Dog With No Legs_2
I must be a ghost. A spirit gliding over the cool tile of the train station. Spirits don’t carry cash or have access to their PayPal accounts anymore, which is probably why the glowing, abrasively positive young people volunteering to get people to volunteer money to various charities and causes never ask me if I “have a minute.” It’s almost upsetting to be ignored like this. Maybe these bastions of light and goodwill can see some sort of dark essence snaking around my aura and they’d prefer not to accept a one-time or preferably monthly donation from me because of it. There’s probably ethical and spiritual standards they have to uphold. They must know about the time I rented Evil Dead and then moved to a different province with the VHS in tow.

One of them wrapped a scarf tightly around themselves as I passed in an obvious effort to protect any exposed facial flesh from the arctic chill emanating from my phantom heart. It was a nice scarf, though. I nearly asked her where she got it but decided not to risk it in case she could see me and followed up “H&M” with “do you have a minute?” I also didn’t want to lead them on. If I made small talk with one that could open the door for others to capitalize and take advantage of my conversational, potentially charitable, minutes. And as much as I love helping others (I once googled directions to an organic market for a lost looking mother-of-three and I was nowhere near any WiFi hotspots—data ain’t cheap!), I also know that I must help myself before I can help them—a dog with no legs can’t save a drowning cat. Or however that one goes. So before I dig deep into my pockets I need to make right with myself, find my legs, and thaw the frozen gristle of my heart, preferably in the heat of online streaming services and detoxifying fruit smoothies.

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Thomas Crapper

Despite popular belief, Thomas Crapper did not invent the flush toilet. Contrary to the myth, his surname isn’t even the etymological catalyst for our common use of the word “crap,” as in fecal matter or the infamous Roger Ebert quote, “Transformers: Age of Extinction is the biggest piece of crap we as a species have willingly put into our eyes–I’m surprised the majority of the Western world doesn’t have pinkeye.” Except that Ebert never said that (he was mercifully dead by the time the film was released), “crap” is actually a combination of the Dutch word “krappen” (to cut off, or separate) and the Old French word “crappe” (siftings, waste), and John Harington invented the flush toilet in 1596 (not to be confused with John Harrington, the late CEO of the Boston Red Sox).

Misconceptions like these are generally innocent in nature and are usually just the result of a game of cross-generational telephone, someone not doing their due diligence and checking Google, or some good old fashioned fabrication. That being said, with some things there just isn’t any room for misconception. It is universally understood, and even upheld by the U.N., that it is a direct violation of my human rights to have to listen to dubstep at 8:45 am as we make the hour-long carpool to work through morning traffic–everyone knows that torture is a no-no. So dear God, at least just put it on shuffle.

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The 1982 World Fair’s commemorative PEZ dispenser is known in PEZ circles as the most rare and sought after plastic-head-driven candy dispenser of all time. On top of a green stem (that holds the unremarkable sugary tablets), this Austrian based company stuck an assumedly American astronaut’s helmet—a proxy for the USA’s power and ingenuity—up on a threateningly diabetic pike. Was this a bold political statement or my boredom causing me to connect dots that weren’t there, like my brother’s freckles during winter?

If it’s boredom it’s because I just don’t get PEZ. I mean, I understand the appeal of candy and the fetish of collecting meaningless cultural ephemera, but none of the PEZ characters ever spoke to me. Popeye? Batman? The cast of Disney’s FrozenYawn. You want my money? Give me Donald Trump. Make the freshly euthanized Pomeranian on his head tilt back to offer up what you expected be an artificially flavoured grape rectangle that for some reason tastes like cherry. Why? Because that’s the art of the deal, yah loser, that’s why.

I want to tip Putin’s stoic Russian chin and die of dioxin poisoning two days later. I want a self-tanned, weave-wearing Rachel Dolezal gullet to shoot out peppermint PEZ and a dispenser hooded in a niq?b that you lift to reveal a simpering Stephen Harper—because if you’re going to turn our sweets into entertainment, at least make it something that we’re entertained by—the loud, dangerous, and offensive.



Incumbent margarinePolitical leanings aren’t genetic. My mother’s belief in Harper’s inflated economic record isn’t something I have to swallow and extol. I can throw it out like my Sunday school parables and call bullshit on our Prime Minister walking on water (that he’s dying to have supertankers run through). There’s no cognitive dissonance––muzzling scientists, robocalls, senate scandals, etc, after unfortunate etc, are bad with a capital PC, and I can (and will) vote in opposition. But why can’t my mother or father see fit to do the same? Are they swayed enough by bland Conservative propaganda (PROTECT OUR CHILDREN) to not see the evidence that the human shaped tub of margarine with hair in office is trouble? Or am I not giving them enough credit and they’re the ones cunning enough to see through the partisan attacks to the truth, a truth where the best option for Prime Minister of our goddamn country is personal friends with Chad Kroeger.


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Celebration of Life

I fell down the hole. It happens. You go in with the intention of sending a quick Facebook message, then forty-five minutes later you’re still on the internet and you’ve ordered all eleven seasons of M*A*S*H on VHS from Amazon and you don’t even have a VCR. This time I was catching up on the news when I read about Harper’s Fair Elections Act. That naturally lead me to Googling assisted suicide and funeral chapels––you want to have all of your bases covered.

Eventually I found my way to the website of a funeral chapel in Prince George, BC. It was under the umbrella of Dignity Memorial, who, with over 2,000 locations, dole out franchises like McDonalds but with livelier atmospheres. The name of this particular franchise was Assman’s Funeral Chapel, because you can’t spell Dignity without A-S-S.

Immature delight aside, I’m all for the name. If when I die my family decides to have a memorial service instead of taking my ashes to Disneyland and throwing them into the air on the final descent of Splash Mountain like my will dictates, then take my body up north. The only person I want embalming me is Assman.


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You're In
Piss smacked the asphalt in his wake as we skated into a stretch of the bike path moonlight and streetlights couldn’t reach. A thud and “fuck!” came from the darkness ahead; someone had made an abrupt introduction with the ground. His pee-trail jumped and drew wet jagged peaks as he belly laughed at our friend, the source of the thud, writhing and cursing in front of us. He continued to laugh until his wheels hit the same watering hose snaking across the path our friends had, pitching him into air, dick in hand, urine scrawling jumbled cursive cries into the night.


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Not a Winner
“Good luck.” It’s always “good luck.” Never has there been a wink and a “see you soon.” I get that that would probably be collusion or some shit, but how often do I have to come in here and buy stale potato chips and a $7.00 Quick Pick before “good luck” becomes “good job?”

Someone in Alberta is always winning. A $50 mil ticket was sold there this goddamn week––the CBC’s website made sure to rub that “news” in my face. I would do great things with my winnings. I’d rescue a shelter cat, neuter it (not myself, but with my winnings I could go to vet school and learn to neuter), buy it a really nice scratching post with three to four different levels for it to explore, then buy a house for myself so the cat doesn’t have to be trapped with me in my sweaty little bachelor suite with its three to four level scratching post blocking the way to the bathroom. I’d definitely put its litter box in the bathroom too. It’d be real cute to take a simultaneous shit with your cat.

Of course I’d donate to things if I won. Food banks. Hungry drives. My cousin’s app he’s working on that detects early onset halitosis. It wouldn’t be all about me. Sure, obviously some of it would. The authentic (and autographed) Bonnie “Prince” Billy face cast would cost a few pennies. The discovery and tapping of the aquifer on my new property would cost a few more. But winning the lottery for me is really a selfless act. Think of the cat, the hungry people, and my cousin. Deshi, come on.


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“No. No. This––I have my money. Take my money. Take my goddamn money.”

They wouldn’t. A man came from the back room and stood beside the cashier; they both looked anxious as they tried to explain to the man with the money why. He crumpled a ten-dollar bill in his hand and then watched as it slowly opened in his palm.

“This ain’t fair. This ain’t no fuckin’ fair.” He whispered.

“We told you, we just can’t.”

A line of tears zigzagged down the man’s face before he staggered out of the store. The cashier and I shared no words as I paid for my beer.

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A dog sneezed and I heard its tongue slap off of its lips and snout as it walked by. The sun rested heavy on my body like the extra blanket my grandma would always insist I use over an already sweltering down comforter, “just in case it got chilly.” The group to my right was laughing and drinking beer and so was the group to my left. I felt the former were having a better timetopical humour and a charming duo of duelling Scottish accents swung it in their favour. I didn’t need to open my eyes to see how beautiful it was outside. The park was teeming with sounds of life, the grass was soft and the only thing I had to worry about was maybe getting shit on by a bird.



At first it was sincere excitement, I had finally found a quality pair of pants. The rarity of this should be noted––for me to find a pair with the right fit, loose but not saggy around my bulbous ass and thighs, is hard enough as it is, but to find ones that also stretch––this was momentous. I told the cashier that it was tough to decide between the “Modern” and the “Classic” fit but that I thought I ultimately made the right choice. He was surprisingly dismissive, responding only in grunt, which forced me to dive into greater detail.


“You know, sometimes you just need a little more space for your legs and I really believe the Classic fit does that for me.”


“I mean look at the stretch on ‘em! Look at how far I’m squatting down! Look! These are brand new! Didn’t even have to break ‘em in!”


“And this colour, what is it, like a deep navy? This is perfect. Not dark enough for the sun to bake my legs when I’m outside but dark enough to hide any stains.”


“You know how when you pee but you don’t pee it all out and you dribble a bit in your pants? I do that sometimes. I don’t think it’s a prostate thing. Either way, no one will be able to tell in these!”


“What? Yah, sure, they’re nice pants.” He finally conceded. Satisfied, I paid and left.