Government Reorganization Creates Ministry of Nothing

The Alberta government has embarked on another government reorganization, centralizing the job of doing nothing in one ministry instead of all 24. This reorganization is the result of work conducted after the last government reorganization two years ago, which created the Ministry of Restructuring and Government Efficiency (RAGE).

“The creation of the Ministry of Nothing was the culmination of RAGE’s work,” said a spokesman, who wished to remain anonymous for fear that his comments could be construed by some as controversial.

RAGE employees were charged with the difficult and emotional work of trying to pry away the jealously guarded task of doing nothing and collecting it under the auspices of a new department. Most ministries were highly reluctant to part with the core business of doing nothing, which in some cases (International and Intergovernmental Relations) constituted close to 90% of their mandate.

It is clear that the new developments are unpopular among many government workers.

“I became highly specialized in my field and now I’m getting shafted,” said one disgruntled employee from Infrastructure and Transportation, who now finds himself shuffled from his comfortable office on 104th Street to a less comfortable office on 105th Street – the headquarters of the new Ministry of Nothing. “It’s outrageous,” he added. “I don’t even have an ergonomic mouse pad in my new office.”

Particularly egregious to this worker, and many like him, is the government’s decision to reclassify their job titles. Many workers claim that this will strip them of the professional respect of their peers. One worker is going from “Partnerships and Accountability Coordinator” to “Nothing Specialist.” Another worker is going from “Coordination and Results Planning Administrator” to “Senior Nothing Specialist.” Another worker is going from “Core Business Planning Results Planner” to “Nothing Special Specialist.”

“It’s an affront to my dignity,” said an unnamed bureaucrat, so fraught with indignation that he temporarily misplaced his Starbucks card and lost his place in line. “We’re going to be indiscernible from one another, like a hive of bees. Who is going to know which worker is responsible for which aspect of doing nothing?”

Now that the Ministry of Nothing can assume responsibility for doing nothing, other departments will be freed up for other important work, including not doing nothing. In fact, most ministries now intend to create internal units devoted to not doing nothing. One bureaucrat, Gordon Gormless, has already found himself appointed head of the Division of Not Doing Nothing for the Ministry of Education.

“I’m really excited about the challenges and opportunities afforded by my new role in coordinating the job of not doing nothing,” said Gormless. “This is highly important work. We owe it to Albertans to not do nothing. This work is just as important as doing nothing – every severely normal Albertan knows that.”

The first thing Mr. Gormless will do as head of Not Doing Nothing for the Ministry of Education is establish a committee for the coordination of specialist functions within the new division. This committee will draft a framework paper outlining principles for not doing nothing. A sub-committee will then be struck to report to the main committee on the implementation of the principles of not doing nothing.

“We’ve got a lot of work on our hands,” Mr. Gormless admitted.

The Ministry of Education’s Division of Not Doing Nothing expects to accomplish the goals of its mandate by 2011, although, as Gormless confessed to the M.o.M., “that might be rushing things a bit.”

The main challenge for government now, experts say, is balancing doing nothing and not doing nothing with other things, such as educating children, rehabilitating drug addicts, and saving the lives of people attacked by wild dogs.

“Government must be careful that those things don’t interfere with doing nothing and not doing nothing,” said one expert insider. “I do foresee a day, however, when Albertans’ demand for stuff like roads, cat scans and calculus tests becomes so great that the whole lot will have to be contracted out to the private sector, leaving the government to focus on doing nothing, which is its main strength anyway.”

*

The RAGE Ministry actually exists. Here is the address:
www.efficiency.gov.ab.ca

Jack Perkins Announces Nuclear Ambitions

Jack Perkins, aged 13, has announced his intentions to acquire a nuclear bomb in order to protect the sovereignty of his bedroom against his father, George Perkins, aged 40 – a single parent.

“If my dad makes any incursions into the territory of my bedroom, I will have no other recourse but to retaliate with overwhelming force,” announced Perkins Jr.

When asked by the assembled reporters at his press conference whether this means that he would actually blow up his own father, the teenager paused for five seconds to consider this.

“Yes,” he replied.

Perkins Jr. asserts that his conventional forces, which consist of a toy sword and a butter knife smuggled from the kitchen, are insufficient to respond to his father’s “increasingly belligerent” demands that he clean his room.

“I weigh approximately eighty pounds less than him. A butter knife just isn’t going to cut it – pardon the pun. But with a nuclear bomb, I have the upper hand, which in the long run, should ensure long-term peace between us. No father would dare launch a strike against a kid armed with a cruise missile.”

The feud in the Perkins household dates back to late September, when Jack dismembered several dragonflies, flies and moths on his bedroom floor in a scientific experiment. This experiment was so time-consuming that he took bread into his room to sustain himself during his long hours of work. This attracted mice and their associated waste. The bedroom is now, according to Perkins Sr. “a total pit.”

“He just doesn’t get it,” said Perkins Sr. “That room is a goddamn health hazard. If he doesn’t clean it, I’m going to be forced to barge in there and clean it myself.”

His son, however, claims to have learned the new geo-political rules of military engagement.

“Contrast the situations of Iraq and North Korea. Nowadays, if you don’t have a nuke, you leave yourself vulnerable to invasion. But the second you do have a nuke, the whole world is scared of you. The goal is to acquire nukes as quickly as possible. For smaller powers such as myself, the nuke is our only hope for peace.”

Perkins Jr. plans on assembling a nuclear bomb by building a centrifuge capable of performing nuclear fission in the spin-dryer, which after being fitted with a Lockheed Martin VIXI jet engine, will exert twenty million kilopascals of torque on a uranium particle.

“The science is sound,” said Perkins Jr. “Those who doubt my capacity for bomb manufacturing are no better than people who say the earth is flat. They are as ignorant as mentally-challenged chimps.”

Perkins Jr. will acquire uranium from Uranium City in northern Saskatchewan.

“I’ve heard there’s enough uranium left over to make a big explosion – at least enough to blow up a dad.”

Perkins Jr. privately confided in the M.o.M. “off the record” that he loves his dad and doesn’t really want to kill him, but, given the circumstances, “I’d be a fool not to prepare for the worst. Dad is increasingly bellicose. But he’ll smarten up when I join the nuclear club, make no mistake.”

Perkins Sr., in a brief statement, said he is considering taking pre-emptive action against his son, but refused to answer questions because he was late for work.

Breast Cancer Association Celebrates Successful “Run for CIBC” Event

The Breast Cancer Association is celebrating another successful Run for the Canadian Imperialist Bank of Commerce (CIBC) event. Participants ran and/or crawled five kilometres to show support for CIBC’s crippling customer service fees, non-existent customer service, billion-dollar profits, and misleading marketing campaigns.

“It was a brilliant event,” said Breast Cancer Association chair, Bertha Bigguns. “Our association pretended to care about breast cancer, and meanwhile, millions of people nationwide ran around with CIBC emblazoned on their T-shirt. Everyone’s a winner!”

M.o.M. attempted to contact a CIBC spokesperson for comment, but it was 3pm, and the local bank was closed. The M.o.M. staffer attempted to call CIBC, but was put on hold for seventy-three minutes. The muzak enraged the M.o.M. staffer, who proceeded to throw his phone through the window. Then the M.o.M. staffer sat on his IKEA couch and attempted to calm down, but the couch’s supporting beam snapped in two because it was only held together with Elmer’s “Kidz” glue.

Just then, a squirrel scurried in through the smashed window.

“You should disengage yourself from the tyranny of corporate power,” the squirrel squeaked. “Why don’t you live off the land like me?”

Meanwhile, CIBC announced that in light of the weekend's efforts, it has donated $3 million of the public’s money to the cause of pretending to find a cure for cancer, and has also racked up $1,497,543,290 million in service fees.

“That’s irony, eh?” chortled the squirrel.

Back on the beat, the M.o.M. managed to interview a few stragglers from the fun run/crawl.

“I like the CIBC’s new robot phone-answering chick,” said Gil Gas, aged 36, from Facegag, Alberta. “She has a soothing tone. Such a refreshing change from the sound of my wife. With Brenda the Bank Robot I can simply press 7 if I get bored of listening. Then I have the freedom of leaving a message for someone who won’t get back to me, or listening to a lecture by Stephen Hawking about the relativity of compound interest rates.”

Said another pre-authorised interviewee, “I like the fact that CIBC takes the service fees out of your account every month without you having to send them a cheque or anything. It’s so convenient!”

Just then, the friendly yogic squirrel showed up again.

“It’s intriguing how many people suffer from false consciousness nowadays,” he said.

“What’s false consciouness?” asked one of the fun runners/crawlers.

“Why, that’s easy,” said the squirrel. “According to neo-Marxists, that’s when citizens of affluent market economies think they are free, when in fact, they are prisoners of a capitalist dictatorship, with few choices except which company they want to rape them that day.”

“I see,” said the anonymous fun runner/crawler. “Well, interesting talking to you, cute little critter. You should audition for the upcoming Disney movie. I’m hungry from that fun run. I’m off to McMeat’s now to chow down on some sawdust and cow testes. Only $3 per bumburger – can’t beat that!”

“Who are you going to interview now?” the inquisitive little squirrel asked the M.o.M. staffer. “Everyone has vanished back to suburbia. The only people left on the streets are bums and lunatics.”

The M.o.M. staffer conceded that it would be impossible to conduct any further interviews and resigned himself to yet another poorly researched, unbalanced, and biased article.

“You know, if your bias were different, you could work for FOX News!” concluded the squirrel with a merry little chirp, before scampering up a tree to mate with Mrs. Squirrel.

Domesticated Animal Debate Remains Unresolved

The debate among grade 5 students at St. Theresa’s Junior High School over the respective merits of the domesticated cat versus the domesticated dog has entered its third day, with neither side prepared to concede an inch, or even a yard. Most recently, the pro felines have vociferously objected to the proposal that their class, which is instructed by Mrs. Dobbs, adopt a golden retriever.

“Dogs are stupid,” said Jimmy Bib, reflecting the consensus view of the pro felines. “They can’t clean up after their own poo or lick their bums, and look how they follow you around everywhere like they don’t have any ideas of their own. They are stupid with a capital s.”

In staunch opposition to Bib and his pro felines are the pro canines, who are so opposed to cats that as the debate heated up, they even suggested banning cats from the entire metropolitan region of Edmonton.

“Cats will lie on your face and suffocate you,” noted avid pro canine, Tim Bit. “But dogs, like Lassie, will pull you out of a coal mine after it collapses on your head. A cat would probably just sit there and meow or something, while you’re laying there dying, because it would still be, like, ‘Where’s my kibbles?’”

The pro felines are urging Mrs. Dobbs to rescue a kitten that has been living in the bushes that surround the school grounds. The kitten is very nervous and has only one eye. Grade 5 sources say that its left ear appears to have been significantly chewed by a squirrel or a bird or something. The kitten might also be undergoing major psychological stress because it does not have a mother.

“It has abandonment issues,” says Carol Vat.

“Yeah, and it will be dead soon if we don’t save it,” said Jimmy Bib. “Once it feels at home with us, it will purr and sit on people’s laps and be grateful. But if you saved a dog, it would probably just shit on the school floor.”

He stifled a giggle. He was cautioned by Mrs. Dobbs for “inappropriate language in a class debate,” even though the debate was at that time being conducted in the playground.

“I just hate to hear them swear,” Mrs. Dobbs admitted to the M.o.M. “My father, who is now dead, was a devout Episcopalian, and he would’ve gone berserk and hit us with a boat paddle if he had ever heard us swear.”

There are currently 12 proponents of the mission to rescue the kitten, with an equal number of proponents of the golden retriever adoption. There is only one undecided student, Leon Libra, who is weighing the pros and cons of each argument.

“I don’t really like cats or dogs,” said Leon. “I once saw this cat with spots like a leopard. It was climbing up a tree and then it got stuck. I thought that was kinda stupid. But dogs can be stupid too. Once this dog was chasing its tail – in the middle of the road! It got hit by a Geo Metro. The poor Geo was, like, totalled, and the owner was really mad at that stupid dog. So the whole 'stupid' argument doesn’t work with me.”

He added, “My idea is to get a snake. Our class should adopt an anaconda. Or a piranha, which can eat a man in ten seconds.”

Meanwhile, Jimmy Bib has secretly advocated kidnapping Leon Libra and subjecting him to intensive brainwashing techniques so as to forcefully convince him of the merits of cats.

“Like they do in Guantanamo,” he explained, enthusiastically. “Play music real loud and sleep-deprive him and chant at him over and over, ‘Cats are best, cats are best!’”

“Yeah,” Carol Vat agreed. “And smear menstrual blood in his face!”

The pro canines have attempted to run a more positive campaign to win the support of Leon Libra. Tim Bit gave Leon seasons one and two of “The Littlest Hobo,” on DVD. This heart-warming Canadian television production, which ran from 1979 to 1985, follows the adventures of a homeless German shepherd who wanders around from town to town helping people, with no thought for himself.

“After watching how heartwarming dogs can be, Leon's going to vote for dogs, I just know it,” Tim Bit concluded. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll get my pit bull on him. My dad told me that pit bulls bite from the ass, which means their jaw muscles are connected to their ass muscles. Once they bite, they can’t let go. They are totally crazy. Leon would be like in complete and utter agony.”

M.o.M. – Lad’s Mag Edition

Without the benefit of photos, is it possible to whip up teenage boys in a frenzy of lust, sexual frustration, and neurotic self-consciousness? Is it possible to make them titter about unfortunate people’s crippling accidents and obsess over celebrity gossip? Is it possible to turn a healthy boy into little more than a banana-throwing chimp? With a fraction of the budget of lad’s mags such as Maxim or FHM (does zero dollars over a million dollars count as a fraction?) M.o.M. intends to find out!

Here are some hot stories M.o.M.’s Lad’s Mag is following.

THIS CHICK IS TOTALLY OUT OF YOUR LEAGUE
Imagine a chick with totally unreal bazookas and a spank-tacular tailgate who is gazing at you with a come-hither look as she inserts two fingers into her salivating mouth. Phooooah! You don’t know any girl that can look this hot in fishnets and a garter belt! In fact, you don’t know any girls besides your sister. Ha! You’ll never get with this girl. She’s totally out of your league, dude!

IF YOU SEE A MAN EATING QUICHE, PUNCH HIM
Despite the fact that we expect you to have rock-solid abs and consist of 90% muscle and 10% tanned skin, it’s unacceptable for you to eat anything besides pizza or donair and drink anything besides beer. So if you see a man eating quiche or extolling the virtues of some fancy French wine, why not provoke him into a fight? Throw some donair meat at his face. Ha ha! Take that, you faggot!

THIS OBESE WOMAN GOT STUCK IN A CHAIR AND THEN ROTTED TO DEATH!!!!
In some backward state of the southern United States, this like totally gargantuan woman who weighed 67821 pounds or something got stuck in her mechanical wheelie chair on a trip to the outhouse. Nobody saved her! She was eaten by black flies and slowly rotted to death. Some intrepid Lad’s Mag reader sent in a picture that we can only describe to you – but rest assured, it’s TOTALLY DISGUSTING!

THE INHABITANTS OF PHUKET ARE PRIMITIVE
Ah, the island of Phuket, Indonesia. We print its name, you laugh. We print its name again, you laugh again. Sometimes, Phuket’s inhabitants are so primitive, freakish and wacked out that they stick entire bicycles through their fat, animal-like lips! And they eat tsetse fly grubs! They’re not even on Survivor and they still do that!

WHO CARES ABOUT PARIS HILTON?
We don’t, but we’re going to talk about her anyway! Isn’t it funny what a talentless, brainless slut she is? Did you see her sex video? Sorry, lame question to which we knew the answer already. Anyway, Paris is in the news this week because she’s in the news every week. She said something stupid. She went to a party. There are rumours she’s with this guy and that guy. Maybe two guys at once! Har de har!

IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE A TOTAL LOSER IN THE SACK, READ THIS
It’s unlikely that your Beavis and Butthead lifestyle has afforded you the privilege of getting off with, like, a chick, hot or otherwise, but we’ve got free sex advice for you anyway. Women, who are like a totally bizarre species that we barely understand, nevertheless share something in common with us men. They like to get off! Therefore, your mission in the sack is to get them off. In order to do that, you’re going to have to spend a lot of time analysing the smallest detail of your performance. Do you know where to find all the body bits that when expertly manipulated make her scream and writhe around like a drunken cobra? Do you know at least 23 positions and have you incorporated a kitchen table or an axe handle into your routine? Do you know what “tantric” means?

Are you neurotic yet? Yes? Good! Join the growing ranks of all the other neurotic sixteen-year old males out there. Acne isn’t your only worry, buddy!

Johnny Briggs’ Business Plan Forecasts 50 percent Increase in Killing

Johnny Briggs, aged 33, and a successful serial killer in the North Bay region since 2002, has drafted a business plan for the killing year 2006-2007, forecasting a 50 percent increase over last year in the number of victims killed.

“Last year I killed six people, this year it will be nine,” said Briggs, with an understated yet quiet confidence.

Briggs learned how to kill from his father, George Briggs, who successfully murdered his business partner in 1986 after a long-standing disagreement over the disbursement of company profits. With his son in tow to keep watch, George Briggs broke into his partner’s house, hit him repeatedly in the head with a tire iron, dragged him into the backyard, and proceeded to feed his body through a wood chipper, spraying the neighbouring houses with a Jackson Pollockesque splatter of red globs. George then went into hiding, living like a feral dog for eighteen days. In the largest manhunt in North Bay police history, George was finally discovered washing himself in a duck pond.

“My father was a hero to me,” explained Johnny at his hastily-scheduled press conference, attended by a lacklustre crowd of black rats. “I can only fault him for having been caught with his pants at his ankles. I won’t make that mistake.”

Mr. Briggs is excited about the growing opportunities in serial killing afforded by the establishment of North Bay’s first ever post-secondary education institute – the North Bay Community College.

“With the growing number of young females in the area, the killing business has nowhere to go but up,” he announced, beaming giddily like a kid in candy store who can't decide which to grab first, a gob-smacker, tooth-breaker, gut-buster or pancreas-punisher. “This is an unexplored market for me.”

Briggs took a moment to reflect on some of his past successes, which are chronicled in his Annual Report, 2005-2006. These include:

Billy Little, aged 12. Tickled, choked, garrotted, stuffed in suitcase, dumped in the bay.
Gertrude Morvan, aged 89. Induced heart attack with the music of Slayer, shot, cut into small pieces, turned into wallpaper for outhouse.
Violet Turner, aged 55. Beaten, tampered with using coal poker, propped up as pretend house guest at dinner party, fed rats, drowned in toilet bowl, burned in farm incinerator.

“These were inventive, innovative and creative kills,” said Briggs. “But as with all things, I feel that I am getting better as I practice more.”

For 2006-2007, Briggs plans to expand his business into impaling, raping and eating body parts, such as kidneys and brains.

"Eating bits of people is a long term business benefit to me because I thereby possess the souls of my victims," Briggs explained.

Briggs would also like to imprison a student for several weeks and slowly starve him or her to death.

“That would be fun!” he chortled.

Briggs is hoping that after several successful years in the serial killing business, he can himself be killed in a hail of bullets from police gunfire, and that his story will then be turned into a blockbuster Hollywood movie.

“My part should be played by Heath Ledger,” Briggs suggested. “And my love interest will be a Rottweiler.”

Some of Johnny Briggs’ competitors in the killing business have announced plans to step up their own efforts so as not to be outkilled by the young North Bay upstart.

"No way I'm gonna let that punk collect more corpses in his basement than me," said East Side murderer, Frank "Diddler" Franzen.

Man Writes Strongly Worded Letter About Danger of Infestation

Jeffrey Parson, 34, an unmarried and out-of-work political science graduate, has drafted a stinging letter to the property manager of his apartment building, Byron Palace, warning of a potential infestation on the premises.

Dear Sir:

Yesterday, I found an ant crawling along the skirting board of the northeast corner of my bedroom. I successfully identified it as a carpenter ant, camponotus pennsylvanicus. You are aware, surely, that only seventeen days ago, September 3, I discovered another carpenter ant, also in my bedroom. I informed you of this by leaving a phone message at 1805 hours. At time of writing, you had not returned this phone call.

Regarding the ant, if I continue to discover an ant every 17 days, I will have discovered 21 carpenter ants by this time next year, which is more than enough. Frankly though, what I have related is a best-case scenario, because in reality, the rate of ant-discovery is likely to increase exponentially. Why? Because carpenter ants are highly organized and intelligent insects and are resistant to common eradication measures, such as the application of lethal powder or bug baits. A current ant colony in the United States extends all the way from San Diego to San Francisco. It numbers billions of ants. I doubt you knew this, but it is fact.

In short, what I’m attempting to explain to you is that we’re dealing with the tip of an iceberg. It’s time to stop ignoring this problem and start dealing with it like professionals instead of amateurs who don’t even return phone messages.

Both carpenter ants that I have discovered were quite large, over a centimetre in length, and had wings, which is conclusive evidence that there has been an active colony in the environs for at least three years. The gravity of this situation should not be underestimated. The colony is clearly well advanced and is gaining territory with every passing day. I have already consulted local experts in this regard – Killit Enterprises – and they believe it highly likely that the colony of ants is seeking to establish a satellite colony. You should call Killit with no further ado because these people are not amateurs – they are trained and equipped to deal with North America’s most sophisticated and relentless pest: the carpenter ant. I doubt you knew about the concept of satellite colonies. Would you like Byron Palace to become a satellite colony for carpenter ants – that is, if it is not one already? Frankly, call me crazy, but I certainly do not want my bedroom to become a satellite colony for carpenter ants. And if it becomes one, I will hold you completely and utterly liable for the consequences.

As I write this on my computer, I have become aware of yet another ant, this one crawling up the wall. That now totals three ants in 17 days. I warned of an exponential increase mere paragraphs ago. I have already been proven right. Can’t you see what’s happening here?

This latest ant is not winged. This means that he is a worker ant – a mere foot solider in the ranks of the advancing force. Do not think because he is smaller and less mobile that his presence means any diminishment in the threat posed to us. He is surely on a reconnaissance mission to search out and bring back food to his winged brothers and sisters – and to the queen – the queen who is breeding another 2,000 young workers over the course of the parent nest’s reproductive cycle. The situation is clearly spiralling out of control.

A friend of mine yesterday suggested imprisoning an ant in a receptacle of some kind. I think I will do this. You need to see what we’re dealing with first hand – that is, if you even care.

I know you are in negotiations to buy Shelley Manor and Baudelaire Heights to add to your current portfolio of eleven city properties, so maybe the existence of an insect of under one inch in length is small on your list of priorities. But this is a foolish mentality. Maybe you think you can simply tear down Byron Palace and build a more profitable luxury apartment building in its place and hence in one swoop eradicate the ant problem and enrich yourself even further. But I warn you that this will not work. The ant colony is most surely established in the nearby spruce trees and the ants will remain entrenched there and make incursions into whatever structure you erect on this lot. Killit are in agreement on this. They say that they will need to find the nest and destroy it. This is the final solution. Anything else would like be putting a band-aid on somebody who has been torn in two by shrapnel.

In other words, your plans are destined for failure if you don’t deal with this. Another thing to worry about: if you tear down Byron Palace, as it is rumoured you will – guess what the carpenter ants will probably do? They will see all that rotten lumber lying around and most probably move in. Then when you build a new building, the tenants will be condemned to an infestation from day one.

I can offer you more advice on this but if it falls on deaf ears because you’re too busy becoming a millionaire then that, sir, is a sad state of affairs. For want of a horse, the kingdom of Rome was sacked, i.e. the snowball gets bigger as it rolls downhill – to use a euphemism probably easier for you to understand.

I implore you, sir, if you don’t want to develop a reputation for being a slum landlord, admit the enormity of our current problem, call Killit, and face the ants like a professional as opposed to a coward. I remain for your disposal.

Yours truly,

Jeffrey William Parson

Grind the Peasant into Mincemeat Orders Thag

Thagday, BC 23829 – At a hastily-scheduled press conference held from atop a pile of mule bones, Warrior-King Thag today ordered that Pong the Peasant be ground into mincemeat and fed to a dragon.

“Pong is bad,” declared Thag. “Pong take bright rock from wife #3. Thag mad at Pong. Pong pay price!”

A cheering crowd of onlookers proceeded to storm at Pong. One of them gnawed on his leg. Another ripped out Pong’s hair. “Har de har!” everyone laughed. Then they lit a massive bonfire, skewered Pong on a stake, placed him at the centre of the inferno, and pranced around him while Thag looked on with satisfaction. Meanwhile, Pong yelped like a whippet.

“Skin burn!” Thag roared approvingly, as he watched Pong’s epidermis turn into pork crackling. “Eyes melt!”

When Pong was thoroughly cooked, Thag’s helpful subjects wheeled out a large grinding machine, specially designed for rendering flesh and bones into a pulpy, jellied mess. Pong was fed into the machine and came out the other end. He was no longer recognizable, not even, sadly, to his own blind mother.

“Where Pong?” she was heard to lament as she rushed about frantically, sporadically bumping into menhirs1 and ossified mammoths.

“Mom of Pong sad,” observed a local witch doctor. “She need help.”

“Yeah,” said Eg the Empathetic. “She do no wrong. She is nice.”

While the local dragon ate Pong, the concerned residents of Thagalia wondered how to console Pong’s mother, Mag. There was much consternation that the conditional verb tense had not yet been invented, limiting Thaggians to speaking only in a pidgin present tense. Because it would have truly benefited Mag if she could have explained to her son when he was young what would happen if he weren’t well behaved. As it was, her crude sentence structure had always made it difficult to explain cause and effect.

“Now Pong is poo,” Eg declared sadly, watching the dragon burp.

“Pong, Pong, Pong!” cried Mag.

“Feed Mag a dog!” suggested one particularly clever peasant. The Thaggians yelled with approval. They went running into the dark and foreboding woods, pausing briefly to chant the name of the forest god in order to allay their superstitious fear of being eaten by the darkness, then continued on their hunting expedition. They rounded up four wild dogs and brought them back to Mag.

“Dog for Mag,” announced Eg, handing Mag a kicking and squirming poodle. “Cook dog and eat him and Mag be glad!”

Mag took the poodle onto her lap and caressed it.

“Pong?” she said.

The onlookers exchanged quizzical glances. There was uncertainty as to whether they should correct Mag’s misconception about the identity of the furry beast in her lap. Somebody mentioned that Thag should be consulted. But as somebody else pointed out, Thag had long ago abandoned his news conference and was currently in a cave fornicating with wife #8. He would surely be displeased to have his pleasure-making interrupted.

“Pong!” Mag exclaimed delightedly as the poodle licked her face.

“Brain of Mag broke,” observed the witch doctor with a sigh.

The primitives eventually decided to let Mag believe that her new furry friend was indeed Pong.

“I’m sure we’ve invented several things here,” said William, the first polysyllabic primitive. “Psychology, counselling, the concept of delusions, not to mention animal domestication!”

A quick poll of Thaggians today revealed that nobody had understood what he had said. The latest news is that Thag will imprison William for reason of insanity.

"That man is thoroughly unstable," Thag declared.

1 This is the M.o.M.’s first ever footnote!!! A menhir is a very large stone. It hurts if you run into one, even if you are a thick-skulled primitive.

Sexy People Suffer Worst Plight in Decades – M.o.M.

The latest scientific survey from StatistiCon has confirmed what most people have been whispering to each other nervously and furtively for years. There has never been a worse time to be sexy, and sexy people persistently suffer more discrimination than any other group. Said one survey respondent, “being sexy nowadays is almost worse than being a Jew in Germany in 1942.”

How has our society reached such an alarming state of affairs? And who will be its saviour? Some say it will be pop-star, Justin Timberlake, whose promise to “bring sexy back” has brought much-needed solace to millions.

The survey found that although sexy people do not need to wear a yellow star, they are nevertheless easily singled out in the street, in the marketplace, cinemas, playhouses, and even in their own homes. We found one survey respondent, Gloria Riviera, cowering under her own kitchen table.

“I live in constant fear,” she said. “When I leave the house, I am the target of voracious and frenzied verbal taunts from people everywhere – from heterosexual men, lesbians, even gay men. For example, the other day, a gay man said, ‘OhmyGod! I’d just die to have legs like that.’ I felt like vanishing from the face of the earth. My friend Julia, who is as plain as a door-handle, doesn’t suffer anything like the same discrimination.”

Sexy people report that sometimes they feel like they are an alien race and that everyone is staring at them as if they have three heads or drool dripping from their mouths.

“It is small solace,” said sexy person, Hank Manspray, “to know that these uncomfortably long stares are because of my genetic perfection.”

StatistiCon’s longitudinal study has uncovered a disturbing trend. Much like in 1930s Germany, when the fate of Jews departed radically from that of non-Jews, so too are the fates of sexy people and plain people increasingly diverging.

Chief researcher, Billy Con, explained.

“You only have to look at a typical popular social spot -- Whyte Avenue in Edmonton, for example -- to see how sexy people are becoming ghettozied. On Saturday night, it's as if a wall has been built around the place, imprisoning the sexy people. Not long ago, the normals used to mix with the sexy people, but now they won't go anywhere near. The bars are prison camps for those with chiselled cheek bones, perfect hair and almond eyes."

Hank Manspray agees. “They might as well be shipping us off to death camps,” he said. "That's how isolated we are."

Researcher Billy Con explains how sexiness informs identity at an ever-earlier age.

"The ostracization starts young," he said. "For example, twenty years ago, a pretty girl of 14 might expect to be treated more or less like any other kid. Now, her family and friends will see her, above all, as a sexy person in the making, which will also come to be how she views herself. Where in the old days she might have pined for owning a pony, now she pines for owning a new thong and a scoop-neck Diesel top."

Sexy people are further being segregated from the general populace due to the fact that they mainly breed among themselves.

“I’ve never dated an ugly man,” admitted Gloria Riviera. “They don’t go near me. These stunning good looks might as well be leprosy. Men are literally afraid of me.”

Also, much like how Jews in 1930s Germany were considered intrinsically evil – even agents of the devil – sexy people nowadays must tolerate similar prejudices. It is typical for common people to think that sexy people’s symmetrical features mean they are more trustworthy, healthy and virtuous than regular people.

“In public, babies inexplicably smile at me,” said Hank Manspray. “There’s no rhyme or reason to it. I’ll be at the food-court, and the baby will disregard the dumpy, balding suit next to me, but stare at me with reverence as if I’m luminescent – like the sun god, Re, or something.”

The sexy respondents to the StatisticCon survey were united in the hope that the celebrity efforts of Justin Timberlake might start to reverse their dismal prospects.

“I do hope he achieves some success in his fight to bring sexy back," said Riviera. “I’m not expecting a return to the halcyon days of yesteryear, when being sexy was socially accepted, but I’d be happy with some small improvements. Just to be treated a little more like other people – that’s not too much to ask, is it?”

M.o.M.’s Guide to Coalbed Methane Extraction

Many avid M.o.M. readers have suggested that the M.o.M. follow up its recent guides to Edmonton tourism and university or college with a guide to coalbed methane extraction. The M.o.M. has bowed to popular pressure and prepared such a guide. Be warned, though! Following this guide could make you a billionaire. It will at least make you sound as smart as us.

1. Where will I find coalbed methane?
The first step in extracting coalbed methane is finding it. If you get up early enough, you’ll beat the rush of people who had exactly the same idea as you! Try surfacing from your hangover at nine in the morning instead of at noon. You might like to don your coalbed methane exploration gear. This consists of white pants, a black T-shirt, a pair of safety goggles, and a hard hat. Also bring a Swiss Army knife. You never know when you’ll need to stop and uncork a bottle of wine, cut a piece of paper, or use the toothpick to remove some grit from your teeth.

The best place to find coalbed methane is on private property – preferably the farm of some half-wit who can easily be conned into letting you set up business on his land. Stay away from lands belonging to the federal government, the provincial government, or Indian bands. They can afford a legal team. You, sadly, cannot. Not yet, anyway.

2. How do I set up my coalbed methane extraction process?
First of all, make sure no one is watching you. Some troublesome country folk have gotten wise to the fact that coalbed methane extraction can sometimes leave salty water on the neighbouring land and render it infertile for several decades. Do you want pitchfork-wielding in-breeders foiling your plot to retire in the Cayman Islands? No! So, remember: softly, softly catchie monkey, or in this case, methane.

Next you’ll need to transport and set up your infrastructure. There are technical guides by engineers and whatnot that can explain this, but why bother with them? The M.o.M. breaks this down into layman’s terms that anyone can understand.

3. Extracting the coalbed methane
The methane is in the coal bed. The challenge is getting it out. “Getting it out” is a less technical term for “extraction.” Because the coal bed is buried deep beneath the surface of the soil, you’ll need to do some digging. This is an ideal time to roll up your sleeves. Begin digging.

Have a break. Have a Kit Kat. You’ve earned it.

Continue digging.

OK, so now we reach the part where we’ve hit the hard bit. That’s the coal bed, or at least we hope so, for your sake. It would be pretty depressing to dig for eight months just to hit a big, useless boulder.

Now you’ll need your drilling equipment. And also 900 cubic metres of pressurized water. This is where it gets a little tricky. You need to drill into the coal bed and get water into it and pump out the methane. You also need to trap the methane in a methane receptacle so that you will have a marketable resource as opposed to a fart.

You should now have some methane trapped in a big vat. Don’t light up a celebratory cigar just yet, or else you might explode. In fact, it would be best not to do anything yourself. Why not leave all of the hard work to some cheap, imported labour? The Hondurans and Nicaraguans are pretty dependable for $8 per hour. Please go to the Christian Labour Association of Canada (CLAC) to find out more.

After you’ve done selling your methane to TransAlta or Epcor or whoever, it’s time to start living like a tycoon. This is not simply about conspicuous consumption, ie. buying a Lexus, wearing Gucci, buying a fishing lodge. Now that you are a self-made millionaire, you must observe the etiquette of other self-made Alberta millionaires:

Being rude to everyone with less money than you
This ranges from downright hostility and vitriol for bums (ie. spitting on them, throwing cash in their faces after mocking them for not having jobs), to barking orders at waitresses, to subtle condescension for regular middle-class losers such as teachers and bureaucrats.

Another thing you might consider:

Starting a right-wing think tank
The problem with this country is too many people are sucking off the teat of government. That includes single mothers, who think that getting preggers entitles them to free cash. Right-thinking Canadians should be entrepreneurial resource barons like you. This should be the argument behind every article and book produced by your new think tank. You can name it after yourself!

There, that’s our guide to coalbed methane extraction. Pretty handy, eh? And you thought it would be hard!

M.o.M. Picks Firebrand Fry over Count Ignatieff

After careful deliberation, the Ministry of Misinformation has decided to endorse Ms. Hedy Fry for leader of the Liberal Party of Canada. It is the official position of the M.o.M. that the last-place contender, Fry, is weird enough to be likeable, whereas the leading candidate, Michael Ignatieff, hereafter referred to as Count Ignatieff, is a twat.

Many factors were considered in ranking the candidates.

1. Which candidate is nicest to their mom?
Count Ignatieff left the hard work of taking care of his ailing mom to his brother. Meanwhile, he wrote a book about how hard it is to take care of one’s ailing mom. He made a small fortune out of said book, Scar Tissue.

How clever!

However, Hedy Fry wins this one because she is nice to her mom, as opposed to writing books about being nice to her mom.

2. Which candidate “does not lose sleep” over the deaths of innocent civilians?
We all know that Count Ignatieff, who is fond of sophisticated and nuanced principles that work in the abstract but not in practice, supported the invasion of Iraq. But did you know that he “does not lose sleep” over the deaths of innocent civilians?

That’s good, because it sounds like a lot more innocent civilians will die under his watch!

Hedy Fry wins this one because like most Canadians, she recognizes that walking straight into a shit-storm, even if armed with a shit-shovel, still means you’re going to end up eating shit sandwiches.

3. Who would wear briefs outside their pants if they could?
We all know that Count Ignatieff has the good looks of an aristocratic member of Canada’s miniscule patrician class. But did you know that, if he could, he would wear his briefs outside his pants and wear a big cape bearing the letter “C” (for Clever)?

He came from a galaxy a long way away to save Canada from itself, don’t you know!

Hedy Fry wins this one because she would get locked up like a crazy woman if she put her Fruit of the Loom cotton panties outside her pants. We know it; she knows it.

4. Who gets to flit from UBC to the BBC to Harvard on a whim, like a gadfly?
If you’re bored of one sensationally high profile, handsomely paid job, just go get another one – that’s the Count Ignatieff way. Does this make it any harder to relate to the rest of us?

Yes! Hedy Fry wins again.

5. Which candidate is going to invite you to a dinner party and proceed to bore you over the course of four hours as he talks about his own cleverness?
“Which one of my nineteen books shall we discuss next?” asks Count Ignatieff as he licks some foie gras from a Breton cracker.
“Oh do tell us more about your sophisticated and principled stand on the British coal miners’ strike!” yelp two female undergraduate students.
“Mmmm… Where should I begin?” muses Count Ignatieff, stroking his handsome chin.

Fun?

Not!

Hedy Fry wins again.

6. Which candidate is going to strangle people the best?
Count Ignatieff’s nimble fingers are adept with the workings of a Mont Blanc pen and a notebook computer on which he taps away another very clever and profound book. But watch out, Iggy, here’s a scruffy student on the Concordia University campus coming right for your face because he’s incensed with your position on Iraq.

“I’ll defend myself with another book,” proclaims Count Ignatieff. “It will articulate with great precision the intrica—”

Smack! Count Ignatieff is out for the count. Blimey! Why didn’t you just throttle him by the throat? Don’t you know anything about being prime ministerial?

Hedy Fry wins again. Do you seriously doubt she could strangle somebody if pushed to it?

M.o.M.’s Guide to University or College

It’s September! Time to relax, quit your summer job, settle into a comfy chair, and listen to a teacher’s assistant nervously whisper something about mitochondria! Yes, it’s Back to University or College!

A lot of you might be thinking. “I don’t need a guide to university. I know what university’s all about. It’s about winding up profs with my apathetic attitude, getting shit-faced every Friday, and sex with strangers!”

But there’s so much more to university or college than that. Did you know that behind their veneer of high fashion, tawdry sex, and rampant commercialism, universities and colleges are institutes of higher learning?

It’s true!

Yes, there is a good chance that if you drink enough coffee, you will learn a thing or two in university or college. For example, did you know that the vile patriarchy of male, meat-eating rapists is the cause of every problem everywhere in the world? Once liberated from men, women will be as happy as Care Bears.

Fact!

There is also a good chance that in university or college, you will develop a good relationship with one of your professors. You will look up to him as a mentor! (This part of the guide was for you beautiful young female students only.)

The M.o.M. conducted a reconnaissance mission to the institution closest to its headquarters – the University of Alberta – for the express purpose of finding out exactly what is in store for freshmen (that’s American for Confused Student) this year. Here’s how our tour went.

8am. Hub Mall
Goodie, goodie, it’s time for a cookie! Nothing beats a double chocolate-chocolate chip and chunk chocolookie from Cookies by George. Thank you Cookies by George! And thank you for your delicious coffee, too! It’s simply delicious! And we really mean that.

So far we’ve learned that commercial endorsements and sponsorship deals are a win-win for everybody. Look at that beautiful Telus mural on the north wall of Hub. Hey, why can’t I buy a Pepsi in this place?

8.10am. Hub Mall
We don’t feel very good. Must find a place to lie down and/or a toilet.

9:00am. River Valley
It’s good to walk these things off. It’s not the fault of Cookies by George we feel bloated and panicky. It was the fault of breakfast. It’s a bad idea to eat breakfast before going to school. The food is so much better at school. You must leave room for it.

Can’t wait until Ho Ho’s Chinese Food opens for lunch!

10:07am. A quadrangle
There is a student. The student is walking quickly. The student bears a backpack. That’s a handy place to keep books, kids! But first, we must buy some books!

M.o.M: Hello student. What books do you have in your backpack?

Student: Teleological Structures of Post-Tectonic Increments

M.o.M. ????

Student: I’m in a hurry.

M.o.M.: Can you just take a second to write down the name of that book?

Student: [Sighs] OK. Whatever.

10:25am. University Bookstore
Holy shit! This is like the biggest book we’ve ever seen! It weighs as much as a Geo Metro! How the hell are we ever going to learn all the information contained therein? No wonder students are all alcoholics! This is going to drive us to drink too!

10:35am. University Bookstore
To get through this book, we’re going to need another book. The dictionary! This is crazy! Nobody could possibly be so smart as to actually understand this book. It’s a conspiracy theory. Half of these words are made up. Ganglia? What the hell kind of word is ganglia?

Is it fatal?

11:00am. University gym
You have to be fit and lean to be a successful student nowadays! Refreshed from their beauty sleep, the fashionistas are out. Here we find the brunette boys with their frosted tips and Jessica Simpsons in training with their $190 lululemon sweat pants.

You don’t think university students can afford $190 for sweat pants? Wrong! That’s why the M.o.M. does this kind of investigative journalism. Take note, Global-CTV-CHUM-Rogers-Faceless-Capitalist-Giant Media Services!

11:05am. Men’s locker room
Cripes, it smells like a dead dog in here. What the hell happened?

11:07am. Men’s locker room
We did not need to see that! Is that legal?

12:02am. Hub Mall
Ho, ho, ho! No, it’s not Christmas. It’s lunchtime! This is the very best part of every student’s day. Here we are at the hearty Ho Ho’s Chinese Food. This stuff was packed in containers in the Szechuan Province of China along with a couple of Chinese who went along for the ride. Then it spent three months in transit on the Pacific Ocean, arrived in the Port of Vancouver, arrived two weeks later in Edmonton, and has been fermenting and growing in flavour in the meat trays at Ho Ho’s kitchen ever since.

No wonder it’s called Ho Ho! This is a Chinaman’s idea of a joke on round-eye!

12:06am. A table in Hub Mall
A passing girl just smiled at the M.o.M.!!!

Did that signify something, or was she laughing at our plate of noodles and fish heads?

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

Everyone knows that Edmonton is a hip, cutting-edge, nanotechnology-friendly city with ready access to Starbucks coffee, but what about this city’s illustrious history? Here, in brief, is a guide to Edmonton’s history and where to find the historical sites referred to herein.

1980s
With the arrival of a young hockey player called Wayne Gretzky, Edmonton is born! But what about that place in the river valley called Fort Edmonton? Friends, that is a tourist trap, not a historical artefact. Do you really think Edmontonians would be archaic enough to use trains or heat their homes with wood stoves???? Get real! When was the last time you burned wood in order to fend of a minus 40-degree wind chill? Exactly. It’s not possible. Fort Edmonton was created by geriatric Edmontonians to fool the rest of us into thinking that back in the day, they were tougher than us. Which they weren’t, the liars! For one, no one back then had to contend with the monstrous shopping gulag known as South Edmonton Common. Most of the rugged “homesteader” types were living in bungalows in the suburbs of London, England before 1980 and they damn well know it!

HISTORICAL SITE: The statue of Wayne Gretzky at Northlands Coliseum or Skyreach Centre or Rexall Place, or whatever it’s called this year.

1990s
Edmonton really gets out of the crib and starts throwing its weight around in this decade. That is largely thanks to all the money sloshing around town because of the mega-bucks of Big Oil. Edmonton, the Rome of northern Alberta, recognizes that it behoves the cultural epicentre of the prairies to build monuments to its industry and brilliance. With no further ado, a light-rail transit station is opened. South Edmonton Common (see above) is built. A dozen sprawling suburbs are added, visible from space. Tens of thousands of Edmontonians buy vehicles that are so big that they require their own postal code. Our puny ancestors had nothing to compare to that! A horse rots in a ditch, but a rusting SUV is an eyesore for decades!

HISTORICAL SITE: The University LRT station

2000s
Edmonton moves into what is called its Golden Age. There is now so much money that the elected premier of the province has had to bag it up and give it away! In His generosity, he also throws some extra at the Poor! Another LRT station is opened, with the promise of another to open at a time decided upon by city council after its thirty-seventh debate on the issue. Somewhere on 23rd Avenue and 111th Street, a car gets stuck in the left turning-lane for eight days. This is later called the Eight-Day Wait. To ensure even more exciting rage in that part of the empire, another turning lane is added at 19th Avenue. Visitors to the city can now pretend they are in Los Angeles and sit in exhaust fumes for half of their visit.

HISTORICAL SITE: The intersection of 23rd Avenue and 111th Street.

And what does the future hold, folks? What can tourists expect to see in Edmonton as our city gallops into the future like a filly on crack?

1. The Brick Furniture Warehouse will hold a sale so big that a small child called Fred will be trampled to death in the mad stampede of the crowd to secure a cheap loveseat. This will be a civic tragedy. It will be summed up evocatively by future mayor Billy Miggins as “Flattened Freddie Day.”

2. But in happier news, the annoying blond woman who does the Edmonton Ford commercials will retire!

3. Some prostitutes will go missing. A few left-wing whiners will go, “Oh woe is us! Why does no one care about poor women except for us?” Then one of the prostitutes will be found. She’ll be decomposing in a snowdrift and her face will be half-eaten by a dog. What’s her name again? Nancy Cardinal, that’s it.

4. What was the name of that dead prostitute they found in the snowdrift, again?

5. Millions of Edmontonians will watch and cheer madly as South Edmonton Common is blown up and removed from the map forever. Edmontonians will be screaming, “Hoorah for the death of that disgusting monument to greed and philistinism!”

6. Only joking! What will really happen is that millions of Edmontonians will cheer the construction of Son of South Edmonton Common and troop inexorably towards its capitalist clutches like prisoners on a death march. “How much would you like to spend today?” the Wal-Mart greeter will ask with an inane smile on her hairy face. “Nine-hundred dollars,” will come the reply. “Oh good, I can find you nine-hundred dollars in worthless shit right now. Just follow me!”

7. In the year 2037, Big Oil will totally dry up, Edmonton will wither and start to die, and the surviving residents – deformed and rendered like dwarves because of years of sedentary living coupled with exposure to trace-level toxins – will drift listlessly around town, riding on tumbleweeds.

8. What was the name of that big city that used to be in northern Alberta, again?

In conclusion, enjoy Edmonton’s glory years while you can!

Secret Transcripts Reveal PM’s Plan for Species Act and Mars

Last week, the mainstream media reported that the federal government is reviewing the Endangered Species Act, but they only told you half the story. The M.o.M. has learned that the government's stated motive for reform – ensuring the protection of property rights – is only partly true. The government's greater motive is to starve, maim and ensnare in traps all of Canada’s cute and cuddly animals so that their presence no longer offends Prime Minister Stephen Harper's delicate sensibilities.

We have published today, in their entirety, the transcripts of a strategy meeting between the prime minister, environment minister, Rona Ambrose, and an unnamed official.

PM: Why are there cute animals in the world? To make me feel bad, of course, and to lower my credibility among Canadians. What did those animals ever do to become cute? Nothing—they are completely lazy! Whereas I have worked exceedingly hard all my life and haven't become even remotely cute. Look at me! I have the eyes of a pedophile and the haircut of an accountant. Even my own son would rather shake hands with me than hug me.

UNNAMED OFFICIAL: Let's kill the cuddly animals.

PM: Yes, let's. I thought of that first, actually, so don't try to take credit for it. I am the policy wonk here.

UO: Yes, sir.

PM: What am I?

UO: A wonk.

Rona Ambrose: Which will we kill first: the Fluffy-Tailed Doe-Eyed Bunny Deer or the Pygmy Crested Snuggle-Squirrel?

PM: How about a dose of noxious gas that will get both of them at the same time?

RA: But that might kill the flora as well as the fauna.

PM: Explain for the edification of our unnamed official, what exactly are flora and fauna, Rona?

RA: Fauna means animals. Flora means flowers. And I like flowers. They are pretty, and they never did anybody any harm.

PM: Flowers? You mean like daffodils and dandelions? Ugh! They make me sneeze! Let’s get the flowers too, Rona. Write that into the act.

RA: If you insist. What else would you like to starve, maim and ensnare in traps today, sir?

PM: How about some Palestinians?

RA: Should I get Stockwell in here to discuss the Middle East, sir?

PM: Don’t worry. Mr. Day and I are going to catch up later. No, what I want to discuss with you today – my stunning female minister whose charms are utterly lost on my pulseless and cold being – is whether or not there is life on Mars.

RA: Mars, sir? Mars is out of my mandate as environment minister. Mars isn’t even in Canada, sir, even though we are a very big country.

PM: I know Mars isn’t in Canada! What do you think I did with my youth? Laze about playing with myself? Not me! I had my nose in atlases, copies of Hansard, and the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

RA: I know you did, sir.

PM: I removed all vestiges of fun from my life when I was ten and a half, so don’t go insinuating that I don’t know where Mars is!

RA: I’m not insinuating anything, sir… [Wiping a tear] I am finding this meeting even rougher than my last trip to Edmonton, sir.

PM: Don’t exaggerate, Rona. Anyway, my inquiry about Mars is entirely rational and policy-driven. I need to know whether we can make Mars inhabitable.

RA: I’ll look into it. Why?

PM: After killing all the flora and fauna, plus reneging on our Kyoto commitment, plus giving carte blanche to oil and gas industry development on every square inch of available land, I’m thinking we’re going to need another planet to live on.

RA: Brilliant, sir. That’s why you’re PM and why I’m merely in charge of the ironically titled “Environment Ministry.”

PM: Oh, yes, the irony! I love it! Just like how I called Israel’s bombing of Lebanon “measured.”

RA: It’s your robotic delivery and lizard blood that makes your irony so effective.

PM: Thank you, Rona. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.