Archive for the 'Daily Philosophy' Category


An Enticing Offer

A ShadowAnd there it was in my junk mail box. An email with no discernible subject line. Sure, my computer had labeled it spam, but at that instant, I could not care less. I wanted to open it; I needed to open it. The ‘from’ line held one simple word only: ‘luna’. Who was this ‘luna’? Why had she chosen me as a vehicle through which to spread her messages of intrigue?

I could hesitate no longer. Grasping my optical mouse with my right hand, I steadied my wrist and clicked the message bar. The single line of text that lay within could not have been clearer.

luna wrote:

throw away your parasol, your massive member will cast shadow

The statement was bold, but beautiful in its scope: Do away with my parasol, because I will have an engorged penis which would be capable of shielding me and, ideally, those around me, from the sun. I instinctively pushed my cursor toward the link included in the message. After all, anyone this succinct must necessarily be so wise as to not require the encumbrance of additional words.

Then my hand stopped. A curious prickling sensation in my mind was causing me to question my own impending action. Was this really the right thing to do? Did I really wish to have a phallus so large, so chokingly oppressive, that not even light could escape it? A literal black hole of anatomy hanging from my forequarters?

As I began to think about it further, it became clearer and clearer that the right thing to do was to retain my birth genital, however incapable it was of functioning as a beach accessory. It also began to stand out that, even in such few words, ‘luna”s logic was not impenetrable. It began to seem clear to me, once the initial seduction of the proposition had waned, that several reasons stood against my making use of the enigmatic message’s advice:

1. Parasols don’t grow on trees.

Yes, a penis of such glorious girth that it would preclude my use of a parasol would save space in my beach bag, but was it really necessary to impertinently toss my parasol away? After all, my father gave me that parasol. When you buy a new car, you don’t just throw your old car away. There is nothing wrong with my current parasol. In fact, I always sort of liked it; would I really be willing to give up on it after all it’s done for me? I mean, I lost my virginity under that parasol. Yes, it was a little awkward doing my already awkward business with one hand occupied holding it above us, but I thought it made the situation a lot more romantic. And while parasols don’t grow on trees, I’m pretty sure shade literally does.

2. I sort of like my genitals.

And, goddammit, we’ve been through a lot together. In fact, if we’re talking about penises, I mean, really talking about them, mine is sort of the only one I really want to discuss. It would appear I’m biased in its favour. Sure, maybe my penis is only able to cast a shadow onto my thigh, but maybe that’s all the shade I need.

So, sorry Luna. Really. You dreamed of a world where men could relax, have their hands unencumbered, and still shield themselves (minus their penises) from the dangers of prolonged sun exposure. If my lack of interest in living in a world of men with healthy, milky white skin (but burnt and blistered male members that could smother a polecat) is spoiling your dream, then I apologize.

But I’m still not gonna get the surgery.


Dear Squirrels

Hello there!Dear squirrels who run out into the street just ahead of me,

I’d like to have a chat with you about statistical probability. Hey, don’t worry. I won’t get too technical. You’ve got a lot of nuts to gather, and a lot of suburban neighbourhoods to overrun. If anything, this letter is intended to empower you to keep on doing your thing. But in order for you to keep on doing your thing, you need to stop darting out in front of me, man. For real.

Look, I understand that the occasional slip of the mind might happen. Maybe you saw an incredibly moist-looking acorn, or a stinkin’ chipmunk sniffing around your territory, and you felt compelled to protect your interests by bolting across a busy street. It happens. But like, I said: statistical probability. You and your brethren seem to have come to a consensus that when confronted with the threat of being crushed by an automobile careening toward you, the best option is to hesitate, then run in a zig-zag formation toward the curb then back in the direction you originally wished to go—often stopping multiple times directly in front of the path of my tires. I assure you, this is not the most sensible option, statistically and mathematically speaking.

You see, squirrels, when you run across the road in one direction, you create a vector. On this vector, there are theoretically infinite potential points of contact. When I drive down a street, my car tires create two more vectors (for simplicity’s sake, let’s ignore the thickness of my tires—this is squirrel-level mathematics after all). These two new vectors will intersect with your vector and create two new points of contact. Think of them as “death-spots”.

Let me illustrate this in terms you can grasp. You’ll be the walnut, and my tires will be the pounding fist.

Squirrel Scenario One

See me coming up on ya? That’s right: I have two fists, and you have one line. You may suggest that the scales seem tipped in my favour. Here’s where it gets interesting. I can only hit you one time on that line. Sure, I get two chances, but once you’re past that second fist, you’re home free, rolling in plush-tailed chiquitas and balling all day, if that’s your scene. If it’s not, I’m sure you have a nice nook somewhere.

The problem is, you’re not giving me one clean line, bro. For whatever reason, you’re doing this:

Squirrel Scenario 2

Let me tell you, as quick as you may be, statistically, you’ve upped the ante. Is it out of fear? Look, I already feel guilty enough that, because of our roads and cars, you’re forced to face soft rolling death from above every day. But am I to infer that because of humanity’s horrid influence, you’ve permanently lost the ability to differentiate between away and towards? Because if that’s the case—if we, as a species, broke your brain—then I don’t think I can cope with that guilt.

Just like a real fist pounding a real walnut—sure, it hurts the walnut plenty, but it hurts my fist too. Except in this case, the walnut is you, and the fist is my heart. Don’t make me punch myself in the heart, little hamster, cause it’s a battle we’ll both lose.


The Shame of a Withered Frequency

FailureIt is a dark day indeed when someone with morals as perverted as Mr. Apple’s will remind me of my inadequacy as a blogger. Yet, I have to admit, the challenge of tri-weekly posting, let alone daily posting has been pressing down on me and crushing my insides, not unlike the sole of a Doc Martin on a pigeon’s skull.

For those of you, after last post, who are concerned for my disfigurement, like Tirunesh, worry not: there are few things as precious to me as my face.

So why the robust lack of posting when compared to the glory days of, say, last April? Well, here’s a brief list of catalysts to my blog’s downfall.

1. For nearly the past month, I had been suffering at the hands of CIA Local Phone, a company that lures you in with cheap phone and high speed internet (which works great when it’s up and running), and then snatches it from your clutches leaving a gentleman like me, and his Russian counterpart, adrift in a sea of phonelessness and Internet anemia.

2. Three days a week, I have been rehearsing for my role as Ricky Roma in David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross, a hugely successful play made even more famous by the 1992 movie of the same name, in which Al Pacino expertly recites the line “You ever take a dump that made you feel you’d just slept for twelve hours?”

3. The throes of the Christmas season are upon us, and I have a history of being, oh…less than thoughtful with gifts. I am attempting to change that, but this means spending many an evening perusing the various hubs of Ottawa’s consumer culture looking for ways to redeem myself as a brother, boyfriend and son.

That is all I am currently willing to share with you, though I will do my absolute best to use this Christmas break in refuelling this blog’s energy. Mr Apple, thank you for the awakening, though I hope you will do me the pleasure of “forgetting” to send me my invitation to your annual endive roast and beat poetry reading.

Dearest Regards,



Self-Inflicted Cuts

cutsteak.jpgIt’s not common that my dreams recount tales of organized social self-harm networks, so it is with the spirit of novelty that I share the following trip into my brain’s darkest recesses, from not two night ago. (Well, actually, it was exactly two night ago.)

The scenario:

In the large courtyard of what appeared to be a Chinese monastery, I gathered with a group of young men. In reality, these men were my dear friends, normally the types who would shun self-inflicted pain (though I imagine that for the sake of the dream, they were humouring my subconscious). I won’t pretend to remember all the details, but the jist of the dream, I believe, can be conveyed in the following statement:

We each took turns slicing one another severely with extremely sharp paring knives.

Sort of dark for a guy who writes about bowel movements and rocketships, no? Well, my friends, I’m a deep swirling whirlpool.

Anyway, back to the cutting. Each person in the “club” was first given two cuts by others, and then had to self-administer the third (and worst one). What was interesting was experiencing it from the perspective of the “role” I was playing in my dream. I mean, as a member of this slicing society, I was obviously for this type of behaviour. And it was weird feeling the odd emotional coolness and detachment that went along with that. The other strange thing was actually feeling the sensation of each cut (as my ‘non-cutter’ brain imagined they should feel).  Allow me to go into further detail. In fact, consider this a thorough review of the three cuts I was required to do in my dream.  (Warning: maybe you shouldn’t read this if you actually cut yourself or are thinking about it) Here is:


Cut the First: Horizontally Across the Forehead

Performed about an inch below the hairline, this is far and away the most gentlemanly of cuts. With little muscular or nervous tissue between skin and bone, the knife slides gracefully across the brow with little pain, though it does provide a refreshing sting. I found that a main benefit of this cut was that, due to the thick skull bone, the depth options are minimal. Push as hard as you want—you ain’t getting’ through that skull with a paring knife. Whether self-inflicted or performed upon a consenting party, this entry-level cut rates top of the list.

Grade: A+

Continue reading ‘Self-Inflicted Cuts’


It Will Sap You of All Inspiration

You know, a lot of people pass around quotes in an office place. Forwarded emails, clever witticisms posted on the cork board, and touching pieces of wisdom designed to trick workers into thinking that the drudgery of office life somehow constitutes “a daring adventure.”

Clearly in the following case, however, one slipped under the radar. Get a load of it, if you can get through it before bedtime.

“You have to be willing sometimes to listen to some remarkable bad opinions. Because if you say to someone ‘That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard; get on out of here!’ then you’ll never get anything out of that person again, and you might as well have a puppet on a string or a robot.”

–John Bryan


Correct me if I’m wrong, but pretty much the three dominating criteria for having a quote recorded, let alone passed along, are 1) brevity, 2) inspiration slash wit and 3) not being from a nobody. But damn.

This quote is the inspirational equivalent of polishing silverware. And it has as much wit as Ben Mulroney. Long, overly wordy, and drowning in its own message. Why not: “If you want to hear your ideas echoed all the time, then put your desk in a canyon.” Throw somebody’s name next to that, and you got yourself a quote.

Great QuoteStill stupid, I know, but at least it gives the same message in a fraction of the time. It’s basically getting so anything that is remotely forward-able will be forwarded just to shake things up. I propose the following for those of you who work in a similar place of business: begin writing your own inspirational quotes, throw fake names next to them, and post them on the bulletin board. And see if anyone notices.

Post-it notes, thumbtacks, pieces of Scotch tape: however you can get your message up there, do it. And you will see people applauding the inanity of it, remembering them for future reference and quoting them to their friends.

Worker 1: “Have you read any Sally Desglaw?”Inspirational Quote

Worker 2: “No.”

Worker 1: “She’s got this one great quote: ‘Live each day as if you’re eating a creamy tuna sandwich, and you love tuna.’ She’s got a good point. We shouldn’t always worry about ‘tomorrow’, now is the time to appreciate.”

Worker 2: “That’s fucking amazing. I’m writing it down.”



Mental Lapse

kitten.jpgIt's not that I've been particularly busy.

It's not that I've not experienced anything that I could weave into an interesting post.

It's not quite that we just passed a long weekend whose effects have lingered long into the week.

I guess I just want to make something really special and substantial, and I just need to sit down and do it. After all, you deserve no less than that.

For now, I've posted a picture of a kitten…

Isn't she a darling? Well, yes, let's move on.

This evening, I'm planning to go over to my parents' place and watch a soccer DVD with my dad. Back at Christmas, he received a big-ass 5 DVD set of soccer documentaries from this girl.

He's yet to touch them. What with the world cup coming up, and an impending trip to Italy in June, I'm sure there is much more impetus to watch it now than there was back when he was more focused on trying to keep his back hair from frosting in the winter chill than on Maradona's rise to glory and cocaine-laced fall from grace.


Going Down?

elevate.jpgThe elevators in my office building and I have a unique relationship. They open for me and I thank them by not tracking unpleasant odours into their encasements or spitting on their finely woven ruggery.

When I say they open for me, allow me to be clear. I do not press the call button.

Rather, they appear to merely sense my presence as I approach them, and are ready with a freshly opened door and an empty elevator car when I am within stepping distance. This is a great boon to me, as I am freed from the oppressive push/wait cycle that plagues my building's cohabitants.

While I had heretofore left the two elevators' services unsung, I can no longer avoid giving them due praise, particularly after Friday's exceptional aid.

My work day had come to an end. I packed up my satchel and, with usual weekend fervor, exited my office's suite 301 and strode casually but decidedly towards the elevators in my floor's foyer. The elevator on the right (picture above has been changed to protect the elevator's identity) presented me with a wonderfully open door devoid of any other passengers. As excited as I was to get the weekend started, I thought it would be prudent to empty my bladder first in the bathroom adjacent to the elevator door.

Taking the elevator's gesture for granted, I rejected its offering and entered the bathroom to relieve myself. The requisite amount of seconds later, I re-entered the foyer, and, not expecting a second gesture, approached the call button.

But no. With all the precision and timeliness of a Manhattan hotel's doorman, the elevator opened itself unbidden once more just as I stepped forward. Flabbergasted but honoured, I stepped into its quarters and rode the sweet shaft. I rode it to the ground.

Precisely the kind of service that will kick start a gentleman's weekend.


(The situations described above are in no way embellished, and to even think such a thing would be an affront to the elevator in question.)

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