Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Edmonton resident proclaims himself Tour de France winner

Sam Smug of Edmonton, Alberta, announced today that he has completed the gruelling Tour de France a week ahead of anybody else, making him the clear winner by 245 hours. And he wants to make it clear that he didn’t even have to take any illegal performance-enhancing drugs.

“All I did was build myself a pair of robot legs,” explained Mr. Smug. “Each leg is made from reinforced steel, weighs 212 pounds, is two metres long and 70 centimetres in diameter. When I walk towards my kids, they shriek with alarm. CLANK! CLANK! CLANK! go my legs. EEK! EEK! EEK! go the little monsters. It makes me double over with laughter to see ‘em!”

Sam Smug started the Tour de France on July 7, just like the other cyclists, but his competitive advantage became quickly apparent. Hurtling through the French countryside, he waved to passengers of the TGV (train à grande vitesse – high speed train) and at one point, even accepted a bag of peanuts that a passenger handed him through the window.

“That now stands in the Guinness Book of World Records as the fastest peanut hand-over in world history, at 302 kilometres per hour,” said Mr. Smug, proudly.

Mr. Smug is becoming used to shattering records. The previous record for fastest tour finish, set by American Lance Armstrong, is now lying in the dust.

“Lance Armstrong’s puny legs are no match for my robot machinery!” chortled Mr. Smug. “I phoned him after my victory lap in Paris. I didn’t need to say much. Mainly, I just laughed at him.”

Mr. Smug reports that, unlike other cyclists, for whom the Tour de France is a brutal exercise in self-imposed torture, for him it was an amusing distraction from his day job as a computer programmer.

“It was a delight,” admitted Mr. Smug. “After each day’s cycling, which of course for me was finished during the first hour of the morning, I would generally retire to the nearest café, have a few Leffes and a salade niçoise, and flirt with the waitresses. Then I’d go to the park and stretch out in the shade of a tree and read Ken Follet novels. Brilliant holiday it was. I’d recommend it to anyone.”

Next year, Mr. Smug plans to compete in horse racing.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

M.o.M.’s Guide to Walking

According to just about everyone, walking is going to be the hot new trend this year. But what exactly is walking? According to anthropologists, walking is an activity that humans used to engage in frequently. For example, during the Ice Age, people would walk for miles and miles in order to track a woolly mammoth, kill it, roast it, eat it, and smear its blood on their genitals. In more recent times, people would walk to the subway, jump on a train, disembark, and walk to their office, whereupon they would promptly fall asleep for eight hours.

Sadly, in even more recent times, and in cities such as ours, the ancient art of walking has been almost entirely forgotten. The only people who still maintain this custom are the homeless, some of whom will keep walking even if their socks wear out.

But things are set to change. Walking is going to become glamourous because it can make you fit. And also because it gives you something to brag about to your friends.


Friend: I drove here for my double-double and a dozen Timbits.

You: I WALKED here for my double-double and a dozen Timbits.

Friend [now visibly impressed]: Holy fuck!

Because of the popular demand for more self-help literature, the M.o.M. has developed a guide to Bi-Pedal Locomotion (a.ka. “Walking”) so that you can get up, stand up, and take a few tentative steps to somewhere. Anywhere! Just remember not to be discouraged if initially you experience dizziness, shortness of breath, or fall down. Walking isn’t easy, and the skills cannot be acquired overnight.

The Guide to Bi-Pedal Locomotion (a.ka. “Walking”)

Things to remember:

1. Unless you want everyone to laugh uproariously at you, be careful not to drag your knuckles along the ground while you walk.

2. Look purposeful. Adopt an erect, slightly aggressive posture, and maintain a brisk pace.

3. Refrain from climbing trees during your walk. You risk breaking the limbs of fragile young saplings. And in the event that you get stuck, you divert the precious resources of the fire department from cat rescue.

Frequently asked questions about walking.

Q: Is it OK to walk while drunk?

A: Drunk walking, while more difficult than sober walking, is nevertheless a much admired skill and as of publication (April 16, 2007) was not prohibited for our neatly-groomed and educated readers. Be aware, however, that for vagrants, drunk walking will result in imprisonment, a trip to the hospital, or an overnight stay at the homeless shelter. The M.o.M. advises that if you are going to drink and walk, do not vomit upon yourself.

Q: I prefer to read about self-improvement rather than actually improve myself. Is there any chance that I will be able to take up walking?

A: Reading about walking, while not as effective as walking itself, does nevertheless require literacy, and so you win a few points in our books. Keep it up!

Q: What happens if I’m walking during the night and somebody removes a manhole cover and I happen to fall in because I didn’t see the gaping hole?

A: You will become crippled or dead.

Q: Is it fair to say, then, that walking is pretty dangerous?

A: Risk-averse readers are encouraged to order the Guardian Bunker, which has been built to withstand hurricanes, tornadoes, flooding, bombing, and the second coming of Christ. At a cost of only $76,000, this handy cement contraption, reinforced with rebar, will offer protection for you and your family for many years to come. All you need is a decade’s worth of non-perishable food and an emergency generator to power the ventilation system and terrorism-detection radar. Huzzah!

Q: Can people of any religion walk?

A: Yes, they can. Astute readers might already know about the Muslims’ annual pilgrimmage to Mecca, the Jews’ flight out of Egypt, not to mention Jesus’ wandering all over Israel in search of fish.

Q: Would you like to go for a walk with me?

A: What a delightful idea! Let's ensure we pack some cheese in case we get hungry along the way.

Ronaldo Ronaldson Enjoys National Non-Sequitur Day

According to a confidential report haphazardly cobbled together painstakingly by the M.o.M. in the last thirty-eight seconds, Ronaldo Ronaldson, aged 19 years, quite enjoyed National Non-Sequitur Day.

"It was terrible," said Ronaldo. "My grandmother came over for dinner and told me about the $682,143 she is leaving me in her will."

Mrs. Flores Ronaldson, aged 153, arrived on her Vespa at about 6:13 p.m. Shortly afterwards, Ronaldo accidentally spattered melted butter on his new pair of Diesel jeans.

"That's it!" he cried. "That's the final straw! I am tendering my resignation from my job, effective immediately!"

"Is it possible that you accidentally ejaculated into your own eye?" inquired Mrs. Ronaldson, observing her grandson's bizarre gesticulations. "That happens to me quite often."

"I wish you'd stop nagging me about my cocaine habit," Ronaldo retorted. "I've told you, it's because I'm in a loveless marriage, devoid of sex, or even pleasure."

"Well then, I do hope you liked the socks I gave you in 1978," said Mrs. Ronaldson, in her sweet and endearing way.

"Where's my girlfriend when I need her?" asked Ronaldo. "There's a football game that ended seven minutes ago and I predict a resounding victory by Manchester United, even with that gay idol, Christiano Ronaldo, playing!"

But Mrs. Ronaldo was not entirely in agreement.

"I think it's best, when a pheasant is out of sorts, to sing it a pleasant melody," she opined. "'Mary Had a Little Lamb' works best."

Accordingly, Ronald charged out of the room and entered his tank. As Brigadier General of the 4 th Scottish Highlander Infantry Platoon, he was obliged to lead an offensive into Sadr City. In the sweltering heat of the scarred suburb, he did hand-to-hand combat with a mongoose.

"You may be a stern adversary for a cobra, but you are certainly no match for me!" said Ronaldo triumphantly. The mongoose retaliated by biting him sharply on the bladder.

Just then, a nasty August blizzard blew in from the nearby mountains, entirely obscuring the battlefield, and forcing a halt in hostilities.

"Hot enough for ya?" laughed a private.

"Let's go for a swim!" rejoiced Ronaldo, cracking open a hole in the ice of the Tigris River.

"Good heavens, there's been a lot of buggery going on lately," observed a passing Iraqi civilian. "I don't think Allah would approve at all. What do you think, Achmed?"

"Death to the Jews!" cried Achmed.

"Quite," concluded his interlocutor.

Memo from Angry Bus Rider: Shut the Hell Up!

Jonathan Dawkins, aged 36 and not happy about it, has written a memo that he will be giving to all the passengers who annoy him on the number 9 bus in Edmonton.

“It’s time that people wised the hell up,” explained Mr. Dawkins to the M.o.M. “It’s getting so that I can’t enjoy my Stephen King book anymore, what with the swearing, the blaring of iPods, the idiots yakking on about their boring lives, not to mention the north-side kids who are borderline feral and have sharp, yellow teeth.”

This morning, Mr. Dawkins presented his first memo to Mr. Ronaldsen, who is also known as Crusty, on account of how his ears are so crusted up with wax that he is unable to hear any words uttered below the level of a thunderous bellow.

Dear Crusty:

I know deep down you are OK and not out to hurt anyone. But you know what? When I’m reading It or Carrie, the last thing I need is you yakking on about Prime Minister Harper. Yeah, I get it. You don’t like him. You know what? I don’t like him either! If I had five minutes alone with him, the room would look like a goddam abattoir. However, unlike you, I don’t feel the need to yap on about politics over and over again.

I also don’t need to hear you yakking on about a) your groceries budget b) the Bush family c) a beautiful girl who talked to you in 1987.

It’s getting old, dear Crusty. It really is.

So my advice to you is, Shut the Hell Up!

After presenting this memo, Mr. Dawkins expertly scurried away through the crowd to the back of the bus. He watched at a distance as Crusty slowly opened the envelope. The aging warehouse labourer wore a slack, open-mouthed smile, clearly expecting some kind of present. He read the memo. Then he glanced up and squinted through his thick glasses. He was visibly shell shocked.

“Well, I guess the truth hurts,” said Mr. Dawkins to himself. “But somebody had to inform him he’s an asshole!”

Crusty immediately rang the bell and got off at the next stop. Mr. Dawkins had not expected that.

He presented his next memo to a 14 year-old girl who entered the bus on Whyte Avenue. Typically, her inane chatter with her friends about Justin Timberlake and shoes would enrage Mr. Dawkins within minutes – as would her incessant gum chewing. The latest memo had been crafted specifically for Annoying Girls just like her.

Dear Annoying Girl:

Look, I get it. You think you’re just emerging from a chrysalis like a butterfly and soon you’ll spread your dewy wings and flutter around, attracting admiring men everywhere. But, newsflash! You’re going to have all the charm of a broken sofa once you hit 40, so you better develop some conversational skills and learn something educational pretty quick, or else you’re going to be entirely useless to humanity. I mean a compete waste of skin. So meanwhile, in order to save the rest of us from your stunning idiocy, Shut the Hell Up!

The girl shot a glare at Mr. Dawkins, who characteristically glared right back.

“What’s your problem?” she said. “Are you a sad, lonely, loser?”

“Watch your lip,” said Mr. Dawkins. “When I was a boy, we learned manners.”

“You’re fat,” said the girl.

“I was not aware of that,” retorted Mr. Dawkins, trying to sound biting.

“Have your stupid letter back, loser.”

The girl crumpled the memo into a ball and threw it at Mr. Dawkins. It bounced off his large forehead.

“You’re a wanker,” said the girl, who was particularly proud of the new word that she had picked up last week.

“You have no tits,” Mr. Dawkins retaliated.

“Nobody likes you,” said the girl. “My friends and I call you the Creep.”

“Oh yeah?” said Mr. Dawkins. “Well… Me and my friends say your face was chewed by a dog.”

“But you don’t have any friends,” observed the girl.

Mr. Dawkins’ lower lip started to quiver. The bus had just crested Bellamy Hill. Even though his final destination was an obscure north-end office, Mr. Dawkins elected to exit immediately. He rang the bell.

“You can dish it out but you can’t take it, eh?” said the girl.

“Shut the Hell Up!” Mr. Dawkins thundered, his eyes starting to sting.

Just as he was climbing down the steps to the pavement, he heard the entire bus erupt into a cheer.

“You shut the hell up!” everyone roared.

As the bus accelerated away, Dawkins saw all the passengers waving at him joyfully, united in their glee to see him gone.

Who Wants to Rent an Apartment?

If only you could see us here at the M.o.M. We’re so excited! Our botox face almost appears alive! Today we have all the juicy gossip about the brand new reality show that everyone is talking about: Who Wants to Rent an Apartment? The show, being filmed in Edmonton by the Home and Garden Network, will follow the fortunes of six super-hot young Edmontonians who must find, rent and successfully live in an Edmonton apartment without going bankrupt or resorting to killing the negligent landlord. Whichever contestant most successfully rents an apartment wins the grand prize: a one-way ticket out of Edmonton.

The M.o.M.contacted the show’s producer, Terry Billingham, for more details about this exciting television event.

M.o.M. Tell us more about this exciting television event.

Terry Billingham: There were six contestants. Five of them were women. Two of them got into a cat-fight in the very first show. Trudy was like, “Oooh, I just have to have this apartment – look at the silky drapes and the view of the river valley,” and then Trixie showed up and attempted to scratch her rival’s eyes out, because the apartment was only $1100/month and that’s a goddam steal. But then both contestants found out they had been fighting over nothing because all of a sudden, the property owner announced that the apartment was being converted into a $450,000 condo! Hilarious!

M.o.M.: Tell us about some of the contestants who successfully found an apartment to rent.

TB: I'd be feverishly ecstatic to. Cindy, a manicurist, found sanctuary of sorts in a $550 slum in Norwood. But when she moved in, she found that her neighbour had recently tethered a yak outside. The animal was staring at her obscenely. She informed her landlord of her concerns and he said, “Why don’t you just move the hell out if you don't like it?"

Then Cindy discovered that because of a surreal plumbing configuration, her water pipes were routed through the apartment of an apprentice surreal killer, meaning, of course, that her shower often sprayed pig's blood. She complained to the landlord, and he said, "How would you like a $200 rent increase?"

Savvy Cindy inquired whether the landlord, under Alberta law, had any obligation to fix the shower before imposing a rent increase, and discovered that Alberta landlords have almost no legal obligations whatsoever, and can increase rent by as much as they like regardless of the living conditions of the premises. Three cheers for the Alberta Advantage!

M.o.M.: How did your lone male contestant fare?

TB: Ricky Biggun? Oh, he got by pretty good by pimping himself out to the female contestants. He bed-surfed for a while before eventually, Sharona Timmins, his last conquest, threw him on the streets.

M.o.M.: So Ricky is homeless now, I take it?

TB: Do I appear to care?

M.o.M.: Did anyone find a nice apartment, settle down, and live peaceably until the show's end?

TB: Yes. Me.

M.o.M.: You weren't part of the show.

TB: Hold on. Let me see here. Would this show have existed had I not traded my integrity to the devil in exchange for a million bucks? No, I think not.

M.o.M.: What shows do you have planned next?

TB: I'm excited that you asked that. My next show is Who Wants to Pretend to Give a Fuck About Africa? We'll be sending some b-list celebrities to Timbuktu or somesuch place, so that they can adopt an orphan or spoon-feed an aging hyena. There'll be sentimental scenes of crying and hugging. There'll be vultures circling. What's really great is my agent tells me it's ethical programming.

M.o.M.: Thanks. Do you have any more time for us today?

TB: I think it's time for Fruitopia, Labatts and CIBC to share their affirmative messages now, don't you?

Ed Stelmach Proudly Joins the Liars’ Club

At a ceremony in Washington D.C. today, the new Alberta premier, Ed Stelmach, was inducted into the Liars’ Club, a prestigious organization that includes Conrad Black, Tony Blair, George W. Bush, and Jude Law.

“I am humbled to be among so many successful liars,” said Stelmach, who appeared to be star-struck in the company of so many Powerful Men.

Usually, the Liars’ Club does not extend membership to people as fumblingly inarticulate as Mr. Stelmach, given that, in the words of Conrad Black, “Deceit is a masterful art requiring eloquence, wit, and a supreme measure of overweening pride.” However, at the club’s early March meeting, it was agreed that Stelmach’s efforts to give the appearance of taking action on climate change “warranted special attention.”

“It’s glorious double-speak; it’s fraud perpetrated on a massive scale,” said Black, who has been the club's president since he was himself charged with fraud. “One is overwhelmed with approbation, not to mention enormous satisfaction, to see conservative governments, including those of Alberta and Canada, convincing the populace that the environment is in good hands, while actually planning for enormous increases in carbon emissions that will endanger the livelihood of our planet. I can only say hoorah, bravo, and Barbara, I’ll buy you another mink stole!”

Mr. Black thereupon embraced his wife, Barbara Amiel, and fondled her bosom proudly.

“See these, Ed?” he said to Premier Stelmach. “Like glorious fried eggs, yet delectably firm. When you are a powerful man, you can own a woman who owns these.”

Mr. Stelmach blushed ten shades of crimson.

“I’m a… what a… gosh. Mmm. Is that Kobe beef? Over there? Anyone?”

But the Liars had reconvened elsewhere to spread lies about him.

“He smells like cow dung,” said Jude Law, sneeringly. “I don’t think we should be letting farmers into our club.”

“In Alberta, they call him Honest Ed,” observed Tony Blair, very pleased to have Done His Homework, and puffing up with pride. “Don’t you see the beautiful irony of that? Anyone?”

“Yo Tony,” said George W. Bush. “This weekend, I finished reading Crime and Punishment by that Russian dude, Fyodor Dostoevsky.”

Tony Blair could not help but stifle a guffaw.

“Come now, we don’t have to lie among ourselves, do we?” he said.

“I see there’s some philandering to be done,” announced Jude Law, eyeing a young and pretty waitress carrying a tray of canapes. “I bet she’s never bedded a famous actor before.”

Just then, the Prime Minister of Canada, Stephen Harper, burst into the room.

“Hello friends,” he said, with the charm of a dead fish. “I heard you were all meeting. My invitation must have been misplaced in the mail.”

“Yes, misplaced,” said George W. Bush, with his frat-boy grin. “That’s it. In fact, you were going to be the Guest of Honour, on account of how everyone likes you so much!”

The meeting of the Liars’ Club erupted into a cacophony of laughter and applause. George W. Bush was happy to return home with First Prize in the Audacity Award. Having been responsible for the deaths of over 20,000 people in the name of a lie, there is now little chance of the other liars ever catching him.

“I’m not even going to try,” said Premier Stelmach.

“That’s the spirit!” said Tony Blair, patting him on the back. "Don't try, just lie -- that's our motto!"

Cerebrum of Cyril Gideon on Brink of Violent Conflict

The psychological situation for Cyril Gideon, aged 34, a government employee since 2002, took a turn for the worse today, after a tense stand off between his id and his superego. In the morning, his superego enjoyed a tactical advantage, but increasingly lost ground as the day wore on.

“I am afraid I may be losing the battle to maintain the delicate peace I have engineered in my mind,” Cyril reported to the M.o.M. at 5:30 p.m. during his short bus ride home. “My id is threatening to overwhelm me and lead me on a year-long terror campaign of assault, murder, and demonic laughter.”

At 8:20 a.m., Cyril’s secretary, Susan, a new mother of 37 years of age, arrived late, apologizing on account of difficulties with the “little one” overnight.

“He’s such a little angel, though,” she beamed. “How can I ignore his bleats for help?”

Cyril wondered what Susan would say to a joke about how her baby would taste with mint sauce. Meanwhile, the pert and chipper blonde proceeded to tell him about some products she was ordering from the Amway catalogue.

“I love the candles that smell like rosewood,” she explained.

Cyril observed how, fifty percent of the time, Susan used the word love to describe processed food or retail products. He wondered if her heart would fit into his small frying pan at home or whether he would have to cut it into pieces before cooking it.

By 9:15 a.m. Cyril became aware that the temperature was becoming uncomfortable and decided to consult the thermostat. Despite the outside temperature being minus 11, it was 25.9 degrees in the building. Immediately after this, Cyril received an email from Facilities Management informing him that a power cut at 11 p.m. the previous night had temporarily disrupted the air conditioning, but that maintenance workers were working “around the clock” to fix the problem.

“Hmm,” Cyril said to no one. “I wonder if they’re working around the clock just as hard as they did last summer, when the air conditioning only worked for June and then was broken for July and August. Or if they’re working as hard as the summer before that, when they removed the air conditioning system entirely, promising to replace it with a new one within a week, but kept us all waiting until September.”

To introduce some fresh air, he was sorely tempted to throw furniture through the windows, which otherwise could not be opened. However, he was aware that this would contravene health and safety rules.

At 11:17 a.m., Cyril visited the washroom and crouched on the toilet, hoping to relieve himself of an unusually large build up of excrement that had congested his lower bowels. The laborious procedure was exacerbated by the fact that he had a hemorrhoid, which had not yet succumbed to seven straight days of treatment.

“I wonder if I could simply burn the damn thing off with my Zippo,” he said.

Cyril only owned a Zippo because of a vain hope that one day, he would see a beautiful woman in need of a light for her cigarette, and that after providing the required flame, he would be able to execute a cunning and stealthy courtship, then mate with her.

“I wish I didn’t have to pay for sex,” he said to no one, wiping his bottom. “If I weren’t ugly and acne-scarred, by now I’d have found a woman with whom to settle down, have two children, and accumulate unmanageable debt.”

At lunchtime, Cyril sat in the lunchroom, surrounded by Susan and her friends. He forced himself to ignore jokes that alluded to male stupidity and general uselessness.

From 1 p.m. until 3 p.m., during a pointless meeting about something, Cyril plotted to kill the head of the Information Technology (IT) department, Dirk Vanderboot, who had failed to respond to his request to provide three government IDs for recent staff hires.

“For four weeks now, Dirk has not bothered to stir himself to perform a task that would take merely two minutes, despite two reminder emails, two phone calls, and one verbal notification from my manager,” Cyril reflected. “If I had two horses, I would tie Dirk’s head to one horse, tie his legs to the other horse, and then instruct the horses to run in opposite directions, and rip him in half.”

At 4:15 p.m., with the end of the work day in sight, Cyril received a visit from a consultant named Sharon Blugbusster, who, despite the marketing liability of her family name, possessed physical attributes that would best be described by the ever-articulate and urbane Larry Flint, founder of Hustler Inc.

“If I were the star of a rap video, she would be my bitch,” said Cyril. “But because I am not famous, rich, or good-looking, I will have to respect her and not objectify her. Maybe, however, I will covertly admire her bosom.”

Ms. Blugbusster gave Cyril a forty-five minute presentation about a software program designed to store data in a friendly and helpful manner.

“Accessibility has been maximized,” she explained.

Cyril refrained from smirking pervertedly, and informed Ms. Blugbusster at the meeting’s end that he would reflect on the benefits of her product and decide upon a purchase order by week’s end.

“I think you’ll find the programme meets all your needs,” she said.

“Oh, I doubt it,” Cyril retorted, then suddenly realized that he had failed to use his inside-head voice. He was forced to beat a hasty retreat. “I mean, I’m sure it will,” he stammered.

Cyril fears a further encroachment of his id into his working day tomorrow.

Pee Wee Team Hopes for Successful Crack-a-Thon

The Norwood Knights, the pee wee hockey team that last year nearly topped the Edmonton Minor Hockey League, hopes that its upcoming Crack-a-Thon will raise much-needed funds for skates, sticks, and rink rental.

“The story of the Norwood Knights brings tears to my eyes,” said Bruce Chalifoux, the team’s coach, as well as father of the Knights’ star defender, Mickey. “Here’s a team of tough inner city kids who have made good. With a little more support, we could turn the lives of more kids around, and, who knows, maybe even win the league this year.”

Funding is a constant challenge for the Knights. Most of the players come from homes where the family income is below the poverty line. Half of them are aboriginal. Almost all of them have behavioural or learning disorders. Many players go home to find their fathers staggering around in a drunken stupor or asleep in a pool of their own vomit.

“My dad’s hobbies include punching my mom and urinating on himself,” observed Knights’ forward, Fred Manyfangs. “I can’t wait till I get big enough to kill him.”

Last year at their casino fundraiser, the Knights netted $2,954. The event was considered a major success, with an attendance of over 200 local people, all passionately devoted to gambling.

“I remember blowing a month of welfare,” reminisced Jackie Laboucan. “It was a fucken’ blast.”

This year, the fundraising goal is $4,000 following a sharp hike in user fees at the Knights’ practice rink. After receiving the unwelcome news of the hike, Coach Chalifoux realized that gambling alone was unlikely to raise the extra revenue.

“We needed something with even more appeal to the community,” he explained. “Crack seemed the obvious answer.”

Knights players, who range from nine to eleven years of age, will wander the inner city streets, each looking to sell as many “rocks” of crack as possible. Whichever player sells the most crack will win a night at the Fantasyland Hotel – a luxurious retreat from a life of incest and violence.

“I’m pretty confident the lucky winner will be me,” said Renee Gigglingbird. “My sister Josephine’s got major connections with hookers and I figure she can sell a grand of crack in under a week – no fucken sweat.”

During the short interview, Renee was being pestered by a potential customer, Colleen “Crabs” Papsamashaquash, who tragically lost an eye in a fist-fight last year. Colleen asked for some crack in advance – promising to pay for it later – but the plucky young Knights player refused. He ordered Colleen to fulfill her dick-sucking quota for the day and come back with at least $100.

“Otherwise, no crack for you, Crabsy,” he said.

Hector Goudreau, Minister for Tourism, Parks Recreation and Culture, whose department oversees charitable fundraising ventures, is enthusiastic about the Knights’ Crack-a-Thon.

“I think it’s great,” said Goudreau. “That’s an example of the Alberta Advantage in action: paying for social programs through the proceeds of addiction, misery, and suicide.”

The minister declined further comment because he was busy eating a pig.

Revenge Tragedy Enriches Montreal Morgue by Two Corpses

Yesterday in Montreal, Canada’s capital of crazed killing sprees, Yves Chiffon, aged 36, visited his former workplace, an obscure branch office of the federal government, and sought redress for a decade of petty grievances. As he marched in through the door, a hammer in one hand and a chainsaw in the other, he shouted, “Mock and scorn the hapless bureaucrat no longer! Behold a vengeance more bloody and gruesome than acts three though five of Titus Andronicus!”

Chiffon proceeded to barge into the office of his former manager, Claudette Poumon, who fired him thirteen months ago.

“Claudette, I’m going to entertain myself with your pancreas,” announced Chiffon. Without a second’s pause, he kicked over Ms. Poumon’s chair and hogtied her. Then he instructed her to look into his eyes and witness his pain.

“The sight of you is terrifying,” said Ms. Poumon, aged 45. “I cannot look. I see only my own sorry fate forecast there. Please spare me, Yves! I beg of you!”

Just then, a horde of nervous government workers rushed into the office to try and save Ms. Poumon. But sadly for them, Chiffon had spent the entirety of his unemployed life practicing kung fu, lifting weights, tattooing himself, and developing a murderous rage.

“You fools want to leave this mortal life so soon?” he asked rhetorically, and laughed.

One of the fools in question, a chubby man named Maximillian, approached Chiffon with a computer cable in his hand. He clearly planned to asphyxiate our scorned psychopath by means of strangulation. But with a roundhouse punch from Chiffon, Maximillian was propelled into the air and through the wall. He landed in a contorted heap in the hallway on the other side.

“Hee hee hee!” chortled Chiffon. “Any more takers?”

As it so happened, every member of the horde was willing to take a swift serving of punishment. For the next minute and twelve seconds, the ordinarily placid environs of the office became a melee of thrashing fists and limbs. One particularly unfortunate fellow had his eye gouged out and thrown into a cup of coffee.

Once Chiffon was done defeating everybody, he returned his attention to his nemesis, Ms. Poumon.

“You, Claudette, made me the insatiable ball of hate that you see here today,” he declared.

“Pity me!” said Claudette. “I had to fire you because you contravened Internet usage policy.”

“Internet usage policy be damned!” Chiffon roared, with the ferociousness of a thousand lions. “You made my every working hour an unceasing parade of pettiness and despair. It was like the slow death of a thousand paper-cuts. Remember when you had me write that report, then made me send it to sixteen people, all of whom requested changes, and then I spent March through August revising it, but then the report was eventually shelved, anyway? You Witch Woman, those are seven hundred and nineteen hours of my life that I’ll never get back! For that, you die!”

Chiffon proceeded to prise open Ms. Poumon’s mouth and levered out two of her teeth with his hammer. Then, with his chainsaw, he cut into her torso, which gaped open in a blood-soaked yawn. He ripped out her pancreas and stuffed it into her mouth. Ms. Poumon suffocated to death.

“My bloodlust is not yet satisfied,” yelled Chiffon, with the menace of a giant howler monkey.

He turned to find Ms. Poumon’s divisional supervisor, Henri Foie, standing in the doorway.

“You were once just a frightened little man,” observed Foie, “But now you have the strength and cunning of at least seven ninjas. What has happened?”

“You villain,” bellowed Chiffon. “Because of your tyranny, I was turned down for promotion not once, but three times. Moreover, you slept with my sister Pauline. For this, you die, but only after I’ve put you through unbearable agony.”

Foie attempted to defend himself with an office chair, even successfully beating Chiffon in the chest. But he enjoyed the upper hand for only nine seconds. Chiffon flew through the air at Foie like a vulture descending on a dismembered lamb. His feet struck Foie with such force that both men crashed directly through the floor and onto the floor below. Whereupon Chiffon twisted around Foie’s neck, breaking it.

“You are approaching death, but are not yet morally destroyed!” said Chiffon. “Now I am going to un-man you!”

Chiffon’s hand darted into Mr. Foie’s pants and performed a murderous ritual upon Mr. Foie Jr.

“God sees all,” whimpered Mr. Foie, “And he will wreak a terrible punishment upon you for this.”

Chiffon laughed, and then threw something resembling a piece of chicken gristle into a paper shredder. Blood spattered the walls. Then Chiffon prised out four of Foie’s teeth. Then he chewed off his nose. Then he cut off his head and threw it out of the window. It rolled into la rue Sainte-Catherine and halted an entire lane of traffic.

On the way out of the office, Chiffon spotted a pretty young secretary who was giggling girlishly.

“I know I’m a deranged, blood-drenched murderer, but do you mind if I rob you of your virginity?” asked Chiffon.

Chiffon proceeded to escape with the girl. He now lives in obscurity where no one can find him.

Classic Rock is a Way of Life

After years of debate, it has now been scientifically proven by the StatistiCon Research Institute in Facegag, Alberta, that Classic Rock is a Way of Life. StatistiCon has found that practitioners of the Classic Rock Way of Life generally live in cities with corporate-owned radio stations that play “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin, on average, eleven times per day. Classic Rock listeners do not physically differ from regular human beings except for their remarkable ability to repeatedly consume vast quantities of beer and guitar rock without expressing remorse or even nausea. It also has been hypothesized that the cognitive development of Classic Rock listeners ceases at sixteen years of age. This hypothesis is based on observations of otherwise seemingly normal adults becoming unusually animated upon listening to “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen for the eleven hundred and fifty-eighth time in their life. Further observations will be needed to turn this hypothesis into another Fact.

The M.o.M. followed a typical Classic Rock listener through a typical day to find out just why these people are so exciting – at least to marketing companies.

Case Study

Boiler-maker Vaughan Scott, aged 41, wakes up at 6am – which is earlier than he’d like. He often sleeps poorly on account of a bad back. Vaughn lives alone in his suburban bungalow in north-east Edmonton.

After coughing for two minutes, Vaughan trips over a few empty Budweiser bottles on his way to the bathroom, where he spends the next six minutes and twenty seconds urinating. Vaughan’s wife is currently filing for divorce and for sole custody of their three children, Millie, Dot, and Troy. Meanwhile, Vaughan grudgingly but dutifully pays the monthly $746 he owes in child support and, if he feels like it, takes his children to the shopping mall or treats them to dinner at Wendy’s Restaurant every now and then. On average, these family outings occur about once every seven weeks, a situation characterized by Vaughan as “OK” and by his son, Troy, as “more than enough.”

Vaughan plays online poker for twenty minutes and then visits a website called “Young Teen Cum Guzzlers” where he lingers for 12 minutes. After that, it’s time for a shower, a short drive to Arby’s to pick up a beef sandwich, and then onwards to DrudgeCo, a maintenance firm, where Vaughan has worked continuously for nine years, except for a short suspension last year for punching an apprentice in the mouth.

Vaughan neither excels at his job, nor does he botch it up so horribly that he, say, loses an arm or blows up the entire building. He furtively smokes a joint at lunch time – even sharing it when co-worker Jackson “Biggy” Smitz asks for a “hoot.”

“He wouldn’t be doing this if a reporter wasn’t watching,” says Smitz, enjoying a long toke.

“Shut up,” says Vaughan. “I got tickets to the Oilers tonight. I’ll share that with you, too.”

“What about your son, Troy?” inquires Smitz. “Wouldn’t he like to go?”

“Nah, I’m not taking him,” replies Vaughan. “He’s a fucking spoilt little shit. Last time I saw him, he made fun of Rush.”

There follows a fifteen-minute long defence of the legendary Canadian rock band, Rush. During the afternoon shift, Vaughan is observed smoking another joint by himself and then spending seventeen minutes taking a bowel movement. At the end of his shift, Vaughan asks Smitz if he wants to grab a drink at the bar before proceeding to Rexall Place to watch the Oilers “kick some ass.” Smitz reminds Vaughan that he has a wife and kids to go home to.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” says Vaughan. “Goddamit. Now I’ll be going to the goddam game by my goddam self. Fuck.”

But fortunately, this sad prediction does not come true. Vaughan stops in at his favourite watering hole, the Pig and Whistle, and finds his friend Jimmy, who is enthusiastic at the prospect of going to the game.

“One thing though,” says Vaughan. “You pay for the beers.”

Jimmy agrees but is distressed to find that by the end of the second period of the Oilers-Canadiens game that he has already spent $35 just on Vaughan’s beers. He announces, “I’m cuttin’ you off,” to which Vaughan replies, “Whatever.”

After the game (Oilers 1, Canadiens 4), Vaughan offers to drive Jimmy home in his 2002 Ford F150, provided they visit Showgirls strip club on the way. Jimmy is amenable to the idea. At Showgirls, Vaughan necks beers number seven through twelve and throws $7 and $12 in loonies at the vaginas of Judy and Chevron, respectively. On the drive to the Jimmy’s residence, Vaughan hits a Yield sign, but only “a little.” He is in his bed, comfortably passed out, by one in the morning, ready to “get up and rock” the next day, which is Saturday.

All in all, a Classic Rockin’ Day!

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s GOVERNMENT MAN!

In the seemingly serene hamlet of Puktuk, Alberta, all that stirs the prairie grass is the Chinook wind. Or is it? No wait! An eddy of CIGARETTE SMOKE from a nearby bar of ill repute has wafted outside and besmirches the previously virginal landscape.

What scoundrels could be responsible for this dastardliness?

A cluster of scared and helpless Alberta citizens gather around the bar and stare in hope at the blue sky. When will GOVERNMENT MAN appear? Surely any minute now! There is a WORKPLACE VIOLATION going on and everyone knows that GOVERNMENT MAN cannot STAND it when people VIOLATE PROVINCIAL LEGISLATION AND/OR MUNICIPAL BYLAWS!

“When has GOVERNMENT MAN ever let us down before?” says little Trixie Tickletoots, knowing – even at her tender age of 14 – a rhetorical question when she hears one.

Meanwhile, inside Pisstank Tavern, poor Susie Muffjob, aged 33, is serving the motley crew of patrons, all the while inhaling thick, noxious fumes of deadly CIGARETTE SMOKE.

“Ah me!” she utters as she almost swoons. “How can I ever defend myself against these hordes of devilish nicotine fiends? There are six of them and only one of me! Oh!"

In between delivering another glass to Huck the One-Eyed and picking Denny the Legless out of his vomit, Susie furtively exits the bar.

“Where, oh where, is GOVERNMENT MAN?” she sighs, looking at the sky.

But the scourge of law-breakers and tax-dodgers does not appear. What could have happened to him?

“I hope ANARCHY MAN hasn’t gotten his fidgety little fingers on GOVERNMENT MAN and spray-painted a peace symbol on him, or worse, written the word ‘Listen’ across his face,” says Trixie Tickletoots, apprehensively.

“There’s nothing for it,” concludes Billy Bulginghead. “We must take matters into our own hands. We must get off our asses and send an E-MAIL to GOVERNMENT MAN!”

The resulting e-mail blasts an incendiary trail through cyberspace, arriving at the government server mere seconds later. Within only THREE DAYS it is redirected to the appropriate department, the Ministry of Health and Wellness. No sooner said than done, the e-mail is fired like a cannonball to the Alberta Alcohol and Drug Abuse Commission (AADAC). A team of two intrepid government workers are assigned to deal with this highly vexing case, and they are led by none another than…. GOVERNMENT MAN!

“We need to refer the citizens of Puktuk to a website,” declares GOVERNMENT MAN to his eager team of anarchy haters. “Also, we need to bring in our tobacco experts, researchers, and executive administrators.”

“If only the Puktuk residents could see GOVERNMENT MAN’s powers of DELEGATION!” says Bobby Bureaucrat, almost reverentially. “He could have taken on this job himself, but he FEARLESSLY SOLICITED HELP FROM THREE AADAC DIVISIONS!”

The downtown Edmonton office quickly becomes a hive of feverish activity. A response email is drafted. It is carefully scrutinized and revised. Three phone calls are made to the tobacco experts to obtain additional input. The response email is then e-mailed to research services who interrupt their water cooler chat to discuss it. The very next day, they return the draft with RUTHLESS EFFICIENCY, having made no changes. The latest draft is then brought to GOVERNMENT MAN. He eyes it over with his superhuman powers of observation.

“All I’d change about this draft is to include another website reference,” declares GOVERNMENT MAN.

“Holy shit!” yells Bobby Bureaucrat, unable to help himself. “I guess you have to be born on another planet to think up something as stunningly insightful as that. Thank you for your leadership, GOVERNMENT MAN!”

A mere twenty-eight days after the citizens of Puktuk begged GOVERNMENT MAN for help, a response scorches its way through the wireless Internet infrastructure and arrives at the computer of Billy Bulginghead. He summons the good citizens of Puktuk to listen to him read it aloud.

“Puktukkers! Behold the decree from GOVERNMENT MAN!”

There is a brief silence.

“What does it say? What does it say?” shouts Trixie Tickletoots, now unknowingly two weeks pregnant thanks to Garry the Goat-Fingerer.

Billy Bulginghead raises his head from the e-mail print-out and speaks to the crowd.

“According to this, GOVERNMENT MAN recommends that we visit a website to find out whether our municipal district has a smoking bylaw that exceeds the provisions of the Smoke-free Places Act. If it does, then we can inform a peace office of this fact and he/she can investigate the local workplace violation. If not, the Smoke-free Places Act prevails and our local workplace and/or public place must follow its provisions, which include restricting access to minors and posting the appropriate signage. He also refers us to the tobacco website developed by AADAC to inform citizens of the dangers of tobacco smoke!”

There is a long silence. A deer mouse, affectionately known locally by its Latin name, peromycus manicalatus, emerges from the stack of packing crates outside Pisstank Tavern, curious as to when the crowd will finally disperse and allow him to go off in search of seeds and grasses and his other favourite sources of nutrients. He is startled when the Puktuk crowd suddenly erupts in cheers and shouts of joy.

“Hoorah!" they yell. “That response is so impossible to understand that it could only be the work of GOVERNMENT MAN!”

And so to this very day, the denizens of Pisstank Tavern continue to smoke happily, and lucky Susie Muffjob has throat cancer. Meanwhile, the non-smoking residents of Puktuk prosper and thrive, safe in the knowledge that the ways of GOVERNMENT MAN will forever remain inscrutable and mysterious to them.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Paddlesmack Resident Seeks to Join Fight with Drugs

Paddlesmack resident, Larry Melchyk, aged 39, has written to the premier of Alberta to offer his assistance in the “Fight With Drugs.” The M.o.M.’s source at the Alberta Government has provided us with a copy of this letter. We now print it in its entirety, thus committing our first-ever violation of Alberta's Freedom of Information and Protection of Privacy (FOIP) Act.

Dear Premier Ed Stelmach:

As president of Canada’s “Meet Me at the Top” Clubs I want to inform you about some of the stuff I have been involved with to make sure Alberta kids don’t make some of the mistakes that I did when I was young and not smart like I am now. In local schoolyards here in Paddlesmack, I do workshops and sessions with kids warning them about some of the dangers of drugs like cocaine, marijuana, heroin, and the biggest menace of our times, crystal meth. I have an amazing rap pour with kids and so I can always find a way of making them respond to me.

Just a few words about my qualifications. I put on the Tribute Dinner for Wendy Dixie, the girl that got mauled by a grizzly bear. I also cheered Wendy on through her endurance race at the town fair log run. At the fair, my innovative new product of an ashtray that looks like a human skull was unveiled and a huge number of people thought it was a brilliant way of telling people that smoking can kill you.

What I propose now is no other than a total Fight With Drugs on every street corner and back alley in Alberta. I regret to inform you that this is a Fight that so far we have been losing. The drugs are winning, especially crystal meth. So many of our kids are hooked on this drug and our society risks becoming like zombies. Have you ever seen the effect of crystal meth on a healthy, normal, loving kid? One minute they are doing good in school and captain of the football team. The next minute they will chew off your face for another hit. Plus crystal meth scientifically puts holes in your brain. These holes can never be removed.

I have teamed up with health experts at the North American Centre for Disease Control (NACDC) through their advisor, Dr. Rodney Fields, at Washington DC, and discussed the neurobiological effects and the latest treatment methods. He is in agreement with me that we need to take some of these latest techniques into the Fight With Drugs in Alberta. I have not asked him yet, but I am sure that for a professional fee, he will personally come up here and oversee some of his strategies for helping kids get put in place. This is part of the reason why your help is so important, because “Meet Me at the Top” Clubs needs the funds to finance this.

But the Fight With Drugs doesn’t stop there. We also have to deal with the dealers who prey on young people like they are vultures. Have you ever met a dealer? I have. Believe me, they are not like you and I. They thrive on weakness and desperation. It’s like Shaking Hands with the Devil when you touch a drug dealer’s palm. Their blood is cold and their eyes are two black holes. I met a drug dealer once and I’m not in a hurry to repeat the experience.

What I’m saying is there is no point dealing with these people as if they are human beings. Canada’s justice system is a joke. So, you rape a woman eat her intestines? How about watching TV, smoking, and playing pool all day as a reward? All funded of course by Canadian Taxpayers. Sorry, but that doesn’t seem the best way to reward somebody who just went out of his way to rape a woman and eat her intestines. Nor is it a good way of rewarding somebody who just gave a kid some blow and has now enslaved that same kid for life.

You can’t be too tough on these people. Even execution isn’t tough enough. I recommend sending them to a country where they know how to deal with these types: Syria is a country that comes to mind. I’ve researched the things they do to criminals. Believe me, being forced to stay in a stress position for a day or two is no picnic. If Canada’s rich and privileged criminal drug dealers heard about even HALF of what goes on in a Syrian prison they would seriously think about getting another job!

These are just the very tips of the iceberg in my Fight With Drugs and is an overview of information I want to personally fill you in with when your busy schedule permits.

Keep it real and honest,


Larry Melchyk
President and CEO
“Meet Me at the Top” Clubs of Canada

News Bullets of the Day

In a bid to keep pace with our media competitors and to boost our youth readership, the M.o.M. is getting rid of its usual investigative journalism format. No longer will we provide analysis, research, or any evidence to support any of the things we say. Nor will we provide hard news. We will provide news as soft as a mountain of guano.

Here are today's news bullets, aimed to fill your head with holes like a block of Swiss cheese.

We would run a photo of the famous heiress but alas, we cannot. So you’ll just have to imagine her face. Still with us?

Apparently, Paris Hilton is not fond of the baby that recently emerged from the womb of celebrity-pal, Katie Holmes. Ms. Hilton said the following:

“Everyone else admires it, but I think it’s a drooling, shitting, weird, alien-looking thing.”

Hilton has announced she won’t attend functions where babies are present because they divert too much attention from her.

“Everyone stands around cooing and aahing at this little sack of saliva, and meanwhile, I’m flashing my vagina! Everyone goes, ‘Paris, we’ve all seen that before.’ What the hell?”

Ozzie Hamilton of Alice Springs, Australia, has decided to become a kangaroo. For many years, he had envied the prancing, dancing marsupials as they flitted about the rugged outback. He was especially jealous because while kangaroos had seemingly unlimited freedom, he was stuck behind a desk in an insurance broker’s office doing little more than waiting to retire.

“I feel like a man reborn,” he said, as he climbed into his kangaroo suit. “I can’t wait to join my fellow kangas and jump around.”

Hamilton added that he is dissatisfied with the foreign policy of the Australian government, especially its unwavering support for the war in Iraq.

“Once I’m a kangaroo, I won’t have to watch this tragedy unfold every night on my television screen. I’ll be busy eating grass and shrubs. I advise anyone who can’t handle the unrelenting negativity of politics to become a kangaroo. Or maybe a wombat.”

StatistiCon, the well-endowed research institute based in Facegag, Alberta, has just confirmed what many have suspected all along. Immediately following a successful haircut, respondents reported experiencing an average 34% increase in self esteem. However, following an unsuccessful haircut, respondents experienced a 66% drop in self-esteem.

“The stakes are clearly very high,” explained StatistiCon researcher. “Get the right haircut, and you’ll be filled with bonhomie and buoyant good spirits. Get the wrong haircut, and you might end up having to double your Prozac intake.”

Today's unsolicited opinion of the day comes from Jack Payton of Gagandrape, Alberta. He wants to draw everyone's attention to the issue of smoking in public places.

"I know the new goverment (sic) wants to ban smoking everywhere now and I'm asking, when exactly did Alberta become communist? I never voted to go communist. Why can't people do what they want? My kid's got better sense than those suits in Edmonton. This fragrant (sic) disregard for the rights of smoker's (sic) is no laughing matter."

Jack Payton's doctor informed the M.o.M. that the 49 year-old welder has advanced emphysema as well as throat cancer, so it looks like death will have the last laugh!

A new poll commissioned by CNBC has found that only 3% of North Americans can find Iran on a map and an equal number need a map to find their own ass. But the good news is that a healthy 100% of North Americans plan on eating this week, which contrasts favourably to the paltry 60% of Burundians who will eat this week.

And that was the day that was!

Bush Announces New Iraq Strategy to Supplement Last Week’s Strategy

Frustrated by the lacklustre response to his announcement of a new Iraq strategy last week, President George W. Bush has announced another new strategy. At a hastily-scheduled press conference held in front of a Black Hawk helicopter in a hanger at Ramstein Air Base, Germany, President Bush explained that his new strategy will entail killing America’s enemies himself.

“I was damn good at the video game Street Fighter back in the day – nobody else in my family could taken me down, not even Jeb – so I figure that with my brilliant hand-eye coordination, I’ll be right at home with our boys in Baghdad,” he said.

Bush also cited his successful comportment at a heretofore unpublicized bar brawl in Waco, Texas in 1970 as another qualification for his battle readiness.

“This dude who called himself Chester ‘The Molester’ Biggs tried to grab Laura’s ass. I took a glass of Bud and poured it down his shirt. He tried to sucker punch me but I kneed him in the gut and dropped him. Then I kicked his head in. Then my dad pulled some strings to keep me out of police custody. Man, those were the days.”

When he arrives in Baghdad, Bush plans to shoot as many enemy combatants as possible as he pilots his Black Hawk helicopter one hundred feet above street level.

“I’ll keep America safe from terrorism by killing the terrorists,” he explained.

Just then, Bush’s chief ally in the War on Terror, UK Prime Minister Tony Blair, made an unannounced visit to the podium.

“I want everyone to know that I’m with you all the way, George,” said Mr. Blair.

“Yo, Tony,” said Bush. “Why you bum rush the show? We no black-talk in months and now you be jive-talking at MY press conference? Get back in your kennel, homey!”

“Please don’t hit me,” Blair grovelled. “Hoooo!”

“Hey, Tone, I boned my lady four times last night. I beat your record,” Bush proclaimed proudly.

“Wraaaa!” yelped Tony. “At least let me join your tour of Iraq, Georgie. I want to win this war. I need a legacy. My days as England's alpha male are almost over.”

Blair beat his chest and pursed his lips defiantly but even this display could not hide the imminent onset of tears. The bizarre spectacle of the gesticulating prime minister was soon removed from the press conference by security guards, leaving the president free to field questions from the press.

“How long will your tour of duty in Iraq last, Mr. President?” asked one reporter.

“I’m gonna stay until we’ve killed all the terrorists,” Bush replied. “It’s that simple.”

“By terrorists, do you mean al-Qaeda, Shia militants, Sunni insurgents, Saddam loyalists, or Iranian and Syrian provocateurs?” asked the reporter.

“Hold your horses,” Bush snapped angrily. “Tryin’ to confuse people’s heads with this confusing talk is not going to end terror. Only killin’ terrorists is going to end terror. Our mission is simple. Kill the terrorists.”

President Bush declined to answer any further questions because no other reporters had been vetted by the State Department. He announced that there would be a photo-op from the comfort of the hanger for the benefit of the press.

Bush climbed into his Black Hawk helicopter, successfully buckled his seat belt, then was heard asking where the button was to close the “hatch thingy.”

“We went over this ten times in training!” an unseen voice hissed. “You can’t be serious!”

“I am serious, man. I gotta close the hatch thingy! Then I gotta start the rotor thingies goin’ round. What’s this thingy here? Whoa! Hold on!”

The president was then catapulted thirty feet into the air. He became lodged between two girders of the hanger roof.

“Lemme down! Lemme down!” he cried out. “This metal’s real sharp in my jugular.”

A German fire and rescue crew appeared on the scene and took half an hour to liberate the American Commander in Chief. It is understood that Mr. Bush is currently in the Ramstein military prison recuperating from abrasions to the neck, head and shoulders.

Joey Gibbering Elects to “Go Native”

Joey Gibbering, a lifelong resident of Edmonton, Alberta, decided this week to “go native” after watching Mel Gibson’s film, Apocalypto. The comic book salesman wants to discard his khaki pants in favour of a loin cloth, stick a bone through his nose, and retreat to an idyllic village where he can hunt, fish, feast, and fornicate frequently.

“I am envious of the life of the savage,” said Gibbering when we caught up to him at the piercing shop, where the painful process of inserting a bone into his nose was just beginning. “I reject a life of materialism, convenience and comfort. From now on, I’m going to prance around fires, stare death in the face, sow my wild oats liberally, and howl to the moon.”

Gibbering was deeply moved by the early scenes of Apocalypto, which depicted the lives of plucky Jaguar Paw and has friends and family prior to being killed, maimed, raped or imprisoned by Mayan attackers. Gibbering even envies the savages that died, because “to die honourably” is “a good death.”

“I don’t want to slowly rot in a seniors’ home as nurses wipe drool from my face and excavate poop from my bottom,” said Gibbering. “If I’m going to die at all, I want to be shackled and led to the top of a Mayan temple, get my heart ripped out and shoved in my face so I can watch it still twitching, then get my head chopped off and kicked down the steps to the chanting crowd. That’s a heroic death.”

Gibbering also anticipates running breathlessly at the speed of a Geo Metro through the jungle, fleeing his pursuers for days at a time, stopping only to throw a beehive in self-defence or jump over a 100-foot waterfall or narrowly escape the vicious claws of a panther.

“Bring it on!” said Gibbering.

Gibbering wants to make it clear that unlike Smoke Frog in Apocalypto, he is not infertile. “My wang works. I’ve had two illegitimate children, and I’m only twenty-nine.”

Gibbering is currently seeking a woman who will expose her “sleek, tanned” breasts liberally and bear him many children and, if necessary, spend days living at the bottom off a pit waiting for him to return from his adventures, even if it means she must fend off howler monkeys and floodwater.

“Too many women these days lack that sense of romance,” said Gibbering. “If I’m going to become Panther Fang, I need my Mrs. Fang.”

Gibbering proceeded to leap out of the chair, tear off his clothes, revealing his loin cloth. As his bone piercing oozed blood, he ran around Kingsway Garden Mall shouting, “Where’s my Mrs. Fang? Think you’re woman enough for me? Look at my loincloth! I’ll eat a tapir raw.”

Gibbering then encountered his first danger as a savage. Two burly security guards blocked his path. Gibbering head-butted the first one but there was no beehive handy to throw at the other one. He found himself unceremoniously wrestled to the floor and sat upon by a 220-pound high school drop-out.

“Hanal!” yelled out Gibbering in his rudimentary Mayan. He kicked his naked legs.

“Police services have been called,” said the guard. “You better go quietly or else they will throw the book at you.”

“Where’s a cobra to bite your neck when I need one?” Gibbering lamented out loud.

Gibbering was released by the police later in the day. He is scheduled to appear in court next month on charges of assault, public mischief and public obscenity. He has been fired from Captain Comicbook.

Our Self-Diagnostic Test: It is Remarkably E-Z

To start off 2007 on the right note, M.o.M. has a self-diagnostic test that will determine whether or not you are weird. As any 13 year-old girl can tell you, being weird is not cool. To increase your cool factor, you should strive to decrease your weird factor. That way, you can fully enjoy 2007 as a cool person as opposed to a weird person. It’s E-Z!

1. Do you own an iPod?
a) Yes
b) No
If you selected b, you are weird.

2. Do you think having body hair is strange as well as gross?
a) Yes
b) No
If you selected b, you are weird.

3. Do you ever use scientific terminology in a casual conversation with friends?
a) Yes
b) No
If you selected a, you are like, totally weird. We won’t talk to you if you keep using words like entropy. You belong to that branch of weirdness called nerdiness.

OK, now we move on to the more hard part of the test. Notice, though, that this test is less hard than a Math 9 exam, which is good, because Math is really hard and it sucks! In this part of the test, we’ll see how you behave in social situations.

4. Your best friend just dissed your boyfriend, saying he doesn’t have nice abs like you claimed he did. What should you do?
a) Tell your friend to stop being shallow.
b) Agree with your friend and ditch your boyfriend and find a new boyfriend who more closely resembles Usher.
c) Develop an eating disorder to help cope with the stress.
If you selected a, you are weird. If you selected b, you are a winner. If you selected c in addition to b, you are totally cool!

5. Your friend wants to go shopping at the mall. What should you do?
a) uh, is this, like, even a serious question?

6. You have developed a rare form of juvenile cancer and all your hair has fallen out. What should you do?
a) Avoid contact with everyone, like, forever!
b) Embark on a new life of selfless acts, such as working among the poor of Calcutta, so that you will be judged by what you do and not by your physical attributes.
If you even understood the point of b, you are, like, a freak!

7. Some ugly guy says he wants to go on a date with you. What should you do?
a) Tell the pervert to get lost.
b) Get to know him as a person.
Hold on, get to known him as a person? Did you actually say something that cheesy? Gross!

8. A super-hot guy says he wants to go on a date with you. What should you do?
a) String him along for a while so that he will spend lots of money on hot dates as well as clothes, then eventually give in and kiss him, and then giggle.
b) Question why someone displaying just as little charm as the ugly guy should be given any particular preference.
If you selected b, you have short-circuited this test. That fails to compute. Weird weird weird. What are you going to do next? Talk politics? Read a book? Go for a walk outside? You are such a loser. Do you pick your nose, too?

That is the end of this E-Z test. If you scored top marks, 2007 is going to be a good year for you, full of new clothes, many admirers, and lots of giggling! If you scored less than 4 out of 8, your 2007 is going to completely suck and you will become depressed.

Have a cool year!

Travails of Sufferer of “Anxiety of Influence”

This week, the M.o.M. commences a sporadic feature in which a spotlight is cast upon a previously unknown person in order to illuminate the sundry activities of his or her life for the general amusement of our readership. This week’s lucky candidate is Vincent Fairbairn, a 38 year-old employee of Movie Station in Oliver Square, Edmonton.

In his own words, Fairbairn is a “victim of his lofty aspirations.” He has aspired to be, in this order, a rock star, a film director and a novelist. So far, he has failed to accomplish anything more than incur debt, lose friends, and become bitter.

“But I am a romantic,” admitted Fairbairn, “And I will not abandon my artistic pursuits – not for love or money.”

The M.o.M. offered him $20,000 to give up on writing his current novel.

“Are you serious?” Fairbairn inquired.

The M.o.M. politely informed him that we were not serious.

“Scoundrels!” Fairbairn hissed, in a surly fashion. He then announced that he would no longer be cooperating with the M.o.M. for this article.

“Whatever,” said the M.o.M. “We’ll cobble together an article by weaving together strands of rumour and innuendo to arrive at something approaching hearsay.”

“You do whatever the hell you want,” Fairbairn retorted. “You couldn’t possibly make me look like a bigger shithead than I already am.”

When the M.o.M. first mentioned Fairbairn’s name to his former friend, Jules Timberton, the heavy-duty mechanic of 36 spit out the word “loser!”

“I lent that guy five grand to make a vampire movie. What an idiot I was. Consider the premise. Blood of the Ancients was written by, directed by, and starring Vincent Fairbairn, who was even then – seven years ago – not much to look at, and yet we’re supposed to believe that he is able to travel through time and seduce, for his demonic purposes, Cleopatra, Boadicea and Mary Queen of Scots. All the money went to paying the amateur actresses, who were local strippers. Then Vince gets a crush on the girl playing Cleopatra, keeps making out with her even after the camera has stopped rolling, gets slapped, and the project slowly implodes from there. And I’m back in the oil patch, busting my ass, knowing I’ll never see a cent of that money again.”

Fairbairn’s attempt to be a rock star was equally costly and unfortunate. Gary Glitter (no relation to the convicted pedophile), the booking manager of Sidetrack Café, remembers when Fairbairn’s hardcore band, Conformity Sux, landed a gig at his venue in the early nineties.

“He sweet-talked me into it,” said Glitter. “It was the worst booking of my life.”

Somehow, after drinking six pints of Traditional Ale and smoking two joints, Fairbairn became convinced that an A&R man from Columbia records would be in the audience that night. No one quite knows where Fairbairn got the idea. But when Conformity Sux took the stage, Fairbairn gave the most incendiary performance of his life. He screamed himself hoarse during the first number, “Fuck the Clergy,” and gasped his way through the second number, “Death to the Neo-Cons.” During the third and final number, Fairbairn decided that his band should destroy their instruments. He smashed his Fender into the stage, snapping its neck. He then proceeded to attack the instruments of the drummer, bassist, and keyboardist. Despite his bandmates’ best attempts to protect their equipment, Fairbairn’s destructive frenzy caused thousands of dollars in damage, including to the Sidetrack itself. From the estimates of various sources, this performance cost Fairbairn three thousand dollars, much of which had to be recovered through small claims court.

“Shit happens,” concludes Glitter with a shrug.

Fairbairn has been busy pollinating his latest project for five years but it is still no nearer to bearing fruit. The project is a fantasy trilogy called Doom of the Damned, and according to Fairbairn’s co-worker at Movie Station, Pedro Gonzales, the finished tome is expected to surpass two thousand pages. Fairbairn reportedly carries the entire manuscript with him everywhere and as a result, has developed severe back problems. However, a crisis has beset this latest project. When Pedro read Part One of Doom of the Damned, he observed that it was a lot like Lord of the Rings.

“Only it wasn’t, like, as poetic, and stuff,” he said.

Fairbairn, by all reports, subsequently “hit the wall” with Doom of the Damned, and has found out courtesy of Wikipedia that he is suffering from the “anxiety of influence.” He has recently been heard pondering out loud, “Will I ever emerge from Tolkien’s voluminous shadow?”

Pedro Gonzales does not agree that Fairbairn's chief problem is "anxiety of influence."

"He just needs to get laid more."

Mark Middleton: an Obituary

Mark Middleton was killed last Friday in a freak shark attack while snorkelling over the Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Australia. He is survived by his wife Trudy, and sons Mervin and Max. Middleton was generally regarded as the world’s most mild-mannered man. When he was dragged under the surface of the water by the tiger shark that proceeded to chew off his legs, arms and head, Middleton’s last words, according to onlookers, were “Oh dear.”

It is indeed remarkable that Middleton achieved the level of fame that he did, since he never sought to be anything but shy, retiring, polite, unassuming, and quiet. Above all, he strove to always avoid even the slightest suggestion of hyperbole.

“I think I might rather quite love you a bit, perhaps,” were the words that prefaced has proposal to Trudy in 1991.

A year later, when asked by the Reverend Gordon Gambon whether he took this woman to be his wife, to love and honour for the rest of his life, Middleton replied, “I do believe that I do.” It was the most succinct sentence of his life and Trudy was moved to tears. She kissed Mark on the lips, but only briefly, because she knew that he wouldn’t want to make a scene.

The couple were walking down a dark alley in Ipswich a few months later, having spent the night enjoying one pint each in the Queen’s Legs – Middleton’s favourite pub. Two hooded men with knives attacked them and asked for all their money. One of the hoods threatened to slit Middleton’s throat.

“It really shouldn’t be necessary to do something as dramatic as all that,” said Middleton. “If you wouldn’t mind withdrawing the blade from my throat, I will ensure that you receive the twenty pounds that I currently possess in cash, and we can conclude this rather unpleasant affair as amicably as possible.”

The hooded men were so impressed by the courtesy and respect shown them that they immediately abandoned the attempted mugging and turned themselves in to the police. They confessed to a three-year crime spree that included a bank robbery, a car jacking, a home invasion, and interfering with a farm animal.

“Middleton was just such a decent man that I knew I had to bring my horrible and hurtful ways to an end,” said one of the criminals interviewed afterwards.

Thirteen years later, Middleton manifested his first and only episode of irritation. His son, Max, stole the family car and drove it into a seniors’ home, causing over ten thousand pounds of damage. Middleton arrived at the hospital where his son was being treated for minor cuts and bruises and stood in an agitated state over the bed.

“I do believe that I am rather cross with you over this very unfortunate incident,” he said. “I am afraid that I will have to take some rather punitive measures in light of your transgression. Henceforward, your pocket money is reduced by thirty-three percent. And I do intend to keep it at this lower rate indefinitely. Yes, indefinitely! The rate will be reviewed in the future, but with no guarantee that it will be increased. I hope, my son, that you will learn a lesson from this.”

Middleton’s mild-mannered and polite nature never failed him, not even in bed. When once he accidentally ejaculated prematurely and besmirched Trudy’s nightdress, he was prompt and sincere in his expression of regret.

“Please accept my apologies for this accident,” he said. “Be aware that I will take great pains to ensure that it isn’t repeated. Would you mind awfully if I make amends somehow? Maybe by pleasuring you orally, if that would suit you?”

As an accountant at a small light-bulb assembly plant, Middleton was never rich, but nor was he poor. The holiday in Australia was the first outside of the British Isles for Middleton and his family, and was the result of four years of patient and prudent saving. Sadly, the Middletons only enjoyed two days of leisure before Mark so tragically lost his life.

“I will miss him,” said Trudy in an interview with the Canberra Times on the day of the incident. “It will take a while to get used to Mark not being around.”

In her first interview with the British press upon arrival at Heathrow a week later, Trudy said, “Well, I’m used to him not being around now.”

Creative Talents of Ed Stelmach Discovered

The M.o.M. has discovered that during his nine years in Premier Ralph Klein's cabinet, Ed Stelmach, Alberta’s premier-elect, found time to manage his ministerial responsibilities as well as write and illustrate three books for young children. Meanie and the Mousers, Fatty and the Freeloaders, and Nutty and the Noodle-heads are delightful morality tales and also thinly disguised portrayals of Klein and the political forces at work in Alberta and Canada during the nineties and early zeroes.

“Everyone says how quiet and unassuming Steady Eddie is,” said Stelmach’s long-time friend, Health Minister Iris Evans. “Turns out that while Ed was quietly nodding and smiling during cabinet meetings, pretending that he was a harmless oaf, secretly he was making notes in his head for another stealthily satirical children's classic."

In Meanie and the Mousers, a sleek tomcat – a caricature of Klein – vows to get rid of all the vermin in the barn who are stealing the yummy-yummies, and with his team of enthusiastic mousers, Meanie accomplishes just that. The rats, weasels, mice and other vermin flee in terror and afterwards, the pile of yummy-yummies grows until it reaches the roof.

“Let’s eat!” Meanie cheers happily at the book’s end.

In Fatty and the Freeloaders, the main character, Fatty, is now a bull mastiff, who valiantly guards the gates to a large apple orchard. Along comes a poodle speaking with a bizarre and suspicious French accent.

“Allo zere, cute little deug,” says the poodle, who is called Frederic. “What leuvely apples. Can my freeloaders and me ‘ave some?”

“Hands off our apples!” woofs Fatty, angrily. “They’re for me and my pals.”

“But deugs cannot eat apples,” retorts Frederic, cunningly.

“Get back or I’ll chomp your frilly tail off!” says Fatty, lunging at the poodle.

The remainder of the book consists of Frederic scheming to overthrow Fatty and raid the orchard, but he is always thwarted, because Fatty is so tough and smart. At the novel’s end, Fatty and his canine friends frolic and marvel at the beautiful apple trees, whose leaves are turning an autumnal yellow.

The final book in the series, Nutty and the Noodle-heads, would appear to mark a distinct shift in Stelmach’s sympathies, and may explain why he never sought to publish his marvellous works. The main character, Nutty, is a clown, who enjoys prancing about in lavish outfits and saying unpredictable things such as, “Jabber jabber!” or “Anyone can become a clown!” or “Behold my Clown Legacy Fund!” The antics of his friends, the Noodle-heads, are even more bizarre. They stick noodles up their noses and in their ears so as to deafen themselves to Nutty’s gibberings and to block out the stench of Nutty’s soiled undershorts. But all the while, they gather around the circus ring and applaud Nutty as he makes a total ass of himself. Meanwhile, an escaped elephant bearing ten vats of crude oil is charging towards the big top tent, hell-bent on destroying everything inside it.

The last page reads, “The end?”

Renowned psychologist, Dr. Cyril E. Ness, has examined the trilogy and concludes that “the unseen hero of the final book is clearly the author himself. Eddie has set the scene to come in and save everyone from their collective lunacy.”

For the sake of Alberta as well as expectant children everywhere, we can only hope that this is what Steady Eddie actually intends!

The Quest to Find the Meaning of a Word

At the ominous hour of 11:11am yesterday morning, Gavin Gimbler’s English professor, Dr. Johnson, sowed the seeds of chaos in the usually serene life of the 20 year-old student. The rotund, cheerful professor, a member of faculty at the University of Alberta since 1978, said,

“The title of the Thomas Pynchon quarterly, Pynchon Notes, has always struck me as strangely prosaic.”

From that moment on, young Gimbler’s day was plunged into doubt and, at times, despair. What on earth was the meaning of this odd and almost foreign-sounding word, “prosaic”? It sort of rhymed with “mosaic," but while everyone and his dog knows what mosaic means, what on earth could its bizarre doppelganger signify?

Gimbler ceased to have any thoughts of Pynchon. It was as if a stick had become stuck in the spokes of his brain. All through the lunch hour, as his friends discussed inebriation, Survivor, and syphilis, Gimbler remained silent.

Finally, the torment of ignorance became too much for him to bear.

“Do any of you know what prosaic means?” Gimbler asked.

His friends stared at him blankly. For almost a minute, none of them said a word.

Finally, the conversation resumed. “So anyway, as I was saying, this chick with the rash…”

It was as if Gimbler had said nothing at all. He felt that he’d committed something of a social faux pas. He resolved to never again make a fool of himself with his big mouth – at least not in front of his friends.

At 13:09, Gimbler realized he had already missed the first nine minutes of his afternoon economics class. He decided to skip the remainder and instead journey down Whyte Avenue to consult the visiting Buddhist scholar, Lama Olé Nydahl, about the meaning of the strange new word in his life.

“Please Lama Olé,” said Gimbler. “Can you enlighten me on the meaning of the word prosaic?”

The Danish lama smiled and then sighed.

“Sadly I cannot,” he replied. “English is not my first language. There is, however, a Danish word that means ‘mind orgasm,’ and that is what Buddhism at essence is, young man. It is a mind orgasm.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Gimbler.

He thanked the lama for his wisdom and then boarded a bus to Calgary to visit the premier of Alberta, Ralph Klein, at his modest suburban home.

“Please Mr. Klein, as the most powerful man in this province, at least for the next eleven days, can you educate me on what prosaic means?”

Mr. Klein put down his job offer from the nuclear consortium, Safe, Silent & Sexy Inc., and pondered the question.

“Young man, where did you hear this word uttered?”

“At the University of Alberta,” replied Gimbler.

“Well then, in my opinion, it’s safe to assume that it’s not really relevant to anything,” Klein said. “Don’t worry about it. Get out there and make some money, kid! Don’t you know there’s an oil boom going on?”

Night was falling, and Gimbler became aware that he was unlikely to get back to Edmonton in time for dinner with the family. While he was wandering around in search of lodgings for the night, he stumbled across the Tooth Fairy preparing to deliver a shiny quarter to the home of little Stacey Gubbins.

“Excuse me, Miss Fairy,” said Gimbler. “Can you tell me what prosaic means?”

The Tooth Fairy shook her head sadly and fluttered her wings with agitation.

“I typically only encounter humans with a reading level of grade six or less,” she replied. “I can tell you what pooh means, but not, sadly, prosaic.”

“Fair enough,” said Gimbler. “All the best with Stacey Gubbins. Word on the street is she lost a molar.”

“She did indeed,” said the Tooth Fairy. “And an incisor!”

It was now very cold and dark indeed, and Gimbler feared that if he stayed any longer on the winter streets of Calgary, he would succumb to hypothermia. It was a very desperate situation. He should have packed a down-filled coat for his quest. But sadly, the warmest garment on his shivering body was a fleece sweater.

“This quest might well kill me,” he lamented to no one in particular. “And so far, it's been an utterly useless pursuit.”

“—Almost quixotic, one might say,” said a voice from the darkness.

"Wha- what was that?” Gimbler stuttered, startled.

Emerging from the shadows came the shadowy form of the Word Wizard. Unlike the Tooth Fairy, he was old and unkempt, but the lustre of his wand and his golden locks of hair were proof of his former glory.

“Who are you?” asked Gimbler.

“I am the Word Wizard,” said the Word Wizard. “I have been offering my spells for many a year, but sadly, nowadays, most people do not want them."

Gimbler felt a twinge of pity for the noble wizard.

“Well, I need one of your spells,” he said.

“You do?” said the Word Wizard.

“Indeed I do, sir. What does prosaic mean?”

Lo and behold, without hesitation, the Word Wizard conjured up the meaning of the word that had heretofore been as elusive to Gimbler as the Holy Grail was to Sir Lancelot.

"Ancient sorcery lives!" exclaimed Gimbler, incredulous.

“Observe, son, that my spells are invaluable to any contemporary man or woman of sophistication," said the Word Wizard with growing pride.

Gimbler agreed, “You are about the smartest entity, human or otherwise, that I've encountered all day."

“Share this message with your brethren," suggested the Word Wizard. "I have need of some help in marketing my particular and rather idiosyncratic skills."

"I'll keep an eye out for you," said Gimbler.

He thanked the Word Wizard, who in turn, wished him well. He then found, by complete accident, a parked car with the keys in the ignition, the motor still running, and no apparent owner in the vicinity. Feeling a little guilty, he jumped inside, and proceeded to drive away – noticing as he did so that there was enough gas to take him all the way home.

“What a stroke of good luck!” he chortled. "Now I don't have to freeze to death in the suburbs of Calgary for the sake of a word that, ironically, merely means 'commonplace and dull!'"

Sadly, Gimbler did not hear the outraged voice of the Word Wizard, who was scrambling to catch up to the car. The wizard's lanky legs were working frantically, but alas, he suddenly slipped and fell into a snowdrift.

“That’s my car, you scoundrel!" he cried out. "Stop, you crook, you criminal, you kleptomaniac, you underhanded miscreant!”

M.o.M.’s Guide to the PC Leadership Race

Cancel all your weekend commitments! There is only one commitment that matters this weekend and the M.o.M. is here to breathlessly inform you all about it. Unless you’ve been hiding in a gulch or a gully, you will know, of course, that we’re talking about the Tremendously Exciting Vote for Alberta’s Next Pater Familias – aka – the Progressive Conservative Leadership Race!

Girls, put down your Ken dolls – you will soon have a new male role model to hero worship. Behold the M.o.M.’s guide to this historical event, which for your handy reference, includes a guide to all the candidates we could remember! Unless you are a severely abnormal Alberta – ie. a communist or a vegan – TOMORROW YOU MUST VOTE FOR ONE OF THESE EXCITING MEN OF THE FUTURE.

Candidate: Mark Norris
Age: Middle-aged
Slogan: I’m from Edmonton not Calgary!
M.o.M. Analysis: Mark’s main accomplishment to date has been reducing his weight from a stunning 340 pounds to a lithe 250 pounds. Vote for him or he’ll sit on your face! And what of his professional accomplishments? He got elected in 2001, immediately became a cabinet minister, and did such an effective job that he lost his job three years later. Plus he openly admits to looking at porn. That’s the kind of frankness Albertans can expect from Mark.
Recommendation: Vote for him if he promises to lend you Good Girls Take it From Behind vols III to XIV.

Candidate: Jim Dinning
Age: Late middle-aged
Slogan: I’m gonna win… hence this confident grin
M.o.M. Analysis: If Jim doesn’t win, he’s going to be very Angry Indeed for having spent the last decade being the Heir Apparent. Boy, are those corporate boardroom meetings going to be tense! But not to worry, Jim will win because, well, everyone’s been saying he will win since forever and we believe them! Interesting obscure fact: Jim was Finance Minister for Alberta back in the early Cretaceous period. Thanks to the demise of countless dinosaurs, he was able to help Ralph balance the budget. How did the Economic Genius do this? Well, when billions of oil revenue came in, he refrained from spending it all and borrowing more for no reason. What a good idea! If Martha and Henry won the lottery and then cunningly paid off all their debt, could we also call them Economic Geniuses?
Recommendation: Think before you defy destiny.

Candidate: Dave “Bruiser” Hancock
Age: Middle-aged, but sporadically hiding it well
Slogan: I’m angry that no one paid attention to me until yesterday.
Alternate slogan: I’m also from Edmonton!
M.o.M. Analysis: The only man with hands softer than that other famous cake-eater, Marie Antoinette. Yes, everyone knows Dave likes tucking into a good pastry. Don’t refuse him his pastry or else he’ll use his legal learning to argue very convincingly why you should most certainly refrain from doing so! But being argumentative is not Dave’s style, unless you ignore him. Then he might well take that pastry out of his mouth for a second and throw a crumb at you! Hazzat! “I hope that crumb stings like the dickens!” he’ll say.
Recommendation: Say: “How about we share that pastry?” Next: Run.

Candidate: Ted Morton
Age: Professorial age
Slogan: This dirty scumbag country plus all its dirty scumbag provinces better leave Alberta the hell alone!
M.o.M. Analysis: Ted has what it takes to boldly lead Alberta into the 50’s. The 1950’s, that is! Whenever somebody mentions homosexuals, Ted looks like he’s ready to kill one with his own bare hands! Ted wants more than anything to pass a law whereby schoolchildren, if subjected to the word “gay” meaning anything more than “cheerful,” will be saved by a squad of Parental Enforcers, who will spirit them out of the classroom and back to the God-fearing household, where, naturally, the TV has been kicked in, the computer dumped out the window, and the radio set is programmed permanently to 630 CHED. In case you thought Ted was just a dumb throwback, think again. He used to teach Political Science!
Recommendation: If Ted sees you carrying your ballot all fey like that, he’s gonna rip your head off and shit down your neck! Whatever you do, don’t let him see you doing it!

Leadership Race Q&A

Q: Are there any other candidates?
A: Yes.

Q: Can the M.o.M. enlighten me about the other candidates?
A: Well, one of them is called Lyle Oberg. He knows a lot about “skeletons in the closet” and he also knows that someone working for one of the other candidates has done bad stuff, but he can’t name which candidate or what bad stuff they did. How exactly can the M.o.M. shed light on this fetid swamp? One of the other candidates is called Ed Stelmach. He seems nice enough. It would be a shame wasting any pixels on such poor satirical material. Another candidate is a gimp. Not even the M.o.M. is going there! Plus, he’s not going to win. Only people who become gimps by virtue of drinking solidly for decades earn Albertans' trust!

Q: How exciting is it going to be to live under the regime of the new Premier?
A: In 2002, there was a film called FUBAR produced in Calgary. It depicted the lives of head-bangers, Terry and Dean, who spent their time chugging Pilsner and destroying campsite grounds and falling over. In the sequel, scheduled to begin filming in 2007, they have become millionaires, but endearingly have not changed their leisure activities in the slightest. This, friends, is what you can expect writ large in the New Alberta, if everything goes according to plan.

Communicating Made Easier with Hilarious T-Shirts

Marvin Middling, aged 23, of Edmonton, announced today that thanks to a recent spending spree, he now owns a large number of T-shirts that can effectively communicate his thoughts and preferences on a wide range of personal, social, and cultural subjects. For example, his T-shirt bearing the wording, “I Got to First Base,” will indicate to others that at some point in his history, Marvin touched a woman.

When asked by assembled reporters at his hastily-scheduled news conference about the point of all this, the Grant MacEwan music student paused, fidgeted with his ear, and then mumbled, “It’s, you know, funny.”

Middling is equally amused by his T-shirt that depicts the silhouette of a naked woman straddling an upright pole, accompanied by the text, “I Support Single Mothers,” which Middling sees as a clever reference to his fondness for attending strip clubs. Middling appears to be particularly amused by the prospect of women being abused and abandoned by their husbands, left footing the bill for their children, and finding no other recourse for survival except making their vagina into target practice for men throwing coins. Middling’s own girlfriend, Sharona, concedes that this is hilarious.

“Boys will be boys,” she smiled, as she stood supportively at Middling’s side.

The real knee-slapper in Middling’s T-shirt collection is one he purchased in 2002, which says, “Shy Guy, Big Dick.” Shortly after purchasing this T-shirt, Middling met his current girlfriend, who secretly wants to marry him. Middling concedes that without the aid of this T-shirt, Sharona might never have picked him out from the crowd at Cowboys nightclub.

“I was so fucked up beyond all recognition that I couldn’t talk,” said Middling. “My T-shirt did the talking for me.”

For her part, Sharona likes to wear a T-shirt which says, “Will Work for Shoes,” which she admits suits her personality perfectly.

“Everyone knows I love shoes,” she confessed, brimming with pride. “I have more than one hundred pairs of shoes. I haven’t even worn some of them!”

Besides wearing hilarious T-shirts, Middling’s other hobbies including drinking, sleeping, and watching the hysterical series of online reality shows, “Bum Fights,” in which homeless people are given money to fight each other, injure themselves by performing reckless stunts, or otherwise degrade themselves on camera.

“I saw this one show where they gave a crackhead five bucks to take a dump on a street corner,” Middling reported. “It was a laugh riot.”

When he graduates from music, Middling hopes to obtain an education degree from the University of Alberta and become a music teacher.

“I love children,” said Middling. “I think as a teacher, kids will connect with me because of my sense of humour.”

Middling admits that there will be some T-shirts he will have to refrain from wearing once he finds himself around Grade 6 students for most of the day. For example, his T-shirt that says, “Everyone is Entitled to be Stupid But You’re Abusing the Privilege,” will have to stay in the closet.

“It’s pure comedy to wear a T-shirt that randomly insults people in the street but unfortunately they’re still a bunch of tight-asses about that kind of shit at Edmonton Public Schools,” Middling admitted.

Middling’s friend Harvey wears a T-shirt that for comic genius surpasses anything Middling himself wears. Harvey is a weightlifter and when he attends the University of Alberta gym he proudly sports a T-shirt that says, “Don’t Ask Me if I Take Steroids and I Won’t Call You a Pencil-Necked Bastard.”

“I really like that one because Harvey actually does pop steroids like candy, so if anyone ever took offence to his T-shirt, Harvey could punch their nose in and stamp on their face, which would make me laugh 'til I puke!”

After the news conference, Sharona had wanted to go to dinner but Middling declined, saying he was going to spend the evening getting “totally shit-faced” with his friends.

“Boys will be boys!” Sharon repeated, and started making plans to have coffee with her respectful and articulate friend Kevin, who secretely yearns for Sharona, but is well-aware that he lacks the requisite stupidity, selfishness -- and hilarious T-shirts! -- to win her love.

Breaking Shattering Election Update Special Exclusive! Newsflash Excitement Tits!

President George Bush, whose Republican Party suffered severe losses to the Democrats in yesterday’s American election, secretly blames his advisor, Karl Rove, for the political calamity.

“Where was your voodoo magic?” Bush asked Rove, who is credited with winning practically every election he has ever been involved with. “What about all those tricks you said you had up your sleeve, like gerrymandering the electoral districts, rigging the voting machines, harassing the blacks, push-polling, harassing the Latinos, stuffing ballots down your pants to look more confident, legal challenges, harassing the Apache?”

The list of questions was virtually endless. Mr. Rove eventually totally lost his shit. “Go ask God for your own magic, you ungrateful chimp,” he retorted.

“That’s it,” Bush declared. “I know what happened. You forgot yesterday’s 8:04am prayer meeting. You have angered God, you fool!”

Meanwhile, Donald Rumsfeld has been demoted from Secretary of Defence to coach of the White House Little League Soccer Junior ‘B’ Team. The first challenge for the Eagles under the new regime will be their match against the Camels, a less well-funded yet more aggressive team that currently stands at the bottom of the division but has recently enjoyed three consecutive victories.

“What we know about the Camels is that there are known unknowns in that team who might make themselves known when we least expect it and then we might know that the knowns we thought we knew are totally unknowable,” Rumsfeld explained in his first meeting with the plucky Eagles, whose average age is ten.

“But don’t worry,” said Rumsfeld. “If I see you guys are in trouble, I’ll suspend the league’s rulebook, detain the Camel's players, hogtie ‘em, chain ‘em to the floor, beat 'em, and smear their favourite book, Harry Potter, in feces.”

“Three cheers for the Eagles!” yelled the Eagles in boisterous, boyish unison.

Meanwhile, despite the election results, Barney the First Dog is acting as if nothing particularly troubling has happened at all. At his own hastily-scheduled press conference, he announced his intention to bury a bone under the lime tree bordering Pennsylvania Avenue.

“No one will find my bone there,” he chortled. “Afterwards, I’ll trot back to my so-called master and beg for another bone, and that silly chimp will probably give me another one because he totally won’t remember that he gave me one only six minutes previously. Woof! Then I’ll have two bones, which is 100% more than Mervin the First Mouse has. Woof!”

Meanwhile, Vice President Cheney has been wondering why his pact with Satan failed to extend his reign of Evil.

"I drained the blood of two Muslim babies yesterday, then ate their entrails, and yet, nothing! The Democrats still won. Unbelievable."

In other news, a comet is hurtling towards earth at breakneck speed and is expected to make impact within 24 hours. It will obliterate life on earth as we know it. Fortunately, Prime Minister Stephen Harper of Canada is on top of things.

"I introduced some legislation into Parliament that will impose voluntary speed intensity reductions on all cosmic bodies, including comets. By 2050, comets will travel no faster than ten google-gigglyplex light years per hour. The Canadian economy -- and more importantly, the American economy -- will not be compromised. Let's hear it for loosening regulatory burdens!"

The audience, an economist from the Fraser Institute, applauded enthusiastically. Meanwhile, there were long line-ups of consumers looking to buy bunkers from the Bunker Barn whose famous slogan is "Get Underground and Stick Around to Witness the Reign of the Rat!"

M.o.M. was also expecting some entertainment news but sadly it missed the last donkey leaving Cordoba, Spain, and isn't expected to arrive until the 1000th anniversary of the death of Miguel de Cervantes. There are rumours, however, that the news is expected to say something exciting about Britney Spears' divorce from K-Fed, the world's first rodent rapper. You didn't read it here first!