nothing but selfish, narcissistic masturbatory loserhood. And that fate awaits you too, Ashley!

Kimveer Gill was not remarkable, intelligent or worthy of admiration. He couldn't spell. He wasn't original. His online names were all rip-offs (check my friend Harding's recent piece on one such example HERE). The polls he filled out on his page were mindless time-wasters for bored, lazy ass people without a shred of creativity in their empty heads and souls. He was out of work and probably spent most of his time jerking off to Japanese cartoons in his parent's house, which is where 25 year old losers like him belong, because they are cowardly chicken shits who never grow up. And that's what you are going to be Ashley: A loser, just like your psycho-geek idol.

Do you know why losers like you - Ashley Harrison- and Kimveer feel so different from others and oppressed by the popular, happy people? Because you deserve to feel that way. And hiding in computer fantasy land just prolongs the amount of time you will spend in your miserable life being a miserable loser with an artificial sense of power and belonging. You are the creator of your own undoing. No one is responsible for that but you.

Tell me Ashley Harrison, why should anyone care about you? What have you got to offer anyone other than your boring, pathetic self-pity? Do yourself a favour and shut the fuck up, pull the joystick out of your ass and do something about your problems instead of whining and wallowing away into your own oblivion.

Life is for the living, sweetie. It's not easy to solve problems or deal with pain. But you need to know something- no one has a monopoly on pain. You are not special. We all feel, hurt and bleed. The people you should most despise are those who blame and punish others for their own problems, like Kimveer Gill. That's probably what someone did to you along the line to make you the bitter little fuck that you are today. If you want to perpetuate that bullshit, you'd better get ready for a lifetime of disappointment, failure and sadness.

Ashley, you wrote: "Kimveer will be greatly missed by the people who actually understood him ... the people who don't have their heads up their asses." You know what, that would have been a much better way for that loser to die- with his head up my ass, choking on my shit.

This advice doesn't come cheaply either sweetie- I'm hard core through and through and had to claw my way to where I am now. I had a lot of friends like you in my life when I was younger who are now either dead or might as well be. That said, it's never too late to get your shit together. If you chose to continue on this path I encourage you to have a nice life - or whatever facsimile of a life it is that you manage to feebly and passively eke out.

Update: What is with this site's history with Ashleys? We now know who Ms. Harrison probably is, complete with pix and the school she attends in Quebec. In fact, you can view her myspace page by searching for her using her real name. I won't publish the link here, but I encourage you all to check out the face of stupid for yourselves.

Hyper-Caffeinated Gentrification

On a lighter note kids, today's lesson is about the corporate insanity currently occurring in my neighbourhood. While we have long suspected that our little corner of mid-town Toronto would eventually become gentrified, because our property values have skyrocketed in the past 5 years, we never imagined that the opening of a Starbucks last year would cause the landslide of coffee inSIPidness that we are now experiencing.

Starbucks opened it's little opiate den of fat-laden liquid shit just a while ago, across the street from an existing privately-owned coffee/bakery, called World Class Bakers (click HERE for a review). Within a year or so, Second Cup opened an outlet two doors down from World Class (see map above). At this point things were getting weird. While we have longed for better looking and managed businesses in the area since we moved there 8 years ago, this wasn't exactly what we had imagined. Our amenity list included such convenient walking distance attractions as great restaurants, dry cleaning, medical offices and liquor stores. Now, in addition to Pain Perdu- an awesome upscale French patisserie with cheap, great espresso - we had our choice of 3 java junkie dealers within a 3 second jaunt of each other. Crazy right? Wait- it gets crazier.

The other night, a restaurateur insider in the local BIA told me that a new Tim Horton's is moving in on the opposite corner from Second Cup. WTF? Now, that intersection is poised to become a toxic black tar mess of drooling hyper-caffeinated, 40 year old yoga mat toting hipster fucks. What is Tim's thinking? Seriously?

A few years ago, our neighbourhood gained continental notoriety for being the first urban hood to successfully win court challenges against the McDonald's empire, stopping them from putting in a drive-thru. For a while, McDonald's became the hated target for the venom of 30-something anti-corporate protesters, who ostensibly wanted to maintain the hood's integrity. But, now it seems, when it comes to overpriced caffeine products, and lard-laden ass-bloating treats posing as food, my increasingly shi shi neighbours are heaving their arms in the air and tearfully welcoming the advent of the coffee kings like the French being liberated by the Allies in '45. I mean c'mon people, these coffee cons are really just McDonald's for adults- aren't they?

My weekend message: Support your local, privately-owned businesses. Ma 'n Pa rules! Take the boots to the corporate coffee thieves that are stealing your souls - before it's too late!

Weeding out the Psycho-Geeks

What is wrong with our society, when sociopathic, loser nutcases like Kimveer Gill can live amongst us and escape our social distant early warning system? Well, for one thing, I believe that social DEW has been rendered impotent by the proliferation of online teen culture. The warnings are everywhere. The digital evidence is preserved like fresh blood-filled footprints in the posts that these selfish, narcissistic freaks leave on web sites, yet no one confronts them. Why?

Gill wrote this on his Vampirefreaks.com profile "Life is a video game, you've got to die sometime'' and talked about dying in a hail of bullets. Umm, if you saw your friend, kid or even a stranger writing stuff like that online, in front of the world, don't you think you might investigate a little further? Maybe not. Gill was just another in an increasingly long line of young, disenfrachised, lazy-ass e-geek stereotypes.

You see his kind of pseudo-bravado everywhere on myspace for instance. Gill apparently used the name Angel of Death online. A quick search on myspace brings up 667 other Angels of Death hovering around the electronic netherworld. Goths and the like post pictures of themselves bloodied, mangled or posing as pale corpses regularly. It's fun for them. It's commonplace and pervasive. So, how do we weed out the psycho-geeks from the innocent horror-loving EMO kids, goths and metal fans- let alone from the population of jocks and seemingly average kids?

Vague laws and ISPs and internet users who assume absolutely no social responsibility are no help. They need to step up and set and enforce standards. I'm not advocating censorship- god forbid- but holding kids accountable for saying things online like "I'm going to kill everyone". Why can you say that on a vampire lovers' site if you are dressed up like a freakin' Transylvanian Duke, but not in a line up at an airport terminal? It's logically absurd.

If it were up to me, we would thin the herd- in a legal manner, of course. I have no sympathy for such dispossessed lonely people or their families. We, as a society, breed them - it's our fault. We need to cut them at the hamstrings before they leap. The tender, caring approach does not work with these people. If you are that broken you have no place in our society and should be locked up forever, no matter what age. Monsters like Gill aren't created over night. They grow and flourish and all the while the warning signs are ignored by the cowardly.

Iggy Fiddles as Future Burns

You may remember several months ago when Ashley MacIsaac appeared on several K-Dough threads (click HERE) babbling mostly incomprehensible nonsense about wanting to run in the Liberal leadership race. Well, he pretty much disappeared after that little grease fire, but now he is back with a flaming vengeance. It looks as if he is dragging Michael Ignatieff down the proverbial hair-clogged drain pipe with him.

Yesterday, Iggy appeared on stage in Toronto with the precocious maritime nutter MacIsaac. Apparently, this availability was strategically designed to get youth to vote for Iggy. Brilliant campaigning wouldn't you say? I can see the headlines now "Harvard prof, distinguished author and hopeful next PM of Canada befriends BDSM loving, blathering, spit-chinned, bow dragger in bid to secure the stupid vote".

My question for you smarty-pantsed Iggy campers: What broad section of youth does Asher appeal to exactly? Who the hell under 25 even knows who he is? If you can't figure shit like this out, how do you expect to be able to run a national party? You're way out of touch kids.

Condie Spewing More Manure

This chick has a lot of gall and balls, spreading her lispy fear-mongering, war groupie crap up here. Especially, after her administration ignored warnings that lead to thousands of innocent deaths in the U.S., which in turn sowed the seeds that have blossomed into gardens of death in other parts of the world.

What Condie said today: The campaign in Afghanistan will succeed (just after the Canadian military, who is on the ground there, said it won't).

Hmmm. When you say will succeed do you mean like, democracy will succeed in Iraq?

Or, we will succeed at finding WMDs in Iraq?

Or, we will succeed at capturing Bin Laden dead or alive?

Or, the war on drugs will succeed?

Well, here is some confidential policy advice Dr. Condie: shut the fuck up and return from whence you came- the fiery stupid pits of stupid hellish stupidity that is D.C., stupid.

Disclaimer: This is one in a long line of lazy, stream of conscious K-posts. The confidential policy advice offered above is not intended to mimic real-life, serious, adult-like advice, but the sentiment is sincere.

5 Years of Repair

At this time 5 years ago, I was rushing around in a panic preparing to propose to my girlfriend for life (what I called my current wife at the time). We had a flight booked for September 26th, which would whisk us away us to my favourite old haunt - the calming, inspirational and aura-drenched city of Amsterdam. As the day approached, I withstood waves of anxiety and excitement intermittently and carried on my day to day business with my feet barely touching the ground. I even bought a ring.

Then came that Tuesday morning. By the time I got to work at around 8:55 am, everyone was gathered around the nerve centre of my office at the time- the TV. Over the course of the next few hours, I stood with the others wide-mouthed as buildings fell, thousands died and the Pentagon was attacked. We were there, if only as impotent spectators. All planes headed to America were diverted- many of which were rerouted to Canadian airports. My colleagues and I scanned the azure skies as we smoked cigarettes and imagined planes dropping from out of the the blue all over our city, because clearly North America was under attack. Who knew how many would-be assassins were now going to take out whomever they could since their US targets were now unreachable?

Needless to say, I spent the next two weeks before our flight to Amsterdam in constant anxiety. Many people we knew were cancelling their flight plans. Musing with my friends about the philosophical similarities between getting married and going down in a fiery wreck did little to ease my heavy mind. However, despite our trepidation, in a small act of bravery, we got on that plane two weeks after 9-11. This all happened notwithstanding the fact that our carrier- Air Transat had experienced a complete loss of engine power and crash-landed one of their planes on a similar trans-Atlantic flight just before 9-11. Talk about stress: The emotional rollercoaster of getting engaged; mass panic about the possibility of further suicide attacks using commercial airliners; and flying a carrier that had experienced a recent extremely serious mid-air mishap. The sheer weight of what had transpired back in North America hung over our European trip on a daily basis. Though the actual proposition - with the aid of a great dinner, several strong Belgian brews in Brussels and a beautiful woman and partner- was picturesque.

We flew into New York City four months later. There we visited a dear Japanese friend, who worked close to the towers, who we had called numerous times on the day of the attacks to make sure she was safe. Obviously, she was. I recall the profoundly eerie calm we experienced walking slowly towards ground zero, as hawkers sold pictures and T-shirts bearing the fiery images of burning skyscrapers on the streets of lower Manhattan- just mere blocks from that gaping grave in the ground. Testimonials, prayers and pictures of loved ones plastered the long wall that lined the street from the church to where the towers once stood. As I watched from the side of the road, staring at workers still clearing tons of rubble, there were no politics, religion or hate on my mind. I felt like crying but I couldn't. It just seemed too insignificant to do so at that moment, while I stared something greater than I could comprehend in its ugly, anonymous face.

For months following, every time I emerged from the subway in the morning I half-expected the CN Tower, which unfailingly looms over Toronto's trees and buildings, to be cut in half or simply to not be there. Or at my desk, every time I heard sirens, there was that spector in my head saying "could this be our turn". These things still happen every so often. One might think that the survivors in New York, or anyone touched by the event around the world may forever be sentenced to fear and painful memories of the dark past. While my memories may not be as painful by degree as those of others, I believe one thing is certain: human souls repair themselves. If not completely here and now, then in a next life.

Zanta Strikes Again

I don't know how I have successfully avoided writing about this super mega-nutcase before, but I've finally caved. For those of you who live in or frequent downtown Toronto, Zanta requires no introduction. For those who don't, you'll need a little background, which you can get HERE or at his personal web site HERE. In short, Zanta is a shirtless (even in the winter) santa hat wearing alien with ripped abs, who yells unintelligible greetings at tour buses, chats with pedestrians and does countless push ups on the streets of the T-Dot. Zanta is frivolity personified.

Last year, City TV/Much Music station staff became obsessed with trying to keep him out of their street shots (artists and directors tend to get moody and jealous if they aren't always the focus of the lens). Zanta liked fame and sought it during every moment of his waking life, but the guy just got too pervasive. City TV, the station that professes to be the media outlet of the common people refused to help Zanta promote himself. I mean really- what were they getting out of it (read: City/Much has become a pompous, vain corporate entity like any other). So, they went to the police and then the courts to get rid of him.

But Zanta would not be discouraged. He moved to fresh climes. Since his legal banishment from the cool kids' kingdom south of College Street, Zanta has frequented the intersection of College and Yonge. On many occassions, I've seen him accosting awkward, puzzled citizens from just outside the windows of Baroli Cafe, my espresso haunt. Zanta endures and can't be contained by injunctions or restraining orders. Zanta is like the wind and moves where nature compels him. Zanta is Zen in motion. In fact, from now on, I will always think of him as Zenta.

In the picture above, taken this week, Zanta has once again captured our hearts and imagination. And once again, he has really pissed someone off. This time in Yorkville, the spiritual mecca of the snooty and idle rich. Zanta is again doing his best work- stealing the spotlight from those who hog it, and giving to the less fortunate- himself. All hail Zanta.

By the way, what the fuck is that washed up has-been Michael Keaton doing at the film festival anyway? He should be grateful someone took a picture of him at all. If weren't for Zanta's cameo, I doubt anyone would have.

If you are so inclined, HERE is an online flash version of a documentary on Zanta's bizarre life.

Bullets, Bodies and Bullshit

It is becoming apparent that those brave young souls getting mowed down in the hills of that distant land will not have gone in vain -- but not for the reasons you might expect. It is not enemy bullets that are responsible for filling the red and white decorated coffins, it is paperwork and policy. The pile of dead now significantly exceeds mole hill status and the corpses of the fallen are unwittingly creating a giant barrier right in the middle of Stephen Harper's road to success. As always, Chantal Hebert said it best today (here).

The father of a dead soldier who said last week that it was disgraceful for Bob Rae to call for withdrawal was under duress. That kind of emotional aggression is entirely understandable under the circumstances. But Rae is right. Only until the blue meanies can provide one good example of how such deaths have positively impacted a third world nation anywhere in the past will I ever support this abstract, distant, meaningless and destructive exercise motivated by pro-American political groupie-ism.

And when I say "positive impact" I mean giving tangible power, food, education and health care to the people, not the same old archaic, windbag bravado inherent in the idealism that the West is the sole gatekeeper and disseminator of world democracy. Democracy: Like that's a fucking reason to jump up and down for some parentless child on either side of the ocean.

Where will Harper be when his extension lapses and the bullets stop flying at innocent Canadians? Will he be advocating pouring the needed billions in aid into that country to help the people? Irrespective of the fact that his political shelf life may have expired long before 2009, I seriously doubt it.

Tie Your Brother Down

Recently, Ontario Premier Dalton McGuinty quipped to reporters that he was encouraging staff in his office to shun the neck tie in times of extreme heat, as a means of conserving energy (i.e. no tie = higher air con temps). I wholeheartedly applauded that sentiment. In fact, I have not worn a tie in years and will never again do so. Why, you ask? Well, let me tell you.

Neck ties are the mark of a subservient, beaten down man. If you wear one, you might as well etch "bitch" across your forehead with a letter opener. They are the albatross of the common man, meant to restrict movement and blood flow. The constant tugging and threat of asphyxiation are there to remind you that you are an owned commodity. In short, the tie holds a brother down.

That brings me to another point. Without the fashion restrictions of being forced to wear collared shirts that are appropriate for tie-bondage a man is free to experiment. For instance, why tuck ever again? There is no tuck needed without a tie. You can carelessly flaunt your great looking, chest enhancing clubby short-sleeved shirt and sleek-lined casual dress pants without the humiliation of the ridiculously egregious clown-like look that comes with a short-sleeved dress shirt/neck tie ensemble. Hey, you might want to even let a scrap of tattoo peek out from under your new found, travel-light office gear.

When I first started my employ in the ivory corridors of power, a stiff, man-like cave-woman of a manager with the apparent fashion sense of a lesbian mechanic once told me "You don't have to wear a suit and tie everday here. But if you don't, it will affect your career". Well, in a way, she was correct. Once I shed the dummy suit, I instantly was catapulted into more successful jobs. I spent more time at work counting my money and fending off the endless stream of horny secretaries than actually working. I was even granted unlimited use of the company jet.

For me at least, the key was to be more like myself and less like everyone else. I think powerful people recognize and respect that ability. To those who don't: I say suck my ass.

Message for the week: Rock hard and ride free, my sexy little chipotles!

Subway Vignettes

Yesterday, for reasons too bland and complex to detail here, I was forced to ride the red rocket. Of course, there had to be delays on the one day I decided to do so. As I stood propped against a door, head full of iPod-spewing 80s metal to drown out the blabbering mediocrity, I witnessed the daily urban absurdities, playing out like scenes in a silent retarded movie. Well, it was more like watching a bizarre hockey game where the players carried purses and laptop bags with Judas Priest blasting on the stereo and no audible commentary.

My observations are as follows:

Why do so many women carry their lunches or knitting projects to work in pristinely preserved shopping bags from expensive retail stores? Do they really realize how pathetic it makes them look? It's like walking around with an empty caviar tin strapped to your head.

Why do pot-bellied middle-aged business men think they are invisible as they stand in front of school girls and strain to stare down their tops, desperately searching for any semblance of a trace of areola? 100s are watching you Dirty Harry.

What's with the fucking home boy, with full hoodie pulled down over suspiciously peering eyes, slumped as far down as possible in the corner wearing a parka in the middle of the summer? Yo.

Why does everyone in the vincinity look so uncomfortable as the empty water botte rolls from one end of the car to the other. It's like a passive-agressive game of hot potatoe. When the train stops, whoever ends up with that horrid bottle at their feet looks terrified and either immediately boots it away from them or timidly sits there pretending to ignore it, screaming inside for the train to move again. What kind of horrible disease can you contract from an empty plastic bottle that grazes your shoe!!! How many emergency room visits are precipitated by such dire collisions every year? I want the stats!

Anyway, needless to say, I biked in today.

Happy weekend, you big soggy sack of pervs.