M.o.M’s Tourist Guide to Edmonton, Part II

Last week, we told you how to get to Edmonton. Now that you are here, what are you going to do? Here are some ideas.

1. Purple City

Nowhere on earth has this, so prepare yourself for some mind-blowing exhilaration. Wait until night, smoke some pot, and stumble down to the Alberta Legislature. That’s the home of Alberta’s elected dictatorship. See those big lights that are illuminating the big, brown building? Stare into one of them until your eyes hurt. Then, look out at the city.

It’s purple!

You do not need to adjust your eyes, buy special glasses, or wear a funny hat to repeat this experience. It is absolutely free of charge – well, except for the pot, although, hang on, even if you don’t smoke pot, the city will still be purple, but if you don’t smoke the pot, Purple City won’t seem like the coolest thing you have, like, ever seen, like ever. So really, the pot cannot be called optional.

2. Visit a shopping mall

Like, duh! Where else can you shop at the Gap, Club Monaco, Le Chateau, HMV, and countless other chains? Only here, the experience will be a bit different from what it would be in say, Minneapolis-St. Paul, or almost anywhere else outside of Canada. When you bring a purchase item to the till, it will suddenly become 7% more expensive! Wait, no, only 6% more expensive. Now that’s kinda cool! Thank you Mr. President of Canada, whoever you are!

3. Go to a festival

Edmonton is famous in the capital region for its festivals! This exciting tourist experience will only work between May and September, unless you go to the First Night festival, which is held on New Year’s Eve. Far be it from the M.o.M. to editorialize, but the First Night Festival might possibly be the only festival on earth designed to simultaneously bore you and freeze you to death. Do not go.

OK, since we’ve got our balls out now, here are all the other festivals you might consider skipping. For your convenience, we have included the reason for skipping it.

Festival: K-DAYS
Reason for skipping: Too many children.

Festival: Folk Festival
Reason for skipping: Too many hippies. Plus Ani de Franco most years.

Festival: Street Performers Festival
Reason for skipping: We are assuming you are already familiar with the concept of contorting a balloon into the shape of a poodle.

Festival: Taste of Edmonton
Reason for skipping: Line up for a ticket. Line up to redeem ticket for a thimble of food. Repeat. Seven hours later you are sun-stroked.

Festival: Heritage Days
Reason for skipping: The Israel pavilion patrons won’t talk to the Arab pavilion patrons. For the real fireworks, CNN is so much better!

Festival: Cariwest Festival
Reason for skipping: Caribbean people getting up to their usual cavorting, just as they do back home. Hint, there is an inverse correlation between the amount of your cavorting and the size of your GDP, people!

Festival: EnglishFest
Reason for skipping: It doesn’t exist! But when it does, it will probably consist of people standing around uncomfortably, talking about the weather, being dour, and complaining about Caribbeans. Fun? Visit the UK instead for the real experience.

Festival: The Works
Reason for skipping: You probably tripped over something resembling a gallery exhibit from the Works in your basement. Far cheaper just to stare at a toilet for a bit and attach whatever symbolism to it you like.

Festival: Capital Ex
Reason for skipping: This one is exactly like K-Days. Wait a minute, it is K-Days. What’s going on here? Did K-Days change its name? What’s the new name again? Brand Y? Product Zed? Oh good, I like generic products – they’re always so much cheaper than brand names. But wait, this generic product is more expensive than the original. What’s up with that?

This leaves one festival that the M.o.M. fully endorses: The Fringe. Good thing it lasts ten days, or something like that, and that it’s on right now, so you can still go! There are a lot of thespians at The Fringe. For all you Republicans planning a trip to the Edmonton Fringe, a thespian is not a lesbian, even though the two words sound suspiciously alike. However, a thespian can, on occasion, assume the identity of a lesbian. The playbill might not warn you that this might occur in the play you are watching. So to be safe, skip the plays and just wander around, get drunk, and get fat from the food! That’s what most people do. While you’re at it, be sure to watch that strange Dougie fellow doing push-ups. He’s in the Guinness Book of World Records, don’t you know!

Well then, those are three things you can do in Edmonton right there. To review: Purple City, visit a mall, go to the Fringe. That will keep you breathlessly entertained until Tuesday.

M.o.M.

M.o.M’s Tourist Guide to Edmonton, Part I

As Edmonton’s prosperity grows, so too does its reputation as THE tourist hotspot of central Alberta. Last year, Edmonton received nine tourists, this year it received thirteen, and that’s not even including the two involuntary tourists who were given free trips by Edmonton City Council as a cunning promotional ploy (see National Post, “Edmonton Having a Hard Time Giving Away Free Trips to City.”)

What exactly is it that draws tourists to our city? Is it the friendly inhabitants they are sure to meet, when of course they eventually find said inhabitants? Is it our charismatic mayor and his cherubic smile? Maybe they have heard how, unlike less civilized cities (we’re not going to mention your name, Calgary), Edmonton has smoke-free bars and restaurants. Mmmm! Fresh air! Or maybe the world has simply woken up to the fact that in the new global warming era and its associated tsunamis, earthquakes, hurricanes, floods and heat-waves, the best places to be are those places where nasty freakish weather doesn’t happen. And in an era of suicide bombers, disproportionate military responses, and terrorist attacks, the best places to be are those places where nasty violent things don’t happen. Industry experts say that the hot new trend in tourism is visiting places where almost nothing happens, ever.

With that in mind, M.o.M has a pitch for the city’s new slogan:

Edmonton: Probably Nothing Will Happen While You’re Here

Or how about, Edmonton: You’ll Get a Good Night’s Sleep!

Well, enough of the preamble. Let’s get down to sensible and practical advice that will help you get to Edmonton, stay in Edmonton, and experience Edmonton. We might even tell you how to leave Edmonton, but only if you’re good!

1. How to get there
…by air
The convenient thing about Edmonton for today’s modern traveller is that no matter where in the world you are, even Toronto (which is in Canada!), Edmonton is a long, long way away. This makes budgeting easy. How much will it cost you to get here? A lot! There, that’s your budgeting worries sorted then.

Another great aspect to Edmonton’s complete and utter isolation is that it makes a great hide-away for people seeking to hide away from things. For example, let’s say you happen to be dastardly bank-robber Billy Badass, on the run from Johnny Law. Which is more likely for the police to say:
a) “I bet Billy hightailed it to Reno!"
b) “I’ll wager Billy fled to the Canaries!"
c) “I’d put good money on Billy being in Cuba right now!”
d) “I got a hunch that Billy is in Argentina sipping tequila and doing the tango right now!”
e) “I feel it in my bones: Billy’s holed up in a bungalow just off Argyll and 99th in Edmonton, Alberta – don’t tell me I’m wrong!”

You will notice that when you arrive at Edmonton’s airport, you are still not in Edmonton! Hah! There’s that quintessentially Edmontonian sense of humour for you. You will instead find yourself in a place called Nisku. Do you have any money left over? We sure hope so! The cab to Edmonton going to cost you a small fortune, or your kidney, or maybe your sister, whichever is of greater value.

…by foot
Walking to Edmonton is not generally what comes to mind as a capital “f” FUN experience. But then, what generally comes to mind for people is, “I wonder if a dish draining tray will be less at Zellers or Wal-Mart.” Don’t be like the herd! And moreover, if Lewis and Clarke can wander around with a couple of horses, so can you, although you should tether the horses at the city limits.

If you’re going to walk to Edmonton, give yourself about a year to arrive. Once you find yourself at our city’s periphery, give yourself another week to get anywhere noteworthy, such as Whyte Avenue. Walk up the historical and scenic Gateway Boulevard. Nobody has ever done it before! Edmonton might erect a statue of you if you survive the journey. On your trip up the worldwide famous boulevard (see articles, “Edmonton’s Gateway Boulevard in Top Ten Ugliest Streets of North America”) you can enjoy five lanes of traffic, box stores, the direct light of the sun – blissfully unimpeded by nasty trees – and in many places, you will have the privilege of an unpaved walking surface, because city council has cunningly calculated that if you are walking in the middle of winter after a heavy snowfall, the lack of a sidewalk will mean you’ll get snow up to your knees! Where else are you going to have that kind of fun?

OK, have you made it to Edmonton yet? You have? Hoorah! You probably feel like going to sleep for a month! But don’t do that. Stay tuned, because in our next issue, the M.o.M. is going to tell you where to stay and what to do, so that your stay in Edmonton is absolutely unforgettable…

“Is Earth even a planet?” asks befuddled earthling

August 14, 2006 – Notoriously ponderous earthling, Quincy Quibble, has been thrown into existential angst upon learning that the International Astronomical Union (IAU) may downgrade the official status of Pluto from planet to “big lump of rock.”

“First it’s Pluto, is Earth next?” asked Quibble, breathing erratically, and visibly perspiring from his face and armpits. A faint cloud of marijuana smoke hung in the air at Quibble’s hastily scheduled news conference, because without his customary joint, the young philosophy student is liable to have a panic attack.

“Why are you so worried?” asked one of the gathered reporters.

“Why aren’t you worried?” snapped Quibble, irritably. “Good God, man, as we speak, astronomers from around the world are deciding the question of how to define a planet. Think of it. Could there be any bigger question? The very substance upon which we walk – this very floor that my feet stand on – could turn out to be part of, not a planet, but instead, an as-yet undefined ‘something else.’ What is that ‘something else?’ And what is the defining essence of that ‘something else’?”

The assembled reporters scratched their heads contemplatively. Quibble took another frenzied toke of his cannabis spliff.

“I mean, Lord almighty,” he continued. “Ever since its discovery in 1930, Pluto has considered itself a fully-fledged member of our solar system – a paid-up planet, just like we are, or Mars, or Venus, or Neptune – or even Saturn, with its bizarre but majestic rings! But now the discovery of a new rock in our solar system called Xena has cast everything into doubt, because Xena is BIGGER than plucky Pluto! Is Xena going to brusquely shoulder Pluto aside and consign him to obscurity? And like I have already asked, will Earth be next? What are we if not a planet? Can we continue to call ourselves ‘earthlings?’ And if I am not an earthling, what then, am I? What then, is Man?”

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” said a reporter, “I think it’s supposed to be us asking the questions.”

“But what makes you think I have the answers?” asked Quibble.

“Well, why don’t we try asking some questions and see?”

“Touché!” Quibble exclaimed suddenly, and erupted into a fit of giggles, then laughter, followed by teary-eyed silence. “I am late for my customary pint with my fellow philosophy students,” he said dejectedly, moments later.

“Why is this question so important to you personally, Mr. Quibble?” asked the intrepid staffer from the M.o.M.

“Why is your question so important to you, personally?” retorted Mr. Quibble, crossly. “Why are the definitions that determine the lexicon of our lives so important to one man and mere distractions to another? What is the signifier and what is the signified? Is God dead? I don’t know. Maybe the IAU in its infinite wisdom will also resolve these questions, but I for one sincerely doubt it. They are irresolvable, I tell you, irresolvable. Am I really here? The sky isn’t blue, but we perceive it that way. My introductory philosophy text says asking questions is an instrumental part of philosophy – indeed, may be philosophy’s ultimate aim. The unexamined life is not worth living. Why did my girlfriend leave me? Did I fail to satisfy her? How goes the search for a theory of a meta-theory? Was my girlfriend’s love for me real or illusory? Why are human relations so ephemeral? Were her groans of pleasure genuine or contrived? Why is Squidward so depressed all the time? What did Pluto ever do to anybody? Does anyone have any sympathy for the solar system’s smallest planet?”

Mr. Quibble ran from the podium, tripped over his untied shoelace, fell on his face, grazed his chin, and got up again. “That is the essence of man: we fall over, we get up again, we don’t know why.” Then he continued running, pushing aside the reporters, uttering breathlessly, “Still… late… for… beers…” And next he had charged through the door, out into the summer heat, and was bolting down the street towards his favourite pub where his friends awaited him.

Astronomers will announce Pluto’s fate next week.

Rona Ambrose Takes the #9 Bus to Northgate

August 9, 2006 – Canadian Environment Minister, Rona Ambrose, boarded the #9 bus today for her journey from Edmonton’s Southgate Centre to Northgate Centre. She was intent on demonstrating that taking the bus is a good way of helping the environment. She also wanted to stop the rumours that started when she last visited Edmonton that she finds bus people smelly and offensive.

“Bus people are ordinary Canadians like me, minus the stunning good looks and senior Cabinet post, of course,” she said.

Minister Ambrose proceeded to drop her $2.25 bus fare in the cash box happily

“I’m going to tell everyone with a bus pass that they qualify for a tax credit under my government’s bold new initiative,” she announced.

She proceeded to sit next to Cyril Smithers, aged 82.

“Did you know about the Conservative government’s exciting new transportation initiative?” she asked.

Mr. Smithers replied, “My Bertie were the best carrier pigeon a man could ever want. ‘Twas the saddest day when he flew the coop never to return.”

Mr. Ambrose decided it would be more productive to talk to citizens who do not suffer from senile dementia. She moved to the back of the bus and struck up an amicable chat with Vaughn Jameson, aged 23, a student at Grant MacEwan College.

“Hi, young citizen,” said Minister Ambrose. “I’m Minister Ambrose. I hope you will be saving your bus passes this fiscal year.”

“What will the government give me for ’em?” replied Mr. Jameson.

“A tax credit,” beamed Minister Ambrose.

“How about a bit of something-something?” said Mr. Jameson.

“Sorry, what? You’re mumbling.”

Minister Ambrose elected to talk to someone who was more interested in transportation policy than the provocative cut of her skirt. Just then, a pregnant young woman in an Oilers cap sat down on the seat opposite and proceeded to conduct a screechingly loud conversation with the father of her unborn child.

“I been fucking working all day and I ain’t got no fucking time to go to Zellers. What the fuck? Where the fuck you been? I called you like ten fucking times. Where the fuck were you?”

“Excuse me, young lady,” said Minister Ambrose. “Can I interrupt your phone conversation for a minute to tell you about a new government initiative? My time’s a lot more valuable than yours.”

The young woman took a five second break from her important conversation.

“Why don’t you shut up?” she said.

At Whyte Avenue, Minister Ambrose tired of listening to the screeching conversation and returned to the front of the bus. Just then, a large and sweaty man with a noticeable limp staggered on board, dragging a trolley full of groceries, and nearly crushed Minister Ambrose.

“Sorry missus,” he said. “I got a chronic degenerative disc disease.”

“I'm sure with hard work you'll get over it,” said Minister Ambrose, dusting herself off.

The disable man said, “I get nine hundred dollars a month from AISH. But Wonderbread is only ninety cents a loaf. I buy eight loaves every trip and then freeze them. I’d buy more but I only got room for eight. I had to ditch my car cause I can’t turn my head proper to do a shoulder check and no one will insure me. My cat ate a whole bag of Whiskas yesterday. He somehow got into the cupboard. I’m gonna have to tie it shut with twine. Don’t I recognize you from somewhere?”

Minister Ambrose was about to suggest that the disabled gentleman probably recognized her from television, delivering statements on important subjects, but she was interrupted when the bus stopped north of downtown and a solvent-sniffer from the George Spady Homeless Shelter violently threw himself against against the bus door.

“That startled me!” exclaimed Minister Ambrose.

A couple of minutes later, two young men in hoodies, headscarves and Puma sneakers climbed aboard, and by this time the bus was so crowded that they had to stand, and the crotch of one of them was mere centimetres from Minister Ambrose’s nose.

“I tapped Trixie’s ass till it was sore,” said one of the men.

“Her sister’s a lush,” said his companion.

“Yeah, she’s an ugly bitch, too.”

The bus driver, alerted to the obscene use of language, proceeded to tell the young men to clean up their act. One of the men in hoodies said something unprintable about the bus driver’s mother. Then the other said, “Let’s split, bro,” and lunged for the bell, smacking his pelvis directly into Minister’s Ambrose’s face. The bus screamed to a halt and the young men departed, laughing amongst themselves about stabbing the driver next time.

“Are you OK?” said the driver as the bus finally pulled in at Northgate Centre.

“No, I’m not,” retorted Minister Ambrose. “That was the most unpleasant experience of my life. It seems that only delinquents, grubbies and cripples take the bus. I’ve reconsidered my government’s transportation initiative.”

“How so?” asked the driver.

“I’m scrapping the tax credit. People like that don’t deserve any breaks.”

And with these words uttered, Minister Ambrose retreated to the relative safety of the chauffeured, air-conditioned Lexus waiting for her in the parking lot, and returned to the Westin Hotel.

Society is oppressing Jim Carruthers

August 8, 2006 – After attending a local poetry reading, Jim Carruthers of Edmonton, aged 22, has discovered that society is oppressing him. He had heretofore been labouring under the misapprehension that he was a relatively affluent citizen of a prosperous and democratic nation, which offered him a range of promising mid to long-term employment prospects. Now he knows that is false.

In a hastily-scheduled press conference, held in his parents’ basement, Mr. Carruthers announced how aggrieved he feels on account of the crypto-fascist capitalist hegemony that has enforced a patriarchal societal structure onto his unwilling and thin shoulders.

“Listen yo,” he said. “The Man is keeping down my sisters and my brothers/ with its devious duplicity/and jackboot of conformity/ and meanwhile in your name/ global leaders play their games/ and the war machine rages on/ and I can’t get a hard on/ because I’m worrying about the Jew-on-Lebanon Armageddon.”

Mr. Carruthers is appalled that no one in his family has even heard of Darfur, Sudan, let alone stopped to do anything to halt the genocide occurring there. He blames an “apathetic media” for “waging a war of lies” on an “unsuspecting public.”

“If all the people, yo/ wake up to the world/ and smell the coffee/ and the exploitative conditions it was manufactured in/ and realized that while we sleep/ Americans are killing babies in their cribs/ and I ain’t telling no fibs/ because that’s the truth/ just as sure as my name ain’t Ruth,” said Mr. Carruthers.

When asked if he was prepared to let that sentence fragment stand or actually finish the train of thought he had started, Mr. Carruthers picked up two recorders, inserted one in each nostril, and proceeded to play Greensleeves.

Afterwards, Mr. Carruthers fielded questions from the assembled reporters. When asked how society was specifically oppressing him, the young University of Alberta anthropology major paused long for thought.

“Look at tuition, yo/ and the major league increases/ which never ceases/ and I am so amazed/ that we can stand here like in a daze/ and let Ralph Klein and his crooks/ treat us all like schnooks!”

When asked for any more examples, Mr. Carruthers brought up the example of his hair, which is currently in dreadlocks.

“People judge my personali-ty/ because my hair so rat-ty/ but this express my identity/ dating back to the day of Bob Marley/ and you take away my pride/ it’s just another act of genocide!”

Mr. Carruthers also brought up the example of his girlfriend, Daffodil, three years older than him, who was recently breast-feeding on Whyte Avenue. Mr. Carruthers reported that a male of approximately fifteen years of age had overtly attempted to catch a glimpse of Daffodil’s right breast upon which the baby was suckling.

“Yo, sisters/ this brother ain’t gonna stand for no sexual oppression/ or sexual repression/ you and your fallopian tubes be free/ they make me happy/ and so does your free love/ which flies like a dove/ and into my loins/ more real than smoking a joint/ yeah.”

When asked by reporters what the solution is to intolerance and globalization and capitalism and sexism and homophobia and genocide and suicide and native land claims and breast-peeking, Mr. Carruthers proudly produced his five-part action plan from his pocket.

FIVE PART ACTION PLAN
1) Educationalize
2) Theorize
3) Radicalize
4) Proselytize
5) Rise up and be free!

When asked what exactly constitutes rising up, Mr. Carruthers explained, “Throwing off the chains of our oppressors/ their heirs and successors/ eating the rich/ and throwing the bones in the ditch/ smashing the state/ and getting irate/ and lynching the Man/ because you know you can/ whoooooaaaaah!”

There were more questions but Mr. Carruthers had no time for them. Daffodil had just arrived in her mother’s Volvo to pick him up and go on their date which would consist of eating persimmon-and-dandelion salad washed down with fresh herbal tea at their favourite local restaurant, Café Utopia, where no animal parts are used – not even those parts that animals inadvertently shed, such as feathers – because these are offered up instead as part of elaborate prayer rituals in order to give thanks to the gods Odin, Thor, and Smiley.

The Hopes and Dreams of Boys Today

According to a new survey by StatistiCon Canada, more boys want to grow up to be a railroad baron or publishing magnate than a chimney sweep. Oil tycoon also ranks highly, but fishmonger does not. As for being a greengrocer, one boy interviewed said he’d rather be a hatter!

Chief researcher, Ed Biggue, was available at a hastily-scheduled press conference to help explain the results.

“What is stunning about these findings,” he said, “is that 98 per cent of boys appear to have entirely ignored popular culture for the last fifteen years, and have instead been highly influenced by nineteenth and early-twentieth century literary fiction. How else to explain the 6,034 boys in our study who mentioned haberdasheries?”

The survey looked in-depth at boys’ interests, hobbies and social values. For example, many boys agreed that, “tastefully chosen clothes from one’s favourite haberdashery help make the gentleman.” But they also thought that, “wearing excessive bling-bling and Pimp-Czar T-shirts makes a man resemble an attention-seeking thug.”

Many boys found that after consuming a meal of mutton accompanied by a rich cream sauce, smoking a cigarette aided considerably in their digestion. However, they did insist on retiring to a private room for this, preferably a parlour or drawing room, given that such confines are more conducive to quiet and civilized conversation than the dining room, which is generally situated closer to the kitchen, and the ensuing distraction of the servants’ hustle and bustle, not to mention the “chatter” of ladies.

One boy said, “I appreciate ladies more when they are decorative than talkative!” cracking a grin and then sneezing into his handkerchief. His friend delivered him a playful poke to the bosom.

“Quite naughty you are!” he chortled.

One hundred percent of the boys agreed that the females of our species should not smoke and those that do can generally be dismissed as vulgar and most probably prostitutes or otherwise “loose.” Boys generally do not favour degenerate behaviour.

“I prefer women who restrict themselves to consorting chiefly with their families in public,” wrote one boy in the comments section of the survey. “To do otherwise is to bring ill-repute not only upon the lady but also upon her husband and children.”

As for sports, many of the boys are quite mad for them! Cricket is universally adored and its terms and references have entered the popular lexicon. For example, most boys agree that only a clueless halfwit would express distaste for something by saying “That shit is not dope.” If you disagree with something, future gentlemen, you should say, “That is not cricket.”

For example, “Israel invading Lebanon? That is not cricket!”

Speaking of Lebanon, most boys take a keen interest in politics and world events and would rather read the newspaper than trick out their car and cruise down the boulevard looking for bitches. The interest in politics extends to local considerations.

Said one boy, “I am actively involved in the charitable sector and can think of no greater aspiration than committing oneself to the plight of the downtrodden.”

This boy gives twenty percent of his pocket money to the local homeless shelter every week! He is also a frequent patron of his local club.

Most boys find the ongoing complications in relations between Britney Spears and Kevin Federline to be an example of “atrocious behaviour” and wish that if the media truly insists on incessantly rambling on about superficialities, they could at least turn their attentions to something more instructive, such as the proper cut of a waistcoat.

Meanwhile, among themselves, boys talk decently and profoundly – far above the level set by the universally reviled “prurient press.”

For example, when expressing interest in a lady, most boys, contrary to popular belief, do NOT say, “Shit, I’d love to tap that ass.” They say, “It would be a pleasure to make that lady’s acquaintance!” Similarly, if a boy is describing an intimate encounter with a larger lady, they do NOT say, “She shook me all night long.” Instead they say, “Her considerable girth provoked a good deal of exertion on my behalf!”

In all things, good taste is paramount. For example, 9.7 out of 10 boys cite author Henry James as a hero. Only 0.3 of a boy cites rapper 50 cent as a hero.

In conclusion, the future of North America is in good hands, because today’s boys are healthy, rugged, stoic sorts with rosy cheeks and firm handshakes and a compelling need to do good for their brethren!

Johnny Taxpayer Wants His Money Back

EDMONTON, July 28, 2006: Johnny Taxpayer, the world’s most famous taxpayer, has issued a press release demanding that the government return any money spent on evacuating from Lebanon those Canadians that don’t currently live in Canada.

“Why should I pay for bailing out someone who doesn’t even live in Canada?” his press release asks, or would appear to ask. It took a long time to decipher the scrawl. “Their [sic] responsible for they’re [sic] own safety. They don’t want to live in Canada – the greatest country in the world – then they can pay for the consequences.”

Finance Ministry officials have calculated what portion of the Lebanon evacuation costs accrue to Johnny Taxpayer. If Prime Minister Harper agrees to make a special exemption of Johnny, the Canadian government will be forced to issue the world’s most famous taxpayer a refund of two cents.

Prime Minister Harper was unavailable for comment.

“Scared, isn’t he?” said Mr. Taxpayer at his hastily-scheduled press conference outside Bubbles Car Wash on Whyte Avenue, Edmonton. “When politicians come face to face with real life Canadian taxpayers, they like, drop a loaf in their drawers! Their [sic] not used to it!”

Just then, a homeless person asked Mr. Taxpayer if he had any spare change.

“Why don’t you get a fucking job?” asked Mr. Taxpayer, appearing on the verge of a psychotic moment, à la Zinedine Zidane.

“Hey chill out, buddy,” said the homeless person, smiling. “It’s not like I called you a dirty terrorist or insulted your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister,” retorted Mr. Taxpayer.

“I’m going to the homeless shelter now. Farewell,” said the homeless person.

This provoked a fresh outpouring of rage from Johnny Taxpayer, the world’s most famous taxpayer. He asked the assembled reporter (your dedicated M.o.M. correspondent) to return his press release. He scribbled on it. When he was done, the amended press release called for his portion of the homeless shelter costs to be returned to him, because, according to the release, “I got a job, bums can too, so I shouldn’t have to subsadize [sic] they’re [sic] sorry asses.”

Mr. Taxpayer then asked the M.o.M. for a copy of the news report that it will be filing on this story. The M.o.M. responded that it never lets politicians, or anyone else for that matter, interfere with its relentless pursuit of the truth. But Mr. Taxpayer threatened to head-butt the M.o.M. The M.o.M. was forced to abandon its principles, albeit fleetingly.

Reading the press report, Mr. Taxpayer asked, “What does sic mean?”

Just then, a fire truck whizzed by with its sirens screaming. A small crowd gathered at an apartment where Suzie Sloth lives. Suzie had allegedly been smoking in bed and her entire bedroom had caught ablaze. Suzie was unhurt, but the fire was quickly spreading in the unseasonably hot 34-degree weather.

This provoked a fresh monsoon of murderous outrage from the world’s most famous taxpayer. His fists were shaking at Ms. Sloth.

“I don’t smoke. Why should I pay for cleaning up after your disgusting smoke-related accident?”

He amended his press release again.

Just then, a fat onlooker dropped to the pavement from an apparent heart attack. An ambulance showed up. Johnny Taxpayer declared himself ready to “strangle the next obese or lazy or cigarette smoking bum” that unfairly burdens him with the cost of “bailing out they’re [sic] sorry asses.”

Another onlooker, a political science student, said to Johnny, “Look, instead of just amending your press release again, why don’t you simply ask the government to return all the money that was spent on anything besides you?”

Mr. Johnny immediately declared the student to be the smartest man in the room.

“But we’re not standing in a room,” said the student. “And I was being facetious, anyway.”

The world’s most famous taxpayer now alleges that the Canadian government owes him $980,008.

Mr. Harper is still unavailable for comment but was most recently seen somewhere in the vicinity of the White House, scrubbing the presidential toilet. “Anything I can do to be supportive,” he was heard mumbling cheerfully.

UN Issues Gentle Resolution to Israel

M.o.M. News Services

NEW YORK, July 18, 2006 – The United Nations today issued a “gentle” resolution about the ongoing Israeli-Lebanon conflict. It had planned on issuing a “stern” resolution but had to make it gentler when the United States and Britain complained that some of the stern words might hurt Israel’s feelings.

The following are examples of Resolution 6298D, before and after the re-write by the United States and Britain.

BEFORE: We urge Israel to stop bombing innocent civilians.
AFTER: We urge Israel to stop bombing innocent civilians when you’ve run out of bombs. Then ask America and Britain for more bombs. Please remember, however, that bombs don’t grow on trees, so use them wisely, please!

BEFORE: We urge Israel to apologize for killing foreigners in Lebanon, including eight Canadians.
AFTER: We urge Israel to appreciate how embarrassed we feel that while we were lauding your “measured” response, some of our silly civilians got in the way of your bombs. We are evacuating them now so it doesn’t happen again. This will make it easier for your bombs to reach innocent Lebanese civilians unimpeded.

BEFORE: We urge Israel to exercise every precaution to avoid civilian casualties.
AFTER: We urge Israel to hit at least a few token strategic targets. All those dead Arabs on TV are bad PR! We understand you can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs, but at least pretend to make an omelette!

BEFORE: We urge Israel to start obeying international law.
AFTER: “International law”? Huh?

BEFORE: Israel must not over-react to terrorist provocations.
AFTER: That Adam Sandler is funny!

President George Bush was available for a short press conference following the emergency UN meeting. He answered one question from a FOX news reporter.

“Yes, that last resolution was mine, it’s true,” he said. “Yo, Blair, did you ever see Happy Gilmore? That movie is a riot!”

“I am not a poodle,” British prime minister Tony Blair told the BBC.

“I deny all allegations that I don’t like the Lebanese,” snarled Canadian prime minister, Stephen Harper to the CBC. “I eat donairs all the time.”

Meanwhile, beautiful, young, and talented Canadian punk rocker, Avril Lavigne has just married the frontman of the band, Sum41. Look at the pictures here: www.avrilisfuckinghot.com. And some nude pictures of our Canadian pride and joy here: www.gofetchsomekleenex.com and Britney Spears has posed naked whilst pregnant! www.bigbuthotbellyonthatyoungie.com. And Justin Timberlake has a new album out! www.justiniscoolandfunkybutnon-threatningtowhites.com.

And in unrelated news, a mongoose won a fight with a cobra! And a squadron of killer hornets massacred an entire hive of bees!

And over here, www.foxnews.com, Bill O’Reilly has some stern but wise words of advice for George Bush:

“If I were President Bush I would urge restraint on Israel publicly, but privately encourage them to kill as many terrorists as they could…”

So far, it appears that Israel is heeding this advice! The score is 210 Lebanese dead to 29 Israeli dead. Not bad, plucky little Israel!

Will to live crushed? You’re not alone.

M.o.M. Science Fax

According to the latest survey from StatistiCon Inc, six out of ten North Americans have had their will to live crushed and are merely “going through the motions” in a drone-like state, with little thought to any meaning or higher purpose in life.

“Your typical North American is only the shell of a human being,” reported chief researcher, Dr. Iva Hed Fornumbas. “When it comes down to it, he/she could be shot in the head, buried and forgotten, and after a brief period of half-hearted and rather contrived mourning, the surviving friends and families would just get on with life as if nothing had happened.”

Survey respondents cite the following reasons for the crushing of their will to live:

a) job
b) spouse
c) traffic
d) no sex drive
e) nothing good on TV
f) local sports team lost
g) got screwed over by someone
h) all of the above

“Sadly, most of these people lack the courage to go the next step and just finish off their sorry existences,” said Fornumbas, affectionately eyeing the test tubes and beakers in her Newark laboratory. “If they legalize euthanasia, I’ll do it for them – so at least there’s hope.”

Most people cite the following as the most effective “coping mechanisms” for the sheer futility and inertia of their lives:

a) nurturing a satisfying grudge against everything
b) excessive shopping
c) excessive eating
d) excessive boozing/drugging/smoking/solvent sniffing
e) excessive sleeping
f) internet
g) videogames
h) picking on people even more pathetic than oneself

“On a bright note,” said Fornumbas. “I just got another two and half million dollars in research funding to continue my study on the futility of life!”

Iva’s husband stumbled drunkenly into the lab at this point, accidentally kicking over a shelving unit of Petri dishes.

“I haven’t seen you in eleven days,” he slurred before collapsing into a cart of Bunsen burners.

“Sorry about that,” apologized Fornumbas to the M.o.M. “He was making unreasonable demands on my time so I locked him into the basement. Apparently he has found a way to escape. Too bad he had to go through my entire wine collection before he did so! Oh well. Men are useless anyway. I’m inventing a way of making them expendable.”

Fornumbas plans to sell self-impregnation kits to women by the end of 2008.

“It will remove the need for the unnecessary, messy, disgusting, loud, smelly, obnoxious and unproductive reproductive ritual known as mating.”

The M.o.M. suggested that this invention would suck even more joy out of life, thus exacerbating the problem initially identified by Fornumbas.

“Yes, it will make life more clinical and efficient. But it’s my job to do that.”

At this point, loud gurgling noises were heard from the prostrate figure of Mr. Fornumbas. Upon closer inspection, it was observed that he was choking on his own vomit. The M.o.M. has a strict policy of not intervening in the goings-on of life when on assignment. Dr. Fornumbas also refrained from intervening, because she was preoccupied with her periodic table of the elements, as well as looking at microbes under a microscope. Mr. Fornumbas’ windpipe became blocked and in two minutes and thirty seconds, he was visibly dead.

“Hmph,” said Dr. Fornumbas. “Unfortunate. He was very good at the dishes. And his tuna casserole wasn’t too bad either.”

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a talentless slut!” declares young Madison

SPRINGFIELD, Illinois: At a hastily-scheduled news conference yesterday, Madison Carruthers, aged 11, formally announced her career choice to the public and her parents, Tony and Agnes.

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a talentless slut!” announced Madison boldly. “I’ve researched all my options, and that one seems the most lucrative for a girl in modern-day North America.”

Her parents were observed quietly sobbing tears of pride.

“What father wouldn’t want a talentless slut for a daughter?” asked Tony.

Yesterday’s announcement relieves considerable stress in the Carruthers household. It has long been known that Madison is intelligent, pretty, and ambitious. It was a concern to many, however, that her fondness for horses and other animals was inclining her to a job as a veterinarian, which would fail to make her unjustifiably rich and famous.

“My little Madison has dared to dream,” said Tony. “She doesn’t want to be just like any other girl. She wants to be a role model to millions of pre-teens, just as Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson have been a role model to her.”

Tony and Agnes Carruthers reported that they intend to start a trust fund, which will help to prepare Madison for her chosen career.

“While she’s trying to break into the industry, Madison will need a lot of financial support for things like weekly hairstyle changes, skimpy clothes, shoes, make-up, pornography videos (so she can learn and simulate sex acts) and the real biggie: breast implants,” said delighted mother, Agnes.

In six years, the Carruthers plan to “leak” some nude pictures of Madison onto the internet. Given that Madison will only be 17 at this point, they are confident that the resulting cyber-gossip will spread like wildfire and help give Madison the taint of tawdry scandal that is essential to any serious run at stardom. Madison will also work with a talent agent, who will focus primarily on Madison’s communications skills – ensuring that Madison never utters a word of more than two syllables, never says a sentence without the word “like” in it, and never talks about anything except a) clothes b) her career c) other celebrities and d) the man she is seeing at the time.

“The goal is that when I speak, I will communicate absolutely nothing,” said Madison. “For this, I find Paris Hilton a real inspiration. She has done nothing except giggle for her entire career and look what she’s accomplished!”

Madison will produce a record when she turns 18, which will be over-produced and without any artistic merit. The Carruthers hope that it will be a big hit among girls aged 5 to 15. Madison plans to then immediately capitalize on her fame and start a new clothing line. After changing her name from Madison Carruthers to Maddie K, she will sign an exclusive contract with K-Mart, and her advertising slogan will be “Mad 4 K!”

Madison will also appear as a guest star in rap videos. She will be featured wearing lingerie, writhing on a bed. She will date a rap star. She hopes that the rap star is shot by another rap star at a nightclub, but not fatally.

“Sex and violence really help make a career,” said Madison, beaming. “But I wouldn’t want it to, like, cost anyone his life!”

Madison will also start a celebrity feud with an as-yet unknown rival female star.

“It will be a lot of fun, hating somebody.”

If questioned by the media about her sluttish image and over-sexualized presence in music videos, Madison has a well-rehearsed line saved up.

“I will say I am EXPRESSING myself,” Madison retorted calmly. “It works for every other female celebrity.”

Madison plans to retire from the “biz” at 25 and then proceed to age gracelessly, developing several drug addictions. From 35 to 45 she will concentrate on having tabloid-worthy affairs with younger men and from 45 until death, her career will focus on eating disorders, fad diets and failed plastic surgery operations.

“In my final few years, I will probably resemble a partially deflated blow-up doll, and the public will look upon me with pity and revulsion,” Madison concluded with a smile.

Lazy Edmonton Sun Columnist Returns With Another Column About the Weather

I.M.A. Hack

Help! Seriously! It’s been so hot! Yesterday it was 32.1 degrees. And the day before, it was 32.9 degrees. I don’t know about you, but that .8 degree drop in temperature made no difference in my life. None at all! Nor in the life of my dog! He was so hot, he didn’t even want to go walkies!

Laugh!

Chortle!

I want to mention something else really obvious. I am sad that Chris Pronger left the Oilers. I am actually more than sad. I am mad! This hurt almost as much as when Wayne Gretzky left. At least Wayne stuck around to win four Stanley Cups. Chris Pronger didn’t even win Tallest Hockey Player Award. Ha!

This is Hack (that’s me) to Pronger: What’s your problem with Edmonton? Don’t you like Calgary Trail? Ten months of winter too much for you, overgrown sissy! Heh!

My daughter had a crush on Chris Pronger. Now she’s trying to find someone else she can have a crush on. I suggested ME, but she said, “No way, Get lost, you pervert!”

Speaking of perverts, I really like this time of year, because my beloved and brilliant newspaper, the Sun (hey boss, do I get a raise for saying that?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) prints pictures of sixteen year old girls in bikinis at the park, or in the legislature wading pool. And I love it! It’s better than the interwebnet! I love my newspaper!

So yeah, let’s hear it for sixteen year old girls! Unless they are my daughter, in which case, HANDS OFF, or I’ll break your teeth!

By the way, I am super addicted to the TV show, Lost. I can’t wait to find out what happens next! Investigative journalism in my case means watching TV! That rules! Often, I’m drinking beer at the same time, and it’s still RESEARCH!

Like my co-workers, I have no ambition whatsoever!!!!!

You know those insightful comments that follow the letters to the editor in the Sun? It’s my buddy’s job to think those up. But sometimes he asks me for help! Here’s an example of one that we might run tomorrow. It’s in response to a letter about how mandatory minimum sentences are long overdue when it comes to sex offenders and murderers. My comment is:

“Hanging’s too good for ‘em!”

Pretty stern words, eh? I don’t mess around! And people say I’m just a lardy, lazy shit-for-brains! Even my own wife!

NOT TRUE!

The End.

PS: The Sun just sent a memo. They say I’ve exhausted their daily supply of exclamation marks! Where on earth am I going to cut?!!!

Forget the Oilers, I am a Champion

By George Gims, #1 Oiler Fan

This morning, despite the usual pain from my distended liver, I looked in the mirror and I said, “George Gims, you are a Champion. Capital-C champion.”

How many beers have I drunk? How many potato chips have I eaten? How many glass bottles have I smashed? How many girls fifteen years my junior have I screamed at with the heroic words, “Pull out your tits?” How many alleys have I pissed in? How many dumpsters have I puked in? How many pounds have I added to my already considerable girth? How many hours of work have I missed? How many cardiac arrests have I risked? How many hemorrhoids have I had? How many times has my wife threatened to divorce me? That’s a trick question because she divorced me when the Oilers crashed out against Dallas in 2000. But my ex-wife is not the issue here.

My point is: I sacrificed absolutely everything for a noble cause. I gave it my all. As they say in hockey, I didn’t leave anything out on the ice. I am the true definition a modern day sporting hero.

I am even more of a sporting hero than any of the Edmonton Oilers. When they woke up this morning, despite their sense of loss, they were still strong, virile, and athletic men with beautiful wives and mistresses and gargantuan pay-cheques. Whereas I woke up in a puddle of piss. Clutched in my hand was a porno mag. I tried to jerk off but I couldn’t. My bed sagged underneath me. Then I realized I was already an hour later for work at Leon’s. I have to make another $1,900 in commission this month or else I’m toast. I tried to get up but collapsed to the floor from vertigo. When I breathed it hurt. When I finally made it to the front door of my apartment I found an eviction notice from the landlord.

Can any of the Oilers say they sacrificed as much as me? No, not even Ryan Smyth – who had three teeth knocked out. Thanks to eight straight weeks of passing out in a beer-induced stupor and forgetting to brush my teeth, I have aggravated two previous cavities and require two separate root canals. And I only had seven real teeth left to start with! Beat that, Smitty! What is more, the last time I saw the doctor, he said to me, “George Gims, if you don’t stop poisoning yourself with liquor, you won’t live past fifty.”

I am now thirty-five. In theory, I may have sacrificed approximately 33 percent of my life for the Oilers. Beat that, Mike Peca! What do you have to show for your efforts? A black eye? Black eye, my ass. I’m nearly dead!

In recognition of all I’ve done for them, I think the Oilers should make me, George Gims, their official mascot. Just like a mascot, I am soft and spongy. Just like a mascot, I make children laugh and/or cry. Just like a mascot, my movements are ungainly. I fall down easily. I sweat non-stop above fifteen degrees. People want to throw stuff at me. The nicer ones feel sorry for me. But their pity is wasted on a hero like me. They see a pathetic loser. But I look in the mirror and I see the biggest fan in the history of Edmonton sporting history.

So what if I don’t have a Stanley Cup to show for my efforts? I have cirrhosis of the liver – a prize that no one can take from me.

Soccer is a game for little girls and homosexuals

By Vern Victor of Throbbing Muscle Sports

I have one word for any red-blooded American that is watching the World Cup of Soccer. Are you an American, or are you gay and/or a little girl? It’s totally beyond me how anyone could watch those miserable sad Eurotrash fairies tumble over each other and shriek girlishly if anyone breathes on them.

They say soccer, or football, as some fools call it (everyone knows that real football is played with your hands), is the World’s Game. It’s the favourite sport of people from Germany to Argentina to the darkest corners of Africa. I have one word for those billions of people. Have you ever heard of baseball? Or basketball? Or NASCAR racing? You are wrong about soccer the same way you were wrong about Iraq.

Here in America, rather than let homosexuals and little girls play an aimless sport consisting of kicking a ball around and diving like a prima-donna every minute, we prefer to deny them marriage rights and/or take away their right to choose an abortion, even if Uncle Biff rapes them. That is as it should be, according to God. People who choose to be gay or dress provocatively around Uncle Biff get what’s coming to them.

And another thing. What I’ve noticed in the two hours I spent researching your so-called “sport,” you surrender monkeys, is that it is borderline socialist in its refusal to give virile capitalism it’s due during the game. Let me explain what I mean. During a typical Monday Night Real Football Game here in the U.S. of A, I can expect to watch 12 seconds of bone-crushing excitement, followed by nymphs flashing their bums in the camera, followed by five minutes of car and beer commercials. Then I can expect to see 30 seconds of the coach pacing up and down, strategizing (it’s a thinking man’s sport), followed by five minutes of Viagra and McDonald’s commercials. Some of you might conclude from all this that Americans

a) enjoy crushing bones
b) enjoy watching their daughters perform like strippers
c) enjoy driving
d) are alcoholics
e) are impotent
f) are obese

However, only a to c are true and the rest is lies. That’s what I hate about non-Americans – you fill the world with lies about us.

Anyway, my point was, where are the commercials, you soccer-scum? I had to wait over 45 minutes for the first commercial break, and then another 45 minutes for the next commercial break. Frankly, that’s outrageous! How will you ever get your economies healthy enough to buy an SUV for everyone man, woman and child when you hate capitalism so much? It’s like you hate life itself.

So my advice to non-Americans is this. Start playing real sports like football, basketball, baseball, and NASCAR racing. Then come over to the U.S. of A. and we’ll kick your ass at those sports. Whose the top dog now, hey, Gunter?

As for so-called American STILL watching soccer after reading my genius article – if you love being a socialist little girl and/or butt-pirate so much, why don’t you go live with your kind? We don’t need you here in America.

Oh wait, you don’t have a passport. Now that I can respect.

A World Cup Victory Would Be Nice for Africa

By Bono Vox

Billions of you might have noticed recently that I’ve been borderline saintly in my charitable efforts for Africa. I’ve pressed hands with Tony Blair and George “His-Heart’s-in-the-Right-Place” Bush, as well as traded jokes with the Pope! As if my music weren’t enough to bring tears to your eyes, now I’m helping the likes of Gikjdwo and Mioihfew in Timbuktu. Why do I do this, you ask. Well, that’s a rhetorical question. The question is, why aren’t YOU doing this? I mean, the average person really has no excuse for doing nothing. It’s not as if beautiful women are throwing panties at you as they are at me. Between the glory of saving the entire dark continent from itself and your mundane desk job, which are you going to choose?

Let’s not think only about ourselves, whities! Spare a thought for the poor little blighters of Ethiopia, Tad, Borneo, and Zululand. While you have been growing fat, they’ve eaten nothing but grubs since last week! If guerrillas weren’t decapitating them, that is.

In any event, I’ve just thought of something that might boost morale for Africa almost as much as all the things I’ve done for that outpost of civilization. I think it would be really nice if we could all cheer for Team Africa in the 2006 World Cup.

…Wait a minute, a stenographer has just provided me with a moment of epiphany which has truly humbled me. It turns out that Africa is not, in fact, playing as one team. They are playing as three teams: Ghana, Ivory Coast, and plucky little Togo! I’ve done the math and calculated that this has TRIPLED Africa’s chance of success. Now that’s smart of them! Let that be a lesson for those bigots who say that Africans are not, in fact, as clever as we are.

As I write this, the brave footballers of Ghana are taking on the powerhouse of Italy. We all know that the Ghananians don’t have the sexy hair or the rock star looks of the Italians, but by Lord, you have to admire their courage. They are running at those Italians with everything they’ve got and showing no fear. They don’t care that Italy’s economy is approximately 9,437,890,432 times bigger than theirs and that the average Italian spends as much on a slice of bologna as Ghana does on healthcare. No. The football field is the great leveller, and gives Africans 90 minutes during which the black man is equal to the white man. Imagine how heartening that must be for them.

Now, I know this will be hard, but set aside your nationalism for a few weeks and CHEER ON THE SPUNKY AFRICANS! I know it will be hard. You Englanders, forget a second about Beckham’s hairdo and shout something encouraging at a darkie! And you Dutch, put down your Heineken, Edam cheese and legal prostitute for just one moment and cheer in your strange tongue, “Tally-ho, Togo!” As for you Germans, enough of your Teutonic infallibility. Yell something nice at our impoverished brothers – but try not to scare them!

It’s only one World Cup after all. Let’s let the plucky Africans have it. We can go back to being better than just as soon as it’s over.

Tory hopeful announces bastard tax

June 2, 2006 -- The Minister of Misinformation has announced that he is running to replace Ralph Klein as leader of the Conservative Party. He has also unveiled the “total bastard tax,” the first plank in his policy platform. This new tax will help wean Alberta off of oil money and at the same time combat the steadily rising tide of idiocy, thuggishness and general nastiness that is gripping this province by the scruff of the neck.

“The Progressive Conservative Party of Alberta has become soft and limp-wristed,” said the Minister. “It is time it became hard and tight-fisted. Under my regime, this government will be as tough as a bullet-proof vest.”

The total bastard tax works like this. If you are behaving like a total bastard, your taxes will go up by either 10%, 20%, 30% or 9,070%. The sliding tax level corresponds to the level of bastardly behaviour exhibited by the bastard in question.

“For example, if you are cutting someone off in traffic, your taxes go up 10%,” said the Minister. “But if you are drowning a kitten in kerosene, your taxes go up 9,070%.”

The Minister added, smiling wistfully, “Kittens are cute, aren’t they?”

When asked by a journalist at the hastily-scheduled news conference what tax level would apply to someone who was, for example, beating his own grandmother with a sycamore branch, the Minister didn’t hesitate to reply.

“10,0480-39325u932ex per cent,” he said. “I know that’s a new tax level that I just made up, and I don’t even know how to say that number, but beating your own grandmother is bastardly on a level that I cannot describe without, basically, puking.”

The Minister suggested that his bastard tax will “work wonders” on the attitudes of the thugs who like to trash Whyte Avenue and the surrounding area after the Edmonton Oilers’ playoff wins.

“Oh yeah, my taxes are going to hit those bastards in the face and leave them with broken teeth lodged in the backs of their skulls, which is no less than they deserve, because they make me edgy when I’m trying to sleep at night. They fully deserve to live in incessant pain, much like a patient in a cancer ward who spends his days vomiting blood."

When asked on specifics as to how exactly one goes about tracking down hooligans and hiking their taxes and whether that creates excessive new administration costs, the Minister wasted no time in retorting, “I am an ideas man, not a bureaucrat.”

The Minister said that the effect of his new tax regime will be to transform Albertans from “nasty, selfish, childish, vulgar, rude and mean-spirited rednecks” into “perfect little high tax-paying angels.”

“It’s going to be like heaven on earth, like Scandinavia – minus the dorky foreign accents,” he conclud