An Open Letter to Jesus

Hey Jeez,

It’s me, Moses. Yeah, I know; you haven’t really heard from me since the condolence card in 33 A.D. What can I say? I’ve been busy.

Somebody‘s got to enforce a basic moral code on society. Yeah, yeah, your material’s okay, but to be honest, I was never that big a fan of it. Do unto others? Come on man, you know as well as I do that only works in gradeschool, and maybe swinger parties. I mean, you put a bunch of perverts in a room together, the golden rule is going to leave them a hell of a lot of leeway for sinning.

Look, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t write this letter to bust your balls about whether or not “turning the other cheek” would work against a gang of angry and disenfranchised Puerto Ricans. It wouldn’t. That’s not the point.

I guess it’s the time of year that sort of gets to me. I mean, every year it’s the same thing. Here’s my big moment to shine. Passover. Freeing the slaves; freeing my people from bondage. Shit, I’m like Abe Lincoln, only thirty-two hundred years earlier and with a way more kickass beard. In retrospect, it’s lucky his mother named him Abraham, and not Moses, or I totally could have sued his ass.

Anyway, here I am…geared up to see some Angel of Death action, gettin’ out the lamb’s blood, got my big staff ready to split me some sea, and boom. You fly in on your rocket-powered cross, arms spread out like a rock idol, oozing with victimization. There’s not a dry eye in the house. And just when you got ’em, you rise from the dead. I gotta give it to you, Lamb of God, it´s a big, big show. But damn, you know? What’s a guy supposed to do? I mean, rivers of blood, locusts, boils, frogs hopping all over the place. Shit, it’s raining fucking fire. The production values are through the roof, but a couple of planks of wood, some nails and a loincloth, and you got them all spellbound. I don’t get it.

It Doesn’t Fit in the Drive-Thru

So I get out of a meeting at work the other day, and it just so happens that the end of the workday is upon me. I’ll be honest. I wasn’t feeling so hot as this particular meeting had been long, drawn out, and provided me with an exceptionally low IQ (interest quotient). To be clear, were I using the numerical value of the traditional meaning of IQ, it would have been the equivalent of Forrest Gump porking I Am Sam, and, by some freak miracle of nature, Sean Penn conceiving a child through his colon. Take that kid’s IQ, convert the numbers to a new, boredom-based scale, and you pretty much have a random numerical figure. Divide that number by the square root of the sum of the copyright years of the above two films, and go make yourself a sandwich.

Ok, you back? If you’re done performing useless mathematical calculations, I’d like to get back to my story. Like I said, with the levels of ennui I was experiencing as I left the office, one can imagine my surprise when I discovered a sleek, shiny, black stealth bomber parked in my office’s lot. Now, one doesn’t personally see a lot of stealth bombers in one’s life, perhaps because they live up to their namesake and are exceptionally hard to spot. And in Canada, one sees even fewer stealth bombers, because, to my knowledge, our military can not afford even one third of the tailfin.

So imagine how I felt when I was immediately compelled with the urge to abscond with this aeronautic marvel. I simply began moving toward the machine, my legs striding with a fluidity that is so rarely seen in a heterosexual male. I stroked the shiny black exterior, taking in the sensation of cold steel and military perfection it oozed.

And before I knew what was happening, I was inside her.

Looking around the cockpit, this particular stealth bomber appeared to have been “modded” for private use. For one, where I had expected to see the standard flight stick, there was a simple leather steering wheel, similar to one you could find in any luxury car. Which confused me.

My limited knowledge of aeronautics told me that to rise up, one needed to pull back on the controls. This wheel, however, only appeared to rotate left and right like with standard car steering. My attention was then drawn to the fact that there were foot pedals, namely what appeared to be an accelerator and a brake, in their usual positions. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the gas pedal was actually split vertically down the middle, each half being able to press down independently of the other.

As the keys had been left in the ignition, there was nothing left to do but simply start ‘er up and fiddle with random controls until I took off. Hell, the jet even had an ignition to the right of the wheel. Whoever was the proud owner of this machine had some exceptionally specific tastes as to what constituted a quality jet interior. Right down to the leather bucket seat.

As the jet engines roared to life, I could feel the plush seat vibrating with kinetic energy. Outside the window, parking lot dust was being kicked up all around me. I looked down and placed my foot on the gas pedal, deciding my best bet would be to press down on it as one whole and see what happened. The jet immediately began to rotate in place to the right, but its elevation remained the same. I was chagrined to note that I was clearly bumping into the cars next to me, eliminating my chances of taking off unnoticed.

I immediately switched techniques and pressed down only the right half of the “gas” pedal. This proved to be more fruitful. The jet began to slowly rise straight into the air. Not aware that a Stealth was capable of a vertical takeoff, I felt a surge of excitement.

I was now slightly over head-level of pedestrians, but the jet was no longer rising any higher. Confused as to my options at this point, and hardly out of harm’s way, I had no other choice but to step on the gas and go for it. The jet took off, smoothly zipping just over the heads of my surrounding onlookers, most likely leaving their places of employ as well. I am pleased to say that the steering wheel handled precisely as I might have hoped. Still, I was stuck at my current altitude and even with the excessive fiddling with buttons I was undertaking, nothing appeared to me happening.

I would be better off to simply fly home, awkward as it may be to be flying yet still somewhat constrained by roads and the rules of traffic. I ventured forward into the city, taking in the sights from a few feet higher than usual. Despite the stealthiness of “my” jet, I must admit that I was far from unnoticed.

A particular trying moment occurred when I was determined to take a shortcut through the area by the overpass. Knowing there would be no traffic there, I felt it would be suited to some experimentation, or at least some increased speeds. Little did I know, at this very time in that area, there appeared to be some sort of a vagrant convention.

I must admit that I had heretofore assumed that the day-to-day needs of city vagrants, pressing though they may be, were more often than not dealt with on a moment-to-moment, bum-to-bum basis, and did not warrant the gathering of hundreds of drifters.

Then again, I suppose, as a bum, it would be a relief to convene and discuss across-the-board issues such as the various textures of week-old oysters, and the correct sugar-to-mold ratio for Prison Wine.

Whatever the agenda for the meeting, it was immediately tossed aside the moment a humming black jetplane, floating just a few feet above their heads, slowly hovered around the corner and toward them.

Before I knew it, sticky hands were reaching up everywhere, shaking the jet to and fro, begging for a ride. Some of the people were even audacious enough to ask for the jet itself. As appalled as I was, I calmly reached for a button that said “afterburner” and before I knew it, the screams of those below me faded away as both my speed and my altitude increased.

Anyway, I’m taking up a bit too much of your time, I suspect. The ending is that I eventually got home, and managed to park the thing on the top of my apartment building, after having knocked down an antenna or two.

I must admit, it’s pretty convenient just taking the elevator up to the top floor, going up the short staircase to the roof, and flying to work. Cops or parking officials haven’t really given me a hassle: I guess no one reported the theft.

Still, it’s October, and already the frost is coming, and I’m not looking forward to scraping that bitch of a windshield every day.

An Afternoon on the Savannah

“Hey, Andrew, I wanted to tell you something, but…of course…I completely forgot.”

“That’s cool. Tell me later or something.”

“…….So….You eat yet?”

“Ya…”

“Me too…”

“You look good. I’m serious. Healthy.”

“Whatever, Andrew, I saw you looking at Tawambe this morning.”

“Tawambe’s okay, but did you hear about her losing two kills yesterday?”

“I know, I know. They say she’s a bit down because her kid got trampled by that wildebeest stampede. I know if I had a kid and some goddamn herd animals killed it, I’d–”

“You’d what?”

“I don’t know, like, take down one of the wildebeest babies by the snout or something. Like where there’s more bone than flesh. That probably hurts a lot, no?”

“I don’t fucking know, I’m not prey.”

“Hahahahahahahahahahaha–”

“Hehhehhehhehhehheheheheheheh–”

“Still, poor Tawambe.”

“Whatever… You wanna know what I think?”

“….”

“….”

“Aisha?”

“hmm….what? Sorry, I saw some kind of a fluttery thing over there. I was maybe gonna pounce on it. It might have just been a bunch of leaves or something.”

“You should, if you want to.”

“Nah.”

“Anyway, you wanna know what I think?”

“…About what?”

“About frickin’ Tawambe, like we were talking about.”

“Oh, right. What about her?”

Please, I am Being Serious; That Blind Man Stole My Sugar Twin

Hey! Did you just see that? No, just now, like, right just a second ago, right here. I know this may not mean much to you or anything, but I find it disquieting to say the least. Without a word of a lie, I tell you that that blind man just stole my Sugar Twin.

Perhaps the inability to see is coupled with an increased need for sugar or, in this case, calorie-free sugar substitutes. Maybe the sightless gentleman feels that, as someone deprived of sight, it is his privilege to waltz away with others’ beverage sweeteners (if a blind person can be said to waltz). Regardless of the reason, not a minute ago, that very man absconded with two packets of the aforementioned sweetener, hereby making him the boldest person I have ever come across, blind or sighted.

No, I won’t approach him about it, if that’s what you’re thinking, though I am well within my rights to do so. Much as I hate to admit it, by playing the “blind” card, he has already trumped any efforts I might make to discredit him, particularly in the eyes of the liberal caffeine-whores that surround us, my friend. After all, I, with my intact retinas, could easily “see” my way to the counter and acquire another duo of packets myself, could I not?

I suppose I will have to remain satisfied in the knowledge that both he and I are aware what transpired here, and I could easily protest his actions–but I won’t. No, while he benefits from expedient table service because of his disability (not to mention a delightfully sweetened beverage), I will remain here, stoically sipping my bitter tea with dignity, never for one minute visibly bemoaning my loss.

Look at him now.

Striding out of here with his perfect posture and sharp-looking walking stick like nothing happened. Look at him, while I consume this acrid, unsweetened swill. Enjoy your day, sir!

Yes, enjoy your walk down the street, in the darkness of your own mind, appreciating scents and sounds that mere “lookies” like me are no doubt oblivious to. Yes, feel the sugars warm your bowels while decent folk stand up for what’s decent–

Uh, hey man, you wanna just lean over and snatch me two things of Equal from the empty table one over?

A Candid Letter to the Two Pygmy Marmoset Babies Who Live on My Left Index and Middle Fingers

Dear Baby Marmosets,

Look at you there, all curled up and peaceful. It has been three-and-a-half weeks now since we have come together, and I cannot tell a lie: they have been three-and-a-half of the most special weeks of my life. Were someone to ask me, "what has been your most special consecutive three-and-a-half week period during your life thus far?", I am not ashamed to say that this would come very close to the top of that category.

You came into my life during a brief trip to Peru, where, while resting my hand on a tree during a hike, you apparently mistook my fingers for small branches. The sight of your oblivious faces clinging so tenaciously to my digits warmed my embittered heart, and I smuggled you back to my native country by concealing my hand in a large mitten.

I must be honest with you, however, marmosets:

I have decided to leave you on the bonzai tree in my dentist's office.

Perhaps I had not thought this partnership through as fully as was needed, and for this, I apologize. Though my love for you both is as strong as it ever was, it appears fated by the gods that we must part by my next dentist's appointment.

MAYHEM!

The vagrant in the torn overcoat staggered violently toward the organ grinder who had been, up until that point, blissfully cranking out his favourite measures of his favourite music cylinder. The man lurched forward and grabbed hold of the organ grinder's lapel and began shaking like a parasitic polyp. The small monkey noticed his owner being accosted, dropped his collection tin and leapt upon the shoulder of his owner's unnamed assailant, sinking his primate teeth as deeply as they would go into the man's sweat-caked neck.

As the drifter let out a piercing squeal, he heaved his body backward; the backs of his legs caught the end of a passing baby carriage, spilling its fleshy child nugget onto the sidewalk, while sending the overcoated man careening headlong into the street's slick pavement, where, as if by some unfortunate providence, he found himself directly in the path of an oncoming street-sweeper. As the driver made a vain attempt to stop, the monkey leapt onto the grill of the street sweeper, just as the unfortunate man was pulled into the machine's spinning bowels and torn asunder.

The mother of the child who had been tipped onto the walkway screamed in horror at the sight and scooped her baby up from the sidewalk. The sound of her screams sent a nearby flock of pigeons up into the air just as a crowd of passersby began to gather around the crumpled and mutilated corpse that had just been vomited out the back of the street sweeper like an unsightly mucus.

Three stories above, Tom Abrams was nearing the end of a long day of window washing, when a multitude of pigeons decided to make his suspended platform their rest spot. Mrs. Butterworth's great dane, Guthrie, unbeknownst to Tom, was an impassioned proponent of snapping his gaping maw at pigeons, and was also peering out of a window exactly one storey above. Unable to contain his excitement, Guthrie leaned out of the apartment window.

So, You’ve Found a Human Ear in your Arby’s Melt…

Esteemed Customer,

If you're reading this, you've no doubt discovered that your delicious, 100% roast beef Arby's Melt was not to your satisfaction, due to the unfortunate presence of a severed human appendage. We at Arby's are committed to offering our customers a unique, nutritious and cannibalism-free fast-food experience. Arby's understands that a morsel of human flesh, however slow-roasted and honey-layered it may be, might not be welcome in your lunch, dinner or whichever meal of the day you trust Arby's with.

Let me begin by offering you another Arby's Melt on us, no questions asked. That's our pledge to our customers. While you enjoy your moist, succulent and complimentary Arby's sandwich, you might have some questions that we at Arby's would be most happy to answer.

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Oh my God! There's somebody's ear in my sandwich!

While we at Arby's recognize that, having bitten into a human ear, your chief concern may not be proper grammatical phrasing, we do wish to point out that the above is technically an exclamation, not a question, and would ask that you restrict yourself to interrogative sentence constructions. We've included an example to illustrate the usefulness of clear and concise questions:

BAD:

You: "I'm bleeding!"

Answer: "Yes, it appears so."

GOOD:

You: "Why am I bleeding?"

Answer: "Because you have an ovarian cyst."

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OK, Why is there a human ear in my Arby's Melt?

Good question. There are many reasons how a piece of human flesh might have made its way into our kitchen, not least of which being that we are currently employing a rehabilitated serial-killer (my nephew Jeffrey) in our sandwich preparation chain. Despite our rigorous, government-enforced health standards, mistakes (if we have agreed to call it such) can happen in even the most meticulously upheld food-preparation area. For instance, last week, a vagrant may or may not have wandered through our back door and into our meat freezer. While I haven't had an opportunity to personally verify this yet (fingers crossed for next Monday), I have been assured that the cadaver was properly disposed of, and am confident that this is the case.

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What is the nutritional value of ear?

Due to the primarily cartilage-based composition of ear, and the fact that cartilage is known to be extremely rich in calcium, I would have to say: good. The nutritional value of ear is very good.

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Where can I go to vomit?

As an Arby's restaurant is primarily designed for the ingestion, and not expulsion, of food, we ask that you refrain from vomiting while in the premises, as a common courtesy to both our staff and your fellow customers.

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I'm calling the police.

Once again, I must respectfully point out that that is not a question.

Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy–BUT IT SHO’ IS FUN!!!

"Dammit HO!!!! Das all the money you brought me!?"

Eustace wound up and laid a back-hander on the side of Chipita's head. Her silken hair followed the motion of her head as she fell to the grainy concrete of the parking garage. As much as his abuse hurt Chipita, it hurt Eustace a thousand times more inside. If there was one thing pimpin' wasn't, it was easy.

"Eustace baby, you know I loves ya," gasped Chipita, looking up at Eustace with salty eyes.

"Den why do you treat me like dis' baby? You know I look out fo' ya, don't I?" Eustace asked. Chipita nodded.

"You know I won't let anybody hurt y'all…dey be messin' with Eustace Jones if they be messin' wit' my hos," Eustace continued. Chipita nodded again. "You just betta have my money by FrIZday, HO!!!"

Chipita nodded once more, got up off the ground, gave Eustace a peck on the cheek and stumbled off. Eustace maintained a hard stance as he watched her leave the Eaton Centre's parking garage, or his "office", as called by the pimpin' industry–one of the world's oldest industries.

As soon as the garage was clear, Eustace fell to his knees and began to sob. Masses of tears streamed down his face until his frill collar was soaked.

"Man, I gotsta get myself a pint o' Strongbow. DAMN!!" He wiped his face on his velure cloak and slowly got to his feet..

Bedtime Wishes

A tender sleep,
A touching dream,
A silken sheet,
And pillow clean.

May fluids dry,
And drool absorbe,
And sleep invade
Your cranial orb.

Goodnight Children.

The Adventures of Martin Plow

Me: You won’t believe the personality of these small sidewalk plows! Like little elven automatons, they hustle about so lithely, making short work of what would normally take a brawny Swede four times the labour. What wonderful contrabulations! So saucy and independent! What’s that? Oh, Hi Martin Plow!

Martin: “Beep! Beep! I may not be as big as those other guys, but I’m more versamatile! ”

Me: Slow down, Martin Plow! You’re going a mile a minute! What’s the big rush?

Martin: “I gotta work twice as hard as those big mean government-funded guys. But can they turn on a dime like I can? I don’t think so!”

Me: You sure have a lot of control, Martin! Your mother must be very proud!

Martin: “Uh huh! Mama says I should always work really hard and try my best! Look at me go! I’m cleaning the top level of a parking lot!”

Me: That’s a very important job, Martin!

Martin: “See, only a little guy like me can do it! Not the big guys! They’re too big!”

Me: Ha Ha! You’re quite the little trooper–what’s that you’re doing now, Martin?

Martin: “To be quicker, I’m just dumping the snow off the side of the parking garage! My mom told me to be the best, I gotta think quicker than the big guys too! I bet the people below think it’s snowing again! Ha ha: tricked them!”

Me: Uh, careful, Martin, that’s not snow! Those are large sheets of ice!

Martin: “And the more I plow, the more I dump down, and the more bestest job I’m doing! Look people, it’s the winter time! Don’t get snowed in, now! Ha Ha!”

Me: –Um…Martin, those are really sharp shards now…

Martin: “Dumpity dump dump, dumpity dump dump, look at Martin go! Dumpity dump dump, dumpity dump dump, onto the folks below! Don’t cry, little baby! Your mom’s just playing in the snow!”

Me: …

Martin: YAY! I’m all done! I’m the fastest!

Me: …

THE END