M.o.M.’s Guide to Walking

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

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

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

Example:

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

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

Friend [now visibly impressed]: Holy fuck!

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

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

Things to remember:

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

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

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

Frequently asked questions about walking.

Q: Is it OK to walk while drunk?

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

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

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

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

A: You will become crippled or dead.

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

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

Q: Can people of any religion walk?

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

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

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

Ronaldo Ronaldson Enjoys National Non-Sequitur Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Mrs. Ronaldo was not entirely in agreement.

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

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

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

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

"Hot enough for ya?" laughed a private.

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

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

"Death to the Jews!" cried Achmed.

"Quite," concluded his interlocutor.

Memo from Angry Bus Rider: Shut the Hell Up!

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

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

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

Dear Crusty:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Annoying Girl:

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

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

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

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

“You’re fat,” said the girl.

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

“Have your stupid letter back, loser.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You shut the hell up!” everyone roared.

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

Who Wants to Rent an Apartment?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TB: Do I appear to care?

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

TB: Yes. Me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ed Stelmach Proudly Joins the Liars’ Club

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Stelmach blushed ten shades of crimson.

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

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

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

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

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

Tony Blair could not help but stifle a guffaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cerebrum of Cyril Gideon on Brink of Violent Conflict

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Accessibility has been maximized,” she explained.

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

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

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

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

Pee Wee Team Hopes for Successful Crack-a-Thon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Revenge Tragedy Enriches Montreal Morgue by Two Corpses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Classic Rock is a Way of Life

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

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

Case Study

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All in all, a Classic Rockin’ Day!

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

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

What scoundrels could be responsible for this dastardliness?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Puktukkers! Behold the decree from GOVERNMENT MAN!”

There is a brief silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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