Paddlesmack Resident Seeks to Join Fight with Drugs

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

Dear Premier Ed Stelmach:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep it real and honest,

Truly,

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

News Bullets of the Day

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

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

PARIS HILTON THINKS FRIEND’S BABY IS GROSS
We would run a photo of the famous heiress but alas, we cannot. So you’ll just have to imagine her face. Still with us?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was the day that was!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joey Gibbering Elects to “Go Native”

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

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

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

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

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

“Bring it on!” said Gibbering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a cool year!

Travails of Sufferer of “Anxiety of Influence”

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

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

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

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

“Are you serious?” Fairbairn inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit happens,” concludes Glitter with a shrug.

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

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

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

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

"He just needs to get laid more."

Mark Middleton: an Obituary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Creative Talents of Ed Stelmach Discovered

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The last page reads, “The end?”

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

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

The Quest to Find the Meaning of a Word

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Danish lama smiled and then sighed.

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

“I’ll remember that,” said Gimbler.

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

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

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

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

“At the University of Alberta,” replied Gimbler.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?” asked Gimbler.

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

Gimbler felt a twinge of pity for the noble wizard.

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

“You do?” said the Word Wizard.

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

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

"Ancient sorcery lives!" exclaimed Gimbler, incredulous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leadership Race Q&A

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

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

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

Communicating Made Easier with Hilarious T-Shirts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breaking Shattering Election Update Special Exclusive! Newsflash Excitement Tits!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dick Cheney’s Halloween Costume Instils Fear Everywhere

The Vice President of the United States, Dick Cheney, has alarmed his family and friends with his choice of Halloween costume. Mr. Cheney announced today that he is going to the Halloween party of the Bush family dressed up as... Dick Cheney.

“Argh, no!” Laura Bush was heard to exclaim. “Every time he shows up with that thing on his head – he calls it his ‘face’ – it totally freaks me out. “Last time we had a party and Dick showed up, Barney the dog was hiding in the Oval Room growling as if the ghost of William H. Taft[1] himself were flitting about the house!”

Mr. Cheney – or Grimace, as he is affectionately called in secret by his friends (which is not a reference to the lovable, fuzzy, huggable McDonald’s character) – has a long track record of terrifying people merely by smiling. It is widely expected that his Halloween party banter is likely to be up to his usual standard.

“He’s going to be leaning over the table of hors d’oeuvres, nibbling on hoagies, and cracking jokes about the US policy of pretending to drown people in order to gain information from them,” Mrs. Bush predicted. “It’s really sinister, especially when he mimics a torture victim. ‘Please don’t drown me! I’ll tell you where Osama is hiding! Please don’t dunk my head in the water again!’”

It is widely acknowledged that Mr. Cheney’s own daughter, Lynne Cheney, was so traumatized by years of her father kissing her goodnight that she decided to become a lesbian so that she would never have to submit to a kiss from a man again. Fortunately for Ms. Cheney, her childhood has provided her with a dependable source of jokes with which to regale her friends for the rest of her life.

Her famous one-liners include:

“You should see him in an apron at Thanksgiving!”
“He’s just a little boy at heart!”
“He spared the life of a squirrel once!”

Meanwhile, her father is excited about yet another Halloween with the Bush family.

“It’s good to take a break from the war on terrorism every now and then,” said Mr. Cheney. “A good party relieves stress, much like shooting your best friend in the face with a deer rifle. At this time of year, I also enjoy sneaking up behind a brown person, or someone with a rag on his head, and whispering, ‘Guantanamo!’ right into his ear. Boy, does it ever freak them out!”

Cheney also confessed that whenever he visits the Bushes, he enjoys visiting the Presidential Washroom, where the Geneva Conventions have been printed in 12-point Arial font onto the Presidential Toilet Paper.

“The sensation of wiping my ass on the Geneva Conventions almost revives feeling in my squishy parts,” Cheney admitted.

Mr. Cheney had to cut short his interview because he was running late for a meeting being held in the Cigar-Smoking-Corporate-Tyrants-of-the-World Room, where he was expected to sign into law new rules permitting the stuffing Chihauhau dogs down the mouths of recalcitrant children as punishment.

“I don't like children and I don't like those Mexican rat-dogs,” concluded Cheney, with his famous snarl. "This laws gets 'em both."

1. William H. Taft, president of the United States of America, 1909–1913, is acknowledged by historians as the fattest president in American history, maxing out at over 300 pounds. The First Dog, Barney, as is also widely acknowledged, is small, because he is a Scottish terrier, a breed that rarely exceeds 22 pounds. Barney would clearly be quite alarmed if the ghost of Taft were made flesh, because if the former president of the United States were to sit on him, he would find himself crushed to death, and the much-beloved canine companion to George W. Bush would breath no more. What has been less widely acknowledged by historians, at least to this point, is that this is the M.o.M.’s longest-ever footnote.

The Alarming Consequences of Compulsive Behaviours Left Untreated

Vince Lornigan has a problem. He is addicted to tickling. He rolls over and his fingers feverishly start fidgeting away under the arms and knees of his wife. “Gilly gilly!” he yips, giggling like a child. “Get away from me you freak!” she hollers, delivering him a hefty shove of her elbow into the gut. “Ooomph!” he gasps, winded, and falls to the floor. “You’ve got a problem,” his wife yells for the umpteenth time. “This tickling thing is getting out of hand. You need help. You need a 12-step program.” “I deny that!” says Vince, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Classic denial symptoms!” snaps his wife. “Go talk to a counsellor or else I’m divorcing you and marrying a fireman instead.”

Heavy of heart, Vince finds himself at his first ever Ticklers Anonymous (TA) meeting. He must chant with the others:

“I admitted that I was powerless over my tickling habit. I decided to put my faith in God and with His help, strive every day to stop my dangerous and self-destructive addiction to tickling.”

But saying the word “God” makes Vince feel like he is choking on a tennis ball.

“What’s with this God thing?” he inquires of the group facilitator. Oh no, now he’s not merely asking a question, he is following his quivering fingers which seem to be magnetically drawn to the group facilitator’s tummy. “Bloody hell!” yells the group facilitator. “Get a grip, Vince! Oh – Hee! Hee! No, stop it….Whoa… That actually felt good. Stop it! FOR THE LOVE OF BABY JESUS, STOP TICKLING ME, VINCE!”

Vince tears his frenetic hands away and dashes madly from the room. “Oh no oh no oh no,” he stammers. He sees an attractive female officer on the pavement in front of him.

“I’m in for it now!”

He runs right into the police officer, and his hands can’t refrain from tickling her as if she were a little girl.

“You thug!” she screams, finally recovering her composure sufficiently to get her gun out of its holster. “I’ll shoot you if you don’t back up.”

“Please,” Vince begs, “Don’t shoot! I’ve hit rock bottom. I’ve snapped. I’m now totally at the mercy of this terrible vice!”

“You’re going straight to the slammer for assaulting an officer of the peace,” says the cop. Vince’s fingers are twitching. He knows she’ll splatter his brains on the sidewalk if he even pokes her gently with his pinkie, but oh, he can’t help it. Can’t help it!

“Watch out for my fingers!” he yells.

Mere hours later, Vince finds himself in the remand centre. He shares a cell with a man who calls himself the Punisher.

“Why do you call yourself the Punisher?” asks Vince, his fingers nervously squirming in his pockets. The Punisher sees this, and thunders, “Quit playing with yourself!”

But, oh no, it’s happening again!

“Coochie coochie coochie coo!” Vince laughs hysterically. “Here come the funny fingers! Bend over! Who’s going to be punished now? Are you a silly billy? Do you like the silly-tickles???”

But the Punisher isn’t as understanding as Vince’s wife, or the group facilitator, or even the female cop. He grips Vince in a headlock and proceeds to smash the giggling tickler’s cranium into his knee. Vince’s body drops limply to the floor. The Punisher then lifts his size 15 boot and stomps it down mercilessly onto Vince’s neck!

“That’s why they call me the Punisher!” roars the Punisher.

Vince dies instantly of massive head injuries and from choking on gratuitous amounts of his own blood!

And that is the story of the tragic death of the Silly Tickler, who entered into Alberta mythology just as soon as he was buried.

George Fossington-Jowel Thanks Party Host

George Fossington-Jowel, aged 22 – heir to the fortune of his eccentric mother, Baroness Marjorie Fossington-Jowel of Gizzardton, UK – has carefully crafted a letter to Ronnie Reckless, the host of a party he attended last Saturday in Edmonton.

Dear Mr. Reckless:

Please accept my sincerest gratitude for your hospitality at my first ever North American party. I had a truly delightful time and do hope that my attendance was welcome enough that I might anticipate invitations to other festive occasions in the future! How I dearly hope so!

Please also pass on my thanks to Ms. Charmaine Klosko for being such a witty and intelligent interlocutor for such a long duration of the evening. I truly enjoyed meeting such a quintessential north Albertan! Were you aware that Ms. Klosko’s great-grandmother was from the Samson Cree tribe of the Hobbema area? Imagine my delight upon discovering that I was talking to a living and breathing descendant of Indians! I had detected from the evening’s outset a certain wild glint to Ms. Klosko’s dark-hued eyes and I must say that it makes her quite beautiful in a very naturalistic sort of way. I am very grateful to her for letting me take a little nibble in her musky nether regions during an extended private session in your well-appointed bathroom. I will not soon forget Ms. Klosko, as indeed, I hope, she will not soon forget me!

Some of your other guests were also delightful company. I marvelled in particular at the antics of Kevin Keghead, who managed to inhale from his cigarette, then consume an entire pint of Molson Special Dry, and exhale afterwards a fine plume of silvery nicotine smoke, all whilst humming the theme song of The Great Escape! I laughed so much I nearly besmirched my trousers when he proceeded to stand on his head in the bathtub and drink directly from the barrel of beer that you had so generously provided. Mr. Keghead is a man of considerable talent. I am sure that he would have been welcomed fondly among my own circle of friends, especially on our Rummy nights of the olden days, when we would gather in the dining hall at Mandrake Manor, play cards and sneak sips of rum (hence the double-entendre of “Rummy”!) and exchange amusing tales about deflowering the local peasantry! How fondly I remember our schoolboy days at Eton, when we used to have terribly exciting towel fights in the showers, and on special occasions, re-enact the Spartan soldiers’ initiation rituals of young novices! How much I pine for the company of those splendid old buggers! Now, sadly, they have all moved on to brokerage companies, or retired to their country estates or various rehabilitation facilities. How I miss them! And how I miss in particular the soft hands of Billy Giggles!

Sorry about that. I am going on what you would call a tangent, my dear Mr. Reckless!

In any case, as you can tell, a party like last Saturday’s is just the sort of thing for a boisterous blue-blood like me!

I am sorry about the tussle with Freddy Federowicz. I do hope I’ve spelt his name correctly. I did a spot of genealogical research and apparently, as he is Polish, this spelling prevails over the Russian variant, Federovic. When I first encountered this rather forthright fellow, I was quite inebriated, as I am sure you will recall. When he suggested that my exposed testicles were smaller than those of his little cousin (who apparently is a mere nineteen months of age!) I was gripped by a rare fury. I hope he is not still smarting from when I stuck my index finger in his left eye. That was an accident. I was trying to deliver a roundhouse punch, but sadly, those have never been my forte. We Fossington-Jowels have awfully long and dangly fingers – check the memoirs of Sir Theodore Fossington-Jowel (published 1892, Bodley Head, London, UK) if you doubt the long tradition of our dangly digits. They hinder our abilities to excel at certain activities – but greatly enhance our ability to excel at others (see Ms. Klosko!!!)

Anyway, in my circle of friends, after temporary bouts of booze-induced boisterousness like that, we generally sleep it all off, and after a hearty breakfast brought to us by the butler, we phone each other and act as if nothing serious has happened, and then we go fox-hunting. So please provide the phone number of Mr. Federowicz, if you please. If I can’t make amends by taking him fox hunting, at the very least, we could go scouting for beavers! (Double-entendre intended. Chortle!)

In conclusion, you are a bloody good egg, Mr. Reckless, and I don’t regret my three-day hangover in the slightest. Aside from a bit of listlessness from the old trouser snake, it wasn’t anything I can’t handle! (I do believe I’m setting a record for double-entendres in one letter!)

My most effusive regards, old boy,

George “Georgie-Boy” Fossington-Jowel