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.