My Non-Surgical Lobotomy

**Editor's Note - Once again my brother Paul has supplied me with content, compensating for my abject shiftlessness. I hope you enjoy. - Ryan**

I handed her two hundred dollars, slapped her ass and sent her on her way. She was worth every penny. I took a picture of the hotel room. Beer cans were strewn on the floor, ashtrays overflowed, white powder laced the coffee table and the bed sheets were satisfyingly disarrayed. This picture would serve as my final souvenir of my hedonistic ways. It was time to give up my life of debauchery. I needed to start planning my long term future. I’d recently perused various religious texts in search of posthumous solace. One religion appealed to me beyond all others: fundamentalist Mormonism.

I’d decided to become a FLDS Mormon for three important reasons: I wanted to let god take care of my problems; a harem of servile wives sounded appealing; and lastly I wanted to indulge my narcissism to the fullest. Though I will miss my vices and possibly my mind, I felt it was necessary to hedge my bets. Eternal damnation sounds like a real downer.

I’m tired of thinking for myself. Grappling with the modern zeitgeist of an ever changing world is hard work. Learning new concepts makes my brain hurt. Solving problems takes ingenuity and tenacity. I’ve seen the light. There is an easier way. I just have to shut off my brain, let my eyes glaze over, feel the drool accumulate in the corner of my mouth and give myself over to the power of prayer. Mormonism, like most religions, states that everything that happens is God’s design. Adopting this philosophy would mean I become immune to criticism and accountable for nothing. I can finally stop thinking and put myself in the church’s capable hands. I will be able to hide behind dogma and antiquated notions without ever again having to wrestle with complex scientific ideas like a heliocentric solar system. That always sounded like witch talk to me. The Christians should have burned that trouble-maker Galileo at the steak when they had the chance. From now on ‘God did it’ will serve as my all encompassing answer to every question. I wonder how I will keep my ears and mind insulated from common sense and rationale. Hopefully there’ll be a seminar. Instead of trying to fix my problems or think through a dilemma, I will simply drop to my knees and beg a celestial dictator to deal with them. Being a Mormon is going to be swell.

One aspect of fundamental Mormonism I’m eagerly anticipating is the bonanza of obedient wives I’m entitled to. The FLDS split from mainstream Mormonism in the early 1900s when plural marriage was renounced and practitioners of plural marriage were excommunicated. People probably have a very negative view of the quality of Mormon woman given the recent news coverage on the raid of the FLDS compound in Texas. People who watched the endless coverage on CNN may be put off by the unusually high number of FLDS women sporting the uni-brow, but I won’t be so easily dissuaded. While I agree that most of these women fall on the wrong side of homely, I hold out hope that I can mine a few diamonds in the rough.

The best part is that the religion demands the obedience and fidelity of its women. I won’t have to go through the hassle of being an interesting and thoughtful person to earn their loyalty and respect. I won’t have to be genuinely interested in them either nor will I have to suffer the indignation of treating them as equals. I will be able to keep them in line with threats of eternal damnation and excommunication. This is going to be keen.

Where Mormonism really sets itself apart from other religions is that it has gone that extra mile to appeal to the megalomaniac in everyone. Other religions offered perks that piqued my interest. For example, certain sects of Islam promise the bizarre and excessive benefit of seventy-two virgins upon death. That is mighty tempting, but I prefer a girl who’s been around the block a few times.

Becoming a Scientologist would give me the chance to rid myself of those pesky body thetans that were planted there by intergalactic warlord Xenu. While Xenu has been a thorn in my side for some time now, the advantage of ridding me of him and his inflicted maladies doesn’t compare to the impressive afterlife benefits package offered by the Mormon religion. In addition to the eternal bliss that is a staple of most religions, I will have the rare opportunity of becoming a god myself with dominion over my own personal planet. Yes, Mormons actually believe this. That is what ultimately sold me, though I often wonder if I’ll be required to pray to myself. That wily Joseph Smith truly knew how to buy loyalty and manipulate the masses. As God of my own planet, my first order of business will be to banish all the Mormons and import some strippers. Being a god is going to be super.

Mormonism isn’t for everyone. Though I relish the idea of becoming an empty-headed polygamist deity, it probably won’t appeal to some. Still, I would encourage everyone to seek out a religion or belief system that discourages independent thought, appeals to narcissism, peddles easy answers, coerces through fear, represses human sexuality, spits in the face of gender equality and holds superstition in higher esteem than reason. People should decide which combination of some or all of these appeals to them and chose their religion accordingly.

Whether it be Jesus, Moses, Zeus, Muhammad, L . Ron Hubbard, or the morning horoscope, people should have a messiah whose teachings they obey without question. Who needs a brain when insecure men in goofy hats can tell us exactly how we should live our lives. If everyone does his or her part we can forget about that bleak time known as The Age of Enlightenment and go back an ideal time where science, literature, art and women are kept under the thumb of religious dogma: where they belong.

Bond Rebooted: Take Two

Editor's note - Due to an eggregious lack of productivity over the last few months, I will be publishing a post by my brother, Paul, an aspiring Roger Ebert. Your feedback would be appreciated. - Ryan

After the embarrassment that was “Die Another Day”, the James Bond franchise was in serious need of retooling. The producers did exactly that, and I thought it was a success on every level. I really liked Casino Royale. The sequel, Quantum of Solace, is a huge letdown. It was nihilistic, relentless, and at times unintelligible. I was actually left feeling nostalgic for the old cheesy Bond films. If Roger Moore flew across the screen in jet pack, pursued by generic goons with spear guns, and dropped a pun about stuffing Christmas Jones, I would have stood up and applauded.

Attention, Modern Action Directors: Incomprehensible, quick-cut action scenes are the worst thing to happen to the action genre since Michael Bay. Hey, maybe he’s responsible for them. Probably not, but I’m going to blame him anyway. I really fucking hate Michael Bay.

Quantum of Solace has two impossible-to-follow sequences: the opening car chase and an on-foot pursuit. At no time did I have any grasp of what I was watching. If you revisit action movie benchmarks such as Die Hard, The Road Warrior, or Raiders of the Lost Ark, you’ll notice that all the action sequences are easy to follow and there’s little chance epileptics will be left convulsing in their seats. At no point is the audience left stupefied by perplexing scenarios.

In the spectacular climax of the Road Warrior, for instance, it’s easy to ascertain exactly what is happening and who is involved. You get a sense of proximity, you know how many vehicles there are, and you understand what is happening to whom. If I attempted to answer who, what, where? in Quantum of Solace’s opening sequence, the only response I could offer is a vapid stare.

Mark Forster was recruited to direct this movie. He’s purportedly an art house movie darling behind films such as “Finding Neverland” and “Monster’s Ball”. Perhaps he’s out of his element here, because I thought some of “Quantum of Solace” was ham-fisted hack work. The foot chase sequence was already totally unintelligible due to the quick cuts, and to make matters worse he intercut the scene with shots from a horse race. Oh I get it! It’s a chase! He employs a similar tactic in the opera house where a death within the opera itself parallels onscreen carnage. Clap, clap. Bravo! Maybe he thinks lowbrow movie goers need this juxtaposition to follow along. We don’t, but better direction would be nice.

There are also some really confusing plot points involving Bond’s friend/nemesis Mathis. Who was he working for ultimately? Why was he killed? (I know. That was a spoiler. Don’t worry the movie was spoiled long before I gave away plot details. It’s been out for three weeks anyway. Get your asses in gear, people). I don’t consider myself particularly obtuse, but a little clarity would have been appreciated.

I think Daniel Craig was a really good choice for James Bond. He’s looks appropriately menacing, athletic, and calculating-much closer to the character Ian Fleming created. Where’s the charm though? It’s not Daniel Craig’s fault; the script wasn’t good. Bond needs to be more than a stone-faced, relentless sociopath. No, he doesn’t need to be spouting ridiculous double entendres at every opportunity, but a little personality would really round out the character. Without it he just becomes Jason Bourne.

I can only recommend this movie to fans, who frankly have already seen it. For those who need a ranking system: I’ll give it a 2 out of 5. James Bond needed a retooling. I just hope they don’t take it too far and leave nothing left of the character that so many people know and love.

Paul Sykes will return in……His review of Slumdog Millionaire.

Tipping: Maybe it IS Just a City in China After All

While chatting with a friend at the beach the other day, the topic of our conversation turned from the usual subject matter of "which member of the Full House cast turned out the hottest?" (my vote goes to Jodie Sweetin, while he's a Stamos man) to that of cab fare gratuities. A rather heated debate ensued and relations cooled to the point of approaching Russian/Georgian proportions. It seems my friend, let's call him "Matt" was chagrined at the perceived duplicitousness of his previous evenings' cab-driver. Throughout the course of the ride, the driver regaled Matt with some hard-luck story about how difficult his life was i.e he had five kids to feed, was deeply in debt and had fallen victim to the infamous kidney thief in Korea, etc. Boohoo.

Once the ride ended and Matt had handed over his cash, the cabbie inquired as to whether or not he could keep the change. Believing the entire story to be little more than an effort to coerce him out of his hard-earned toonies, Matt steadfastly refused, preferring to "round up" by means of leaving the cabbie with the coinage and taking any bills. I couldn't weasel an exact number out of him but I suspect the final remittance was somewhere South of $2.

I've always been under the impression that the appropriate amount to tip a cab driver is somewhere in the 10% ballpark with that percentage being raised substantially if "The Company" is picking up the tab. Matt argued that, unlike waitressing , there was no accepted social norm regarding cab-driver gratuities in Canada and that eschewing the tip entirely was perfectly within the realm of culturally acceptable behaviour. Rounding up, in his estimation, was entirely sufficient, if not generous. I warned him that while it was of little concern to me whether he chose to tip or not, he did run the risk of not only the driver but fellow passengers regarding him as a cheapass.

Needless to say this did not go over well but I am willing to admit I could be way off base here. It was pointed out to me that cab-driving economics are nebulous at best. Conversely, leaving 15% at a Canadian restaurant seems to be the accepted social norm, this money is given with the knowledge that the waitress is not earning more than the minimum-wage standard of $8 per hour. But how much does a driver make? What portion of the fare actually goes to him and to what degree is he on the hook for the maintenance, the rising cost of fuel and the physio and drug-therapies necessary following the requisite violent muggings? For all anybody knows, these guys are making thousands a night and buying up Faberge Eggs by the dozen. Shouldn't their wage be payment enough?

In all seriousness, although I've little concern that these men (they're always men) are starving, I'm by no means convinced that Robin Leach is going to be contacting them about their champagne wishes and caviar dreams anytime soon. I think most people are unaware that a cab license in Vancouver costs over $400,000, a rather daunting sum for young, urban professionals, let alone for someone that has likely recently immigrated from a developing nation. I believe these men rely on their tips just as a waitress does and provide an equally, if not more, valuable service.

Seriously, how much talent does it really take some bimbo at Earl's to bring a table full of college kids some jalapeno poppers and tepid jug of "Rickard's Red?" My interactions with serving staff are frequently monosyllabic and my yam fries generally have more charisma. Good cabbies, on the other hand, actually display modicums of driving skill and are more than happy to chat your ear off about cricket and the enthralling political situation in their country of origin. In fairness to the Earl's girls, drivers very rarely giggle, brush your shoulder lightly and say "Oh, you..."

So at this point, I really need to turn it over to the reader(s). I'm interested in your proverbial two cents on your cabbie-tipping tendencies. Am I the classic fool, forever destined to be parted from his money or magnanimous humanitarian, able to empathize with the cab-driving everyschlub? Let's settle this raging debate once and for all, and more importantly, let's help the "differently employed" (i.e me) win twenty bones from my friend.

Dear Jesus, Will you Lend me a Hand?

Dear Jesus/Allah/Buddha, or any other less popular deity that may be reading,

Being all-knowing, I don't have to tell you that this is my first formal correspondence to you. I realize I haven't exactly been the most devout of followers, what with my tendency to deny your very existence(s) but desperate times call for desperate employment of cliches so please bear with me. I need to confess to whoever is reading that more-and-more frequently I find myself gripped by murderous urges. I fear that I am on the very brink of losing control over these ravenous, homicidal impulses.

What I ask for is simple; I seek the strength to not to choke to death the next guy I see walking out of the men's room without washing his hands. It's not that I don't think these clueless douchebags deserve to die, I absolutely do. It's just that, well, I'm really looking forward to the fall TV lineup and most Canadian correctional facilities don't provide convicted violent criminals with 'round-the-clock, intra-cell access to cable television. What I seek is the mental fortitude to channel my precious hatred towards something constructive, like simply spitting in their mouths or employing Hammurabi's code and slipping them the classic Stink Palm.

If you can't grant me the desired cerebral mastery, perhaps you could enlighten me as to how these complete fucking asshats lack the basic social awareness to realize that most people do not want to shake hands with their dicks. Or the last filthy skank they banged or the armada of genital parasites she deposited on their stinky pubes.

Failing all of this, perhaps you could use your divine influence and provide these shit-eating r-tards with the grade eight scientific education required to realize that one's cock and surrounding area (ballsack, chocolate piehole and much-maligned "taint") are a breeding ground for bacteria and viruses. They need to know that it doesn't necessarily matter that they had a shower this morning or last Tuesday, micro-organisms will grow where it's dark, moist and otherwise disgusting; specifically, their crotch.

I think they could also use a reminder that their time is far less important than they think it is and that the extra 15 seconds it takes to clean that pee of their hands is not going to prevent them from accomplishing anything meaningful. Unless they were going to commit suicide, in which case, maybe you should just let them be.

Thanks, God (or Gods), I really appreciate it. Oh, and while you're at it, would you mind giving flesh-eating disease to all those jackasses who nonchalantly touch their balls in social settings? Sweet.

Your new best friend,
Ryan

Olympic Fever is Making Me Sick

As the Olympic ceremonies get underway in Beijing and some guy I've never heard of bears the torch for Canada, I believe it would be topical to weigh in and deliver my version of "Olympic Fever." This is far from the typically witnessed conditions of blubbering emotion, rampant nationalism and irrational interest in sporting events that have been otherwise ignored for the past 1,444 days since the last games. No, the symptoms I'm experiencing are more along the lines of those caused by the Ebola virus; vomiting, diarrhea, generalized malaise, and internal bleeding.

While the question that all of society has been pondering over the last several months has been "Should so-and-so boycott the Olympics in communist China?" I find myself dwelling on an entirely different postulation; Am I the only person in the world who doesn't give a shit about the Olympics or their perceived political ramifications?

According to the media, I'm supposed to gain some sort of self-worth if someone born in New Brunswick stands on the podium with a shiny medal for fencing. I guess nothing says "National Pride" more than diverting funds from the arts, social programs, and battling climate change towards athletics and beating the snot out of underprivileged banana republics that can't afford the same luxury. Go, Canada, bring home the gold! Let's show Honduras who the Man is!

Additionally, I fail to comprehend how people with otherwise no affinity for women's archery, team dressage or men's 68kg, 700-metre indoor bobsleigh jump (sure, that one's not real...but it should be) can suddenly become captivated by the insufferably boring minutiae of these and other "sports." Don't try to persuade me you're a huge fan of the women's 400 metre individual medley throughout the year because it's about as convincing as Mary-Kate's claim to have had no involvement in Heath Ledger's death. I know you did it, Mary-Kate, you fame-mongering whore.

My one goal for these Olympics is this: to watch even less of the coverage than I did for the last Olympics in Greece. Scoff if you must but this is far from an easy feat when you consider that the longest uninterrupted viewing session I partook of in 2004 was about 90 seconds of Bjork's warbling 412-minute "We are the World"-style opening musical number.

With that in mind I aim to view, over the course of the entire games, less than one minute of actual footage, be it the opening/closing ceremonies, inevitable and ceaseless terrorist attack speculation or sporting events both live and "highlights." This excludes, of course, anything that might be considered a "blooper," ranging from painfully face-planting hurdlers to errant javelins through the skull (one can only hope).

With media coverage as intense as it is and moronic general populace banter at an all-time high, this will prove to be an extremely difficult undertaking. I feel I'm up to the challenge and, accordingly, have a few projects I'm willing to pursue as exciting alternatives to the tedium of the games. These include but are not limited to writing love poems to Glenn Beck, vacuuming the floor with my tongue, organizing my collection of self-bootlegged "Danger Bay" VHS tapes or dangling my scrotum inside a blender, hitting frappe and downing the resulting ball smoothie.

Wait, this just in, breaking news....Beijing is smoggy!! Enough already. You can glue your eyeballs to your Sony plasma screens for the next 15 days if you want. I'm going to hit the beach and bring home my own version of the bronze. I'm not even going to train.

Doucheflaggery

I am a Canadian citizen, and contentedly so. I've played ice hockey (albeit poorly), I listen to the Arcade Fire and I know that Stéphane Dion is not Céline's more politically active older brother. Sure, our draconian laws regarding the public consumption of alcohol could use a little Danish influence but that's a topic for another day. I'm happy to live where I do and feel fortunate to have been born where my rights as a human being are, for the most part, respected and upheld by our Constitution and the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

Having gotten the necessary pro-Canada preamble out of the way, I'd say the most ubiquitously irritating trend I've encountered while abroad is the irredeemably insipid practice of sewing a Canadian flag on one's backpack. There is nary a country I've been to where I haven't run into at least a couple of obnoxious Canucks proudly sporting the maple leaf on their brand, spanking new MEC gear. Far from invoking patriotism, the sight of this garish display invariably triggers feelings of contempt and shame within me, prompting the internal question, "Oh, my god, are we really this lame?" Unfortunately, I know the answer and it's one I'm intent on changing.

Before I can do that, however, I must at least attempt to offer an explanation as to why this tacky phenomenon exists to begin with. One popular interpretation is that Canadian elementary school teachers, who work in environments where textbooks from the 1950's and 60's are not uncommon, are still perpetuating the myth that Canadians are somehow revered overseas. This perhaps hearkens back to our participation in both World Wars and the misperception that our involvement still invokes feelings of gratitude in the average...oh, let's say Belgian citizen. Young Canadians are frequently regaled with accounts of generosity and general benevolence being extended to flag-wearing backpackers. Although I have traveled to almost 40 countries, and spent a good year and a half of my life abroad, I have never experienced even the faintest change in a foreigner's demeanor or attitude towards me upon my having reluctantly identified myself as a Canadian. Guess what? Nobody cares.

I have noticed that the only people who are attracted to this beacon of the bland are fellow flag-sewing Canadians, yearning for a nibble of the familiar; hockey talk, general America(n)-bashing and Bryan Adams singalongs. Well, at least the chorus, thankfully no one ever seems to know any words to the verses. It has never occurred to me that the purpose of blowing your savings and hauling all your shit thousands of kilometres across the Earth might be to meet other Canadians. Couldn't I do that from the comfort of my local Tim Hortons? If so, would that require me to eat their excreble reconstituted "food" products?

"Timbits" aside, if these people are going to insist on subscribing to this lamentable practice, they should at least stop and objectively think about why they're doing it. Why is it that all Canadians feel this need to explicitly differentiate themselves from Americans? I believe that in many ways Canadians feel marginalized and inferior and that this absolute lack of identity oftentimes manifests itself as a self-righteous superiority complex, especially as it pertains to the States. The mere fact that I happened to be born on any particular piece of land does not make me better than those who, by sheer chance, were born a few hundred kilometres to the south. I frequently put forth this opinion in social settings and am invariably verbally assaulted by robotic Canadians who insist that they aren't better, just 'different'. Pause and consider the facts for a few minutes, are we really any different? If so, what separates us? Is this really apparent to people around the World?

I can say with resounding conviction that the vast majority of people I've encountered abroad have, unless they've actually been to Canada, a less-than-cursory knowledge of our belovedly bloated ice cube. I'm not talking about poor farmers living in the backwaters of Bangladesh either, most residents of generally accepted well-educated socieities have never heard of Stephen Harper (or Pierre Trudeau for that matter) and can't tell the difference between Michigan and Manitoba. It's time to face facts: Canada is just not relevant to 99.9% of the World.

It seems to me that, coming from a country that is so internationally and culturally inconsequential, the only way Canadians have found to identify themselves as unique is through pointing out the perceived differences between themselves our currently unpopular neighbours to the south. Is this nationalistic view, whereby one's nationality is the most important aspect of their identity, something we should be perpetuating? Certainly nothing could possibly be wrong with the development and encouragement of a deep-seeded national sense of superiority...*cough, cough, Germany, cough*.

No, the reality is that national pride is for desperate losers and only succeeds in accentuating the perceived differences that may or may not exist across arbitrary political boundaries. In my experience, it is peoples' shared similarities across borders that is both surprising and inspirational. These similarities should ideally be the emphasis of people's travel experience and interaction with locals and fellow travelers alike. Ultimately, people everywhere (including US citizens) want exactly the same things out of life; the best possible chance of success for their families through fair working conditions, good education and affordable food and shelter. How this is not evident to the flag-sporting Canadian traveler, especially now in the era of globalization is both frustrating and puzzling.

Ignoring the obvious ideological issues, does it not occur to these flag-toting jackasses that loudly announcing they are from another country (particularly a wealthy, polite and naive one) is more likely to result in their being the target of theft or far more nefarious schemes than it is reverence? Have any of them considered that blatantly looking like a tourist is quite possibly the worst way to ingratiate yourself to a nation much less experience a culture?

Ultimately, this practice needs to be stopped. These people are embarrassing themselves, they're embarrassing the country and, worst of all, they're embarrassing their fellow travelers. The truth is that residents of other countries are laughing at us, and are at a complete loss as to why we feel the need to proclaim our citizenship on our luggage. Canadians are about as exotic as white rice. We are not universally admired nor are we superior, in any way to the average American or citizen or that of any other country.

Canada is a fine place. There are pretty mountains, adorable baby seals and socialized medicine but let's just keep things in perspective. The time has come to break free of the fine threads that tie our souvenir-shop identities to our carry-on baggage. Take those flags off your backpacks, Canadians, and become a citizen of the World.

Man from Del Monte: You're the Pits - Updated!

On Monday I received the following reply from "Linda" at Del Monte consumer affairs:

July 28, 2008
Dear R. Alexander,

Thank you for your e-mail.

While we wish we could be of help, Del Monte Foods does not distribute products in Canada. Del Monte Brand products sold in Canada are produced and distributed by a different company.

For Del Monte canned fruits and vegetables sold in Canada, the contact information is:

CanGro Foods
1-866-829-1132
www.cangrofoods.ca

I appreciate the opportunity to respond and hope this information is helpful.

Linda, Del Monte Foods Consumer Affairs
consumeraffairs@delmonte.com

Del Monte. Nourishing families. Enriching lives. Every Day. (Groan)

Needless to say I have forwarded my concerns to Cangro and patiently await their reply. You can read my original letter in full below:


The following is a verbatim reproduction of a letter I sent to the Del Monte Company regarding their "Very Cherry" fruit cocktail. Rest assured that any response from the Man from Del Monte or any of his representatives will be posted here as well.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Dear Señor or Señorita Del Monte,


I am writing to you in an effort to convey heartfelt regret and dissatisfaction with my recent purchase of your "Very Cherry" mixed fruit product. For myself, as I'm sure is the case with many of your customers, the highlight of any fruit cocktail is unquestionably the fluorescent red, hemispherical cherry morsels. These provide not only some visual diversity but a sweet taste and squishy texture that, while not resembling an actual cherry in any way, are undeniably delectable.

Thus try to imagine my disappointment when, upon opening the can, I found a paltry eight halve-cherries within. Without performing any actual measurement, I approximated the cherry portion of the entire can to constitute less than 2% of the overall mass. Devastating, to say the least.

Feeling this was likely an aberration, I decided to perform a test and returned to the supermarket to purchase cans of both "Very Cherry" and your regular fruit cocktail (in light syrup) to use as a control. The results were shocking! The can of ordinary fruit cocktail contained a mere four partial cherry pieces while the entire can of "Very Cherry" contained only nine. That's correct, nine bits, ranging in size from a half to a contemptible quarter cherry.

While I recognize that this constitutes a 225% increase in cherries over your regular fruit cocktail, I feel that a product that is advertised as being "Loaded with Cherries" should contain more than a token smattering. Dictionary.com provides the following definition for the term 'loaded': "To provide or fill nearly to overflowing." As a fairly obvious understatement, I would submit that this product falls precipitously short of meet that definition.

Accordingly, might I suggest "Nary Cherry" as a more suitably descriptive moniker for this item? In my opinion, this constitutes nothing more than a blatantly deliberate attempt to mislead the trusting but gullible public into forking over their hard-earned dollars for an inferior product. Curse you, Del Monte, for not only your lack of conviction, but compassion for the cherry-starved everyman.

I've noticed that in your most recent annual report that your company shows net income for the 2007 fiscal year of $112.6 million USD. Would it be too much to ask you to plough even a fraction of that prodigious profit into cherry production and harvesting? Failing this, would it be too much to ask you to provide me with several cans filled exclusively with cherries so that I may add them at my own discretion to your substandard fruit cocktail in the future? Surely this request is within the means of a multi-billion dollar corporation such as yours.

As I find it highly doubtful that either one of my suggestions will be regarded with any seriousness, I hereby pledge my allegiance to the good people at Dole until such time that the cherry content of your "Very Cherry" fruit cocktail lives up to its name. I will encourage my friends and all fellow fruit cocktail (or medley or salad) lovers to do the same.

So go ahead, Señor, and continue to exalt in your presumably lavish Central American cartel-kingpin-style mansion donning your ostentatious white hat and casual pants. It is a sad day, indeed, when the formerly esteemed Man from Del Monte, once renowned for saying "Yes!" can only muster a dismissive "Up Yours."

Regrettably,
R. Alexander Sykes

The International House of Pancakes

"IHOP, where the proletariat eat breakfast". Perhaps not exactly what George Orwell would have predicted but likely not that far off the mark. The clientele at your average IHOP is decidedly plebeian, lodged firmly in that upper lower-class demographic you're all feverishly rubbing away at your scratch-n'-wins to escape. But don't let that deter all you lower middle-class and above breakfast fans out there. While IHOP is far from breakfast bliss, if you're looking for something cheap and chain, you're going to come away from IHOP wholly satisfied and likely sporting a couple of extra chins at no extra charge.

Adding to its low-brow legend, all of the twelve International Houses Of Pancakes in the Lower Mainland are inconveniently located throughout various suburban wastelands. Our target today is situated a stone's throw away from Highway 99, presumably to facilitate the ease with which surly truckers and Winnebago caravans can identify and access its sumptuous wares.

Indeed, part of the fun of eating at IHOP is the sense of superiority one feels when dining amidst citizens of a lower intellectual and socioeconomic caste. A prime illustration of your average IHOP patrons would be the morbidly obese couple sitting directly next to us. In a vain attempt to engage in fork-to-mouth intercourse, the male component of this tragic duo experienced some elbow-to-belly turbulence, resulting in a poached egg being jarred loose from its clutching tines and plummeting squarely into his expansive lap area. Rather than risking injurious fork-to-genital contact, his corpulent fingers reached downwards, cupping the errant ovum and subsequently shovelling it into his cavernous maw. The gluttonous suckling of his own fingers upon egress forced me to call into question whether or not Darwin's "survival of the fittest" concept was remotely applicable in today's sedentary society. But onwards with the review….

As any IHOP frequent feeder knows, the flagship of the menu is the Rooty-Tooty-Fresh-n'-Fruity breakfast. This mother includes two eggs, two bacon strips, two pork sausage links and two buttermilk pancakes, coated with your choice of an assortment of fruit (albeit canned) "topping" for the palatable price of $7.49. I must say that despite the nauseatingly Disney-esque moniker, past occasions when I've chosen to indulge have left me unquestionably contented.

Satiation was a slippery mistress on this day, however, and ultimately eluded us as we ignored our better judgement and chose to step outside of the Rooty-Tooty Safety Zone. I selected the "Corned Beef Hash and Eggs" which, for $8.69, came with three (one more than two!!) eggs, three "fluffy buttermilk pancakes" and a side of completely redundant hash browns. How did it stack up, so to speak? Folks, there's a reason that this place isn't called the "International House of Corned Beef." If you're not a fan of that craptacular, salty, Spammy, Brazilian-rainforest-decimating canned mystery meat, I'd avoid this at all costs.

Having said that, the accompanying pancakes, which I chose to have "Swedish Style", were almost enough to atone for the corned beef's assault on my intestinal lining. For the non-Scandinavians in the audience, Swedish pancakes are comprised of regular pancakes topped with "tart berry sauce" and "Swedish berry butter." To my abject dismay, they were not served by a busty blond in a skimpy milkmaid outfit, tarnishing my heretofore esteemed and completely unrealizable expectations of Swedish culture.

Further cementing the "I" in IHOP, is the option to have your pancakes served French (with orange sauce) or German-style (with lemon butter). Not unexpectedly, there is no "Finnish Style" option as I imagine that there is little demand for pancakes topped with bloody fish-heads and entrails.

The adventure continued as Hun-lo ordered up the megalithic "Split Decision," a steal at $7.99 comprised of two eggs, two bacon, two sausages, two triangles of French toast and two pancakes. Substituting potato pancakes for any of the aforementioned varieties proved to be a near-fatal mistake due to the extremely high grease quotient and overall disgustingness factor involved. The French toast was deemed merely "ok" and served as little more than a vehicle for the array of syrups adorning our table. Dining disaster was narrowly averted as the "perfectly done" eggs and exceptional bacon levelled out the meal to "marginally gratifying" overall.

As alluded to above, one of the real bonuses of a meal at IHOP is the arsenal of syrups that come pre-placed on your table. With standby strawberry, bioluminous blueberry, elusive boysenberry and the mysterious "old-fashioned pancake syrup", there's bound to be a viscous, sucrosey compound to please even the most particular pancake lover in your party. The sheer quantity and variety of syrupy goo available nearly evoked Hun-lo and I into engaging in a Super Troopers-style chug-off. Hoping to delay adult-onset diabetes for a few more months, we opted to postpone until having consulted our respective physicians. But, yeah, I would have kicked his cracker ass to the curb.

Our server, Noel, was genial and prompt on the coffee refills. He didn't push us or try to up-sell and answered all of our asinine questions while still maintaining a modicum of dignity. We appreciated his candour as he openly admitted to being "not really that into my job." The only drawback to Noel was that, and I'm sure all you Mensa members out there already picked up on this, Noel is a man's name and indeed, Noel was a dude.

IHOP is unquestionably not the place one seeks out if one's primary objective is to make time with hot and/or dumb waitresses, pathetically attempting to boost one's triple zero Friday night batting average at the Stone Temple Cabaret. Fear not, fair scumbags, as the suburban locations and reasonable prices ensure each IHOP's clientele will include a table of cum-drunk gutter-sluts making a pit-stop prior to hitting up the local free clinic for this weekend's "morning after" pills. I suppose this could be looked upon as either a bane or a boon, depending on your moral inclinations and standards.

At any rate, despite our rather mediocre outing today, both Hun-lo and myself are decidedly in favour of returning to IHOP in the future and recommend that you do the same. The décor is inoffensive, the wait is reasonable and, as long as you don't stray too far from their namesake pancakes, you won't regret your venture into the suburban sprawl. Just as a helpful hint, you might want to think about growing a mullet, donning a faded "Pantera" T and dusting off those old acid-washed 501's as to avoid drawing attention to yourself. When in Rome…

Even God Thinks Christian Music Sucks Nuts

"Dozens injured as floor collapses at Christian rock concert in Abbotsford" announced the front page of the Province website yesterday morning. Evidently, Friday night during a concert by "multiple Covenant Award(!?) winning Christian music group," Starfield, the floor gave way, sending about 70 people into the church basement and just a few feet closer to hell.

Although no one was killed, several of the tone-deaf, pasty-faced, virgins were rushed to hospital, tearily looking skywards and asking, "why, God, why?"

Well, the answer is pretty obvious. Clearly, even God thinks that Christian rock music is super lame. I've had a listen to some Starfield tracks, courtesy of their mascara and mullet-heavy website and I'd like to think, if there was a God, that in all his infinite wisdom he'd have way better taste than creepy lyrics such as "Precious lamb, our freedom's in your blood." What is it with Christians and infantile farm-animal metaphors anyway?

Sheep jokes aside, I can easily picture God on the night of the concert hanging out with some of his deity buddies, holding his hands over his ears and wincing in disgust: "Hey, Buddha, Krishna, come over here, check out this wrath! I am gonna smite these geeks something fierce. Zeppelin rules!!!"

One of the most interesting aspects of the Province's 'story' was the fact that a good 30% of the text was cut and paste from frantic posts on Starfield's Facebook page. It seems as if writing for the this bastion of hard-hitting news requires little more than the ability to right-click on social networking websites. This blatant affront to journalism would disappoint me if I wasn't already under the impression that there isn't a single person working at the Province with an I.Q. above 90.

The prevailing sentiment amongst the semi-literate faithful posters was that God was somehow inclined to watch over the victims and that the Province readership should "pray for them all."

Seriously? Are these people so truly and mindlessly deluded by their unsubstantiated faith that they fail to see the delicious irony in this 'tragedy'? Operating under the presupposition that God is omnipotent and therefore controls everything, he's the sonofabitch that brought the roof down to begin with. I think it would be, to say the least, pretty statistically unlikely that he'd be remotely interested in the welfare of casualties, much less be receptive to blubbering pleas for his mercy. Does the fact that this happened in a structure dedicated to his worship not even remotely illuminate the blatant truth...that there is no God, but if there was, he apparently prefers the Chili Peppers?

So there you have it...God favours those with taste and is not above taking out his anger at your shitty musical preferences by collapsing a church on your head. Additionally, as I may never get the opportunity again I'd like to point out that, if the name of your band even remotely conjures up comparisons to a laconic, lasagna-loving, comic strip tabby, you should probably think about changing your band name to something a little less gay. Like the Ball-Licking Fancy Pants.

The Endless Cup Spilleth Over

"The customer is usually a moron and an asshole." - Larry David

I was waiting in line at Starbucks the other day and I couldn’t help but overhear some hapless loser asking for an entirely free cup of coffee. The cordial barista immediately honoured the request without so much as a cock-eyed, incredulous glance, indicating to me that this sort of encounter was rather routine.

“This must be quite a special person,” I thought to myself, “for what possible reason could this clerk have to defy the very mission statement of any business, that being to turn a profit from the sale of one’s goods or services, by handing out free java to this chick?”

Well it seems that, to put it in her own words, she had “just bought the coffee but dropped it outside.” Could it be that the fact that the purchase was very recent provided her with the latitude to carelessly mishandle her beverage and drop it on the ground, resulting in the evacuation of the entire venti or grande or whatever-the-fuck oversized goblet of coffee it was and somehow feel entitled to a free refill?

Perhaps it was the fact that her spillage had taken place within shouting distance of the front door where she had bought the coffee that rendered her request something other than preposterous. Could it be true that all notions of accountability and taking responsibility for one’s own actions are forfeit when it comes to clumsily mishandling foodstuff?

I attempted to answer these questions a few days later by entering the Starbucks, buying a medium coffee and returning five minutes later, sans beverage, with my tail between my legs. The following exchange took place;

RYAN: Hi, I need to buy another coffee, I, uhhh, I just dropped mine outside (I had, in fact, given the coffee to my girlfriend who was not aware of my duplicitous motives).

CLERK 1: Oh, my God, that totally sucks. You don’t have to pay for that, you can just have another one.

RYAN: Really? But, I mean, I fully expect to pay for it. I accept responsibility for my actions, especially in regards to items that I own. We completed our transaction and I assumed ownership of that coffee so I’ll just buy a new one.

CLERK 1: (Blank stare, accompanied by hints of drool)

CLERK 2 (Overhearing our conversation): That is totally the worst. That happened to me, like, three days ago. Isn’t that such a horrible feeling? You can just have a new one.

RYAN: Wow, that’s very generous of you. I’m just curious, though, how far away from the door would I have to have been in order for you not to give me a free coffee?

CLERK 1: So…do you not want me to give you a free coffee?

RYAN: Oh, no, I want it, I guess I’m just curious about the policy regarding these things.

CLERK 2: …so, was that a latte, cappuccino, what?

RYAN: Just a coffee, thanks. Thanks very much.

Astounding!! Why is it that butterfingered retards in our society are rewarded with replacements for food items that they initially treated with such apathetic disregard? This is an incredible phenomenon that I suspect exists entirely within North American food services culture, for I have witnessed the same sort interaction at McDonalds, Arby’s and even lower middle-end ‘restaurants’ such as White Spot and Denny’s.

When I raised the experience with some friends of mine who work in an upscale, Yaletown restaurant they provided me with the expected argument; that the price of the individual coffee, crab cake or Louisiana chicken club was insignificant next to the projected future value of the sloppy-but-satisfied customer. Maybe so but I’m not convinced that, as a restaurant owner, my target clientele would be bungling lummoxes who felt they were owed a living. Optimally, such people would either learn from their mistakes or starve to death in a ditch. Rewarding them won’t allow either of these scenarios to play out as nature intended.

This same group of friends pretty much unanimously agreed that, although they’d feel like idiots if they themselves were unwittingly defeated by those sneaky forces of gravity, they would each likely request a freebie. Their arguments tended to fall along the lines of: “Well, I don’t think I’d feel I was owed but, hey, if the offer was there, I’d be pretty stupid not to take them up on it.” True, but I happen to feel they’d be pretty stupid to give it to you.

At any rate, I couldn’t help but begin to reflect upon the extent to which one could one abuse this munificent policy. Are these immediate replacements limited to food & drink? Perhaps I could wander out of a Pier 1 with an $80 box of really ugly dinnerwear, drop-kick it through the parking lot and return, droopy-eyed to the cashier for a shelaccy-new substitute. There probably wouldn’t be anything stopping me from ‘accidentally’ fumbling my newly-purchased 42-inch Sony plasma screen down the escalator at Future Shop and humbly sidling up to customer service for a comp.

As much as I want to delve further into this consumer curiosity, the fear that one day I’ll actually be stuck with the tab for replacement cost concomitant with my current lack of employment is going to prevent me from doing so. However, I implore each and every one of you to put the idiot's insurance policy to the test. Don't stop at coffee, though...why not mosey on over to your local Cadillac dealership, buy yourself a new XLR and plow it through the dealership lobby? In all likelihood, instead of receiving the social derision and financial punishment you'd deserve, you'll be handed a new set of keys and a sympathetic smile.