The more I walk through downtown Toronto, the more I’m convinced that the city is really going downhill.

Let me explain using of an illustration. For this you need to think B-I-G.

First envision a fat person, I mean really big; the kind of extended circumference for which the words “morbidly obese” barely scratch the surface; the kind of rotund that results in, basically, a giant ball with tiny projections that were once the appendages.

This person would have fashioned for them a sturdy steel girdle that would encircle their girth and provide a hard outter support for the gelatinous mass underneath.

Now take this person, somehow, to a place on Yonge street just south of Highway 401; some spot on the road with a good decline. This last part is crucial because it is this hill that would impart the required momentum to our gargantuan friend.

With the girdle supporting the ball’s innards (the person would be on their side), all it should need is a good strong push and…see you in the lake!

The momentum gained on the first hill, coupled with the sheer weight of our subject, should be enough to overcome the minor dimples and valleys along Yonge street and land him or her in the sparkling waters of the lake.

This is due to the simple fact that Toronto literally moves downward as it moves south. As you travel in this direction along most of the major city streets, you can see the foundations of buildings growing taller in order to keep the structures level. And it isn’t slight either; most buildings will have an extra three or four feet added to them at their southern end.

As long as our massive abomination continues to roll in a straight line, there should always be more downward hill further along to speed his or her progress.

I suppose this experiment could also work with a giant steel ball or a heavy car. I suppose.

Whether it’s corpulence or giant balls of steel, in Toronto all will roll down as they roll south. When you go downtown, you will really be going down to town. And if you wish to travel down south, you will also be generally correct (it’s a little south-east, really).

Besides this natural wayfinding feature, the city also has a grid layout that can either be hindrance or a real time saver.

Because of the unsightly bulge in the southern end of the city core, a number of the roads that run close to the waterfront have to either veer north or simply end. King and Queen streets, for example, run roughly parallel until they join together at Roncesvalles in the west. As they separate in the eastbound direction, the move further apart and new streets like Adelaide and Richmond rump up the increasing space between them.

So if you’re travelling west and south through the city, don’t bother with the south part. Most streets go south-west already.

I remember working at an ill-fated coffee shop in the base of the Toronto Reference Library many years ago. A gentleman came in and purchased a small cup of coffee, took a sip, instantly ingratiated himself with me by complaining about how weak Canadian coffee was, and then asked directions to the nearest Canadian Tire.

I told him it was just north of us.

“What is it with this north south crap with you Canadians? You all carry a compass or something?”, he half-joked.

“Never eat shredded wheat, biatch!”, I replied.

Well, biatch wasn’t a word at that time; but I wish I’d said that!

(…for those of you who recognized Kirby from the front cover — when I used front covers, you may enjoy this greeting card: http://gaygamer.net/images/kirby.jpg — DO NOT ask how I ended up on that site.)

As a colleague and I ascended in the elevator at lunch today, he mentioned rather casually that he didn’t like elevators. Naturally, my first instinct was to ask why. Claustrophobia? Mistrust of machines? Embarrassing erections?

The answer was “no” to all three questions. The closest I got to an insight was that “people would be scared if the elevator had a glass bottom.”

I wasn’t going to press the issue any further; he’s a Java developer, I’m a Flash developer, and our people don’t intermingle. It is forbidden.

He did have a point, though; glass bottoms and heights can be pretty freaky.

But not really. I mean, when you think about it, there’s not much chance you’ll be plummeting to your death via the see-through floor. Like Michael Jackson, the glass floor might look scary, but it’s based on the perception of dilapidation rather than the presence of any real danger. Mikey’s struts’ll hold a while longer.

This isn’t too far removed from the rides at Canada’s Wonderland. With modern materials, construction techniques, and ongoing maintenance, any real threat is pretty much eliminated. You’re safer being held in place by the padded lap bar of Behemoth than you are crossing the street.

The only ride at Wonderland with even a hint of real danger is the Mighty Canadian Minebuster, where the rickety wooden structure and ancient cars make for a potentially deadly experience. I believe the wheels briefly leave the track roughly three-quarters of the way through. Now that’s a ride!

Really, isn’t it infinitely more exciting to be on a ride where you can actually die?!

Traveling carnivals, the kind where prisoners on the lam or ex-cons accompany your children to steel cages for the expressed purpose of making them scream, have a huge advantage. The carnies themselves, aside from looking dangerous, have all sorts of thrilling diseases coursing through their veins. The rides they set up are equally shifty. You just can’t go wrong!

I’d be hideously remiss if I didn’t mention Toronto’s greatest carnie gathering, the Canadian National Exhibition. Sadly, the prima donna of unsafe roller coasters, the Flyer, was retired some years ago. But I’m heartened to hear that despite a ten-year absence in real accidents, the spirit of danger lives on. As if that wasn’t enough value for your money, the food at the Ex is likely to leave you clinging to life as well. Even the curbs are sharp and pointy!

I’m willing to bet that, with the weather improving daily, you’re going to find a ramshackle Ferris wheel in front of your local Walmart. I bet it’s not even going to be busy. So why waste money on skydiving or riding funny objects down ski hills when this option is so much cheaper?

Use of cars in Toronto doesn’t seem to be slowing down any.

That’s something I understand only too well. Riding on the regional GO train not only wasn’t an economically viable alternative (gas+parking+maintenance was cheaper than taking the train), but it was also an extremely frustrating exercise.

When infrequent trains or equipment would break down, GO would offer no alternatives. Despite the fact that they have a fleet of alternate vehicles (buses), they would simply shut down the system and, literally, leave everyone stranded. If the much bigger and less subsidized TTC were to do this, young Adam Giambrone would be out on his ear.

So, let’s see: GO transit sucks for so many reasons + it’s cheaper to drive than it is to take GO = everyone drives

Toronto city hall has managed to entirely miss this equation, but I suppose you can’t blame them if they’ve never had their testicles dyed blue with the chemical flush that splashes around the shallow toilet bowl of a moving train. And only after you’ve put your hand in a pile of stuff do you discover that there’s no water in the tap, all the paper towels have been used to plug up the toilet (oh, Jesus! The blue water’s almost at the rim!), and the last of the toilet paper is stuck to your shoe with a heel-bound sample of self-same stuff. And now the knock on the door: “Ticket inspector! Need to see your ticket!

Driving is just more pleasant.

So I get why people want to drive, and I happen to think a recent proposal to ban right turns on red lights in the city is boneheaded. Besides, I don’t think the inconsiderate and frankly dangerous jerks who pick off people at intersections would care one way or another.

I witnessed an altercation between a motorist and a jogger where the motorist yelled at a woman for, “running in the street.”  The lady retorted with, “Pedestrians have the right of way, and especially on a green light! I can run back and forth all I like if I want to!”

Right on, lady!

Unfortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Jerk, Jerk junior, and little miss Jerkette were already peeling out onto Lakeshore boulevard in their angry little suburban minivan (they had an Oshawa sticker on the back).

That’s the sad truth of it: the troglodyte behind the wheel barely has the opposable thumbs to operate the signals let alone understand our complex human speech. Bright colours and loud noises startle him (or her), and sends him into a fit (I think it’s called “road rage”), so he’s pretty much constantly screaming at everything around him.

I don’t mind calling such people rude names; people’s lives are at stake, and over what? So the driver can rush to the next stoplight ten meters down the road? Won’t you join me in wishing them all a heartfelt “fuck you”, another for the horse they rode in on, and one for each life they’ve put into danger?

They probably won’t hear a word. By the time your middle fingers come to full mast, they’ll be mowing down another crowd of pedestrians further down the road.

What’s a practical gentleman to do?

I’m usually in favour of something embarrassing or pejorative, but it’s clear that in this situation that won’t work. The metal shell that protects the offending party makes most standard gestures futile.

Cycling enthusiasts long ago came up with the brilliant key-down-the-side of the car, but paint jobs are surprisingly difficult to scratch these days. It’s also a procedure that can be noisy, potentially resulting in fisticuffs.

Why risk that when there are other interesting solutions?

All of these require preparation of some sort but this wouldn’t be the “practical” guide if they weren’t easy to prepare.

The first of these is very cost-effective and easy to carry around on the street: eggs. They can be kept intact or broken. I believe that scrambled (raw) would be most effective, but I don’t think you’ll lose the effectiveness either way.

Eggs on a car may seem like an obvious, even juvenile, act, but eggs are well known to either discolour or even completely strip paint off of cars. They don’t do this immediately and if the driver stops and cleans them right away, no harm will be done.  If the driver keeps on like a maniac without slowing down, the eggs will deliver delayed justice without remorse. Can you think of a more poignant and ironic way to say you care?

For an immediate effect, the ladies have an advantage over the gents. A simple splash of nail polish (this is what all those awful colours are for), will provide you with satisfaction and chuckles for quite some time. Removing this colour after it’s dried will mean potentially removing the surrounding paint as well; they bond very well. The situation can be made infinitely more amusing if one were to splay themselves on the hood of the car, blood-red polish splashed on hood and windshield, and perhaps a blood-curdling scream if one can be mustered.

If you’re already adding paint, why not consider removing it again? Some lacquer thinner (even nail polish remover may work), and that electric blue car suddenly seems less cheery. Alas, dear reader, this technique is not one that I am personally acquainted with so I can’t recommend the most effective product. But if you spend any time walking in the city, I’m certain you’ll have ample opportunity to conduct field research of your own.

In closing, I would like to remind you that this is act is important for everyone’s safety, not just your own. I can guarantee that I will avoid any horribly defaced car I see in the future; teach your kids to do the same.

Think of the children!

Folks, I’m gonna geek out on you today. I’m gonna geek out on you long and hard. Grab onto the headboard ‘cuz here it is:

Got that in the mail yesterday.

Despite the fact that  I know what it is, I still wouldn’t enter that room without some Scrum repellent. It sounds absolutely ghastly, doesn’t it?

Couple that with a master — don’t even separate the m‘s so that you force the speaker to chew that mouldy cud in the middle of the word: ScrummmmmmmmmMaster.

Blech.

Maybe I should explain why I’m holding that letter up.

Used to be that software was a product. You’d be given a specification, the client would agree to it, and you’d build it. Anything outside of spec would be in the next release. “Sorry, Larry, that dildo Easter egg is gonna have to wait ’till version 1.1.”

Now the spec has been replaced with a scope document. It outlines in general, vague terms what the software application should “feel” like and how hard the user’s erection should be when using it. That is, if your company actually cares enough to make one.

Usually it’s just a two line paragraph describing how nice it would be to now have credit card processing as part of the software. Security – you know, like keeping your credit card details safe via encryption and such – didn’t make it to the document. Seems like that would’ve been a good area to explore.

We’re given two weeks and…WE’RE OFF!

This is where experience walks through the door, pats me on the back, and says, “Easy, buddy. Not like this has ever happened before, is it?”

“That’s right”, I answer, “my anus has almost healed too. Thanks for reminding me.”

That’s right. And Agile techniques like Scrum (but not Scrum because that’s nasty), saved my ass from further devastation. Agile sounds fancy but it’s nothing more than a way to plan work so that stuff can easily be moved around, added, or removed. How to plan for a moving target, in other words.

Could be useful in all sorts of industries, I bet.

God, if only it didn’t have such an awful, awful name because I’m sure it could be a saving grace for so many out there who are suffering.

You see, I too have been blessed by the touch of Agile development. My software is built using building blocks not unlike Lego. You can pull pieces off and reattach them elsewhere and have the whole thing pretty much stay intact. All part of the plan.

With standard development, the program is like some horrible, angular mass of flesh, teeth, and hair; a single horrible eyeball jutting out of the slimy folds as a gurgling scream emanates from somewhere inside. And it’s Satanic.

I trust I’ve illustrated that well.

And speaking of ugly, how about that Scrummmmmaster? That pile of terrifying anthropomorphic goo is what I envisage when I hear that word. And you know what? Your own deformed, horrid vision of what a Scrum is, is perfectly valid. I mean it; it’s all things nasty and your nasty is just as valid as mine.

It’s just gross.

I may be a programmer, but there is no way I’m learning how to certifiably master Scrum of any kind. Seriously, the developer community needs a marketing make-over. Maybe some of the stuff developers have been doing could help others, but only if the concept doesn’t make them retch first.

Let’s start with good names for things.

Like byte. Good word.

With half a byte, you only have a nybble. And, when you split a nybble into four, all you really have are just four little bits.

You can use that one around the water cooler next week.

Okay, geek done.

Ummm, I gotta be up early tomorrow so…yeah…I’ll call ya later.

It seems like all conversations today seemed to center around the local flora that, as if by unanimous decision, decided to suddenly explode into bloom en masse.

Wow! I’m sure that when you look at that, you’re thinking the same thing I am: Marijuana.

There seem to be some misconceptions about what is and isn’t legal here in Toronto. There also aren’t the really important facts such as the variety and quality of weed in Toronto, price, and how much you’ll get pumped full of lead for.

To start with, 30 grams is considered a “personal” amount and unlikely to get you more than a fine – assuming police will bother. It’s still not kosher in the eyes of the law, but the current legal framework is proving very unwieldy. There’s always the possibility that some asshole cop decides he wants to shake you down, but for the most part I’ve found police to be absolutely delightful. Also, events like the Global Marijuana March convinces me that the Toronto police get it: pot smokers are, for the most part, not a big problem.

With larger amounts it’s considered trafficking and, I’m afraid, the knickers come off at that point.

So no, technically not legal unless you have a doctor’s note, but that’s a lotta hoop to jump through. Practically, however, pot is not a rare commodity in Toronto.

The selection is wonderful, although there are ebbs and flows as the big suppliers get taken down. This season has seen a mild and aromatic Blueberry, a sensuously rich – dare I say decadent — AK47, some skunky-but-a-goody shiznatch, and something that seemed to be composed entirely of THC crystal.

Now, I don’t do weights. Don’t believe in ‘em. Prefer to eyeball it.

So if you took a regular, mid-sized sandwich baggie (kind that seals), and filled it to a quarter with plump buds, that’d be about $100 worth of prime quality goodness. They key to getting the most out of such a fine product is the grinder.

Where to obtain such a grinder?

This is where Toronto steps out of the Marijuana closet and declares itself to proud and free. Queen street west alone has a number of locations such as The Friendly Stranger,  Jupiter, and the secluded but infinitely more exotic Shanti Baba (my personal fave).

Yonge street is better for the DIY enthusiast. Stores such as the cleverly titled Toronto Hemp Company carry all of the professional equipment you’ll need, while just a bit down the street lies Sacred Seed which carries an excellent, if pricey, selection of pot seed varieties. They carry all sorts of interesting seeds, in fact. And you’ll be pleased to know that seeds are perfectly legal; presumably to use in your salad. Grown plants – not so much.

You can already feel a bit of summer in the air as the leaves ooze out of the branches. It’s unsettling to think that the hedge has grown with such intensity and apparent intent that one day it will reach out, pull down my pants, and give me the wedgie of a lifetime. *shudder*

I like friendly, neighbourly plants.

Oh, and here’s the kind of grinder to invest in: http://www.jupitergrass.ca/shop/Yin%20Yang%20Grinder%20Combo.html

Kief; did you even know that was a word?

As you can see, I finally got around to taking that headshot. That scar on my forehead came from a disagreement I had with a door hinge when I was about six. I bled profusely, my mom freaked, and a smirk was born.

Aside from basking in my benevolent gaze, there was something else that I thought the readers of TCL might get to learn about me.

When I started this blog I was reading a fantastic book named “The Sound on the Page” by Ben Yagoda which, aside from helping me to craft the flowery prose that blesses every electron of this page, introduced me to a variety of writing analysis methods that I found very interesting.

The one that stands out in my mind is the classification of writing as either male or female based on certain words that each gender is (purportedly), prone to using. For example, reflective words such as “like”, “think”, and “feel” are considered predominantly female while action words like “do”, “make”, and “beer” are predominantly male. I could be off on a couple but you get the idea: women are all passively touchy-feely and men are mostly self-assured brutes.

It was therefore inevitable that this theory would find its way online, along with all sorts of other interesting writing analysis tools.

Here’s the main site with all the toys: http://uclassify.com/
For a friendlier page with just the gender analysis tool: http://www.genderanalyzer.com/

I started off with a baseline reading, some random blogs from the directory where the author’s gender and disposition are well known. Here are the picks and their stats:

Subject: Joey deVilla
Known gender: Male
General disposition: Jolly
Site: http://www.joeydevilla.com/
Random article sampling:
http://www.joeydevilla.com/2009/05/05/kiss-off/
http://www.joeydevilla.com/2009/05/05/quiero-que-me-quieras-the-most-awesome-accordion-cover-ever/
http://www.joeydevilla.com/2009/05/05/smooch/

Gender analyzer detected gender: Male (3 out of 3 times)
uClassify mood detected: Happy (3 out of 3 times)

Subject: Teena
Known gender: Female
General disposition: Mirthful
Site: http://www.purple4mee.com/
Random article sampling:
http://www.purple4mee.com/2009/05/ask-tricia-hot-names-can-die-out-in.html
http://www.purple4mee.com/2009/05/heroes-were-ruff-around-edges.html
http://www.purple4mee.com/2009/05/does-this-lipgloss-really-quell-your.html

Gender analyzer detected gender: Female (2.5 out of 3 times – one was pretty ambiguous)
uClassify mood detected: Happy (3 out of 3 times)

So far the analyzers seem to be quite accurate.

Subject: Patrick
Known gender: Male
General disposition: Nonplussed
Site: Apple, intestines, and pinchy bum hole: @&* – What else was I supposed to put here? You know my address!
Random article sampling:
http://www.torontocitylife.com/2009/05/04/the-folly-of-dick/
http://www.torontocitylife.com/2009/05/01/interesting-smells/
http://www.torontocitylife.com/2009/04/30/fluffy-pornographic-thoughts/

Gender analyzer detected gender: Female (2 out of 3 times – one was eunuch)
uClassify mood detected: Mostly angry (2 out of 3 times)

I always knew I was a lesbian trapped in a man’s body; I never knew I was so pissed off.

Well, there you have it. Now you can identify me on Queen Street to the CAMH people and even describe my symptoms.

It was probably that bash on the head.

As they set up to shoot the night scenes for “The Bridge” (a police biopic, I discovered), I took the opportunity of snapping a few photos of the outdoor set. This is the only one that didn’t feature one or another person’s ass:

Aside from the doily on top, I’m sure they chose this house because of its age.  It’s probably the oldest on the block, though there are numerous contenders for that honour in the neighbourhood.

My own apartment building is an old-style house not unlike the one pictured here, only wider (to accommodate ten apartments), and minus the personality.

It’s, let’s say, quaint. It feels warm and comfortable like my previous residence in rural Pickering in the same way that an old sock does. That smell of feet never really airs out and it’s drafty around the toes, but man it’s comfortable.

In the context of my neighbourhood, I think that my place is probably mid-range (price, size, etc.) A tall apartment building directly to the left of the “Bridge” house would be best described by the words “swollen” and “hovel”. If I were an upwardly-mobile young crack whore, I’d be setting my sights here. A little paint, some vacuuming, and that stank of bitter, life-ending self loathing comes right out.

But there are also places with “ROB THIS HOUSE” posted on every inch of the property; multi-million dollar reno jobs spilling over with gaudy fountains, ostentatious statuary, and semi-circular driveways on properties not more than eight meters (twenty-six feet) wide. They’re clearly just for show. Or clown cars.

Stuck between Casa di Rockbottom and the House of Betterthanyou are numerous alleys where the destitute make their home. Here, property boundaries are divided into areas for disposed bottle caps, areas for disposed Listerine bottles to which those caps belonged, and areas for inebriated homeless guys with sparklingly fresh breath who had recently consumed said bottles of Listerine.

I’m telling you, my neighbourhood’s a panoply of colour!

Unfortunately, the drafty window in my bedroom played a part in my decision to start looking for a new place. Well, that and the fact that the German superintendent is leaving soon. Who knew Germans could be so non-genocidal?

Now, I haven’t actually started looking so the ultimate decision about whether or not to move isn’t available. But I thought, if I’m out there looking through other peoples’ places; going through their medicine cabinets; stealing anything I may enjoy on my own shelves; why not take the readers of TCL along?

If you’re thinking of moving to urban Toronto or just enjoy descriptions of interesting smells, perhaps you may get something out of the series. It won’t be regular or anything, but I will try my damnedest to divulge the disturbing/kinky/amusing secrets of the places I visit.

Alas, dear reader, I also have my slow days.

Aside from the production being shot across the street from me…

…it’s been a drab day. It’s kinda soggy and April-y and it’s still that time of year when it’s better to stay indoors with a couple of kick-ass kung fu flicks and something nice and warm to drink. Or do something else to keep oneself warm. I certainly hope the cast and crew of  “The Bridge” brought their galoshes.

Hmmm. I guess I just broke news on that, didn’t I? It’s Canadian made so … that’s … always … something … isn’t … it? (face grimacing with discomfort). I’m hoping it’ll be good, let’s just leave it at that.

But what I really wanted to do was to go on a little excursion into the local news to do some skimming between the headlines. Of course, a link is presented to each story, but I’m pleased to summarize them all for you as well as to boil them down to their essential component in the true and neighbourly spirit of brevity. Also, so I have something to write.

National Post -> Flu fears halt travel plans for Some Canadian schools

Summary: This one time, at band camp, they cancelled our trip because of an outbreak. So the tuba player…

One word: mild.

Toronto Star -> Can 56 angry Tamils save one girl’s life?

Summary: Seriously? You could only find twenty Tamils? Did no one bother to look outside the window or, like, lift their head up when walking home? You’re here, they’re here. Jeez.

One word: seriously?

Toronto Sun -> This is prepared?

Summary: Durham region: memories of short-longs, “racing” pickups with flames down the sides, and the smell of freshly turned manure in the mornings. Here’s Port Perry. OH FUCK! THEY LET THINGS SLIP! THE VIRUS IS EVERYWHERE! PORT PERRY FUCKED US ALL! — Calm down, Michelle. Take a deep breath. Everythying’s going to be okay.

One word: chill

Globe and Mail -> Not just us: Cockatoos have rhythm too

Summary: Rhythmic spasms in avian species are the primary indicator of Avian Influenza. Look like Mexican parrots too!

One word: fluff

I know, it’s all fluff. But that’s okay, it’s a fluffy kind of day.

Now I’m going to retire to my fluffy pillow to think fluffy thoughts. Perhaps to masturbate. We’ll see where the evening takes us.

I suggest you do the same (take your pick); unless it’s sunny outside where you are, in which case get the hell outta here!

Huge bags. Large purses. Portly rucksacks. Plump portmanteaus.

They’re digging into my ribs, making inappropriate contact with my nether regions, and just generally making their unwieldy presence known.

The male version is usually a backpack filled to capacity with god-only-knows-what. It sticks out behind the wearer like a malignant growth, taking up twice the space that he normally would. It’s kind of like he’s carrying the grossly deformed embodiment of himself on his back. Every turn on a crowded streetcar positions the plump doppelganger in someone else’s way or worse, into their gut.

This can be especially problematic when sharp items stick out of the bag, like the protractor that kept threatening to pierce my stomach on the packed King streetcar.

Pointiness and space consumption: A serious threat.

The female equivalent involves the sidewalk portage of behemoth shoulder bags, often accompanied by small purses whose purpose, presumably, is to make the bearer more fashionable. Small purse: Yes. Huge cousin tagging along for the ride — to use the vernacular of the moment: Fail.

These tend often not to be dangerous so much as painfully annoying. Sitting face to face with a knock-off Ralph Lauren and getting the backhand from it when it’s owner reaches for her mobile (which is, of course, tiny), is not a nice feeling. Look, for a guy to get a mug full of any connotation of the word “bag” is unpleasant. For ladies on the receiving end, well, I’ll leave that one up to you.

So what’s the practical gentleman to do?

In this installment of the Guide, I offer three choices:

1. Tief or spill

This one’s rather simple. Since you’re already pressed into the bag, why not help yourself to some of its contents? If that sounds a bit risqué, perhaps simply leaving the zippers/buttons undone will provide a modicum of enjoyment as the target disembarks at the next stop. The aim here is to produce maximum spillage but only as the streetcar speeds away.

Does this sound a bit harsh? How about the sticky thing in the backpack that’s going to give me an unwelcome nipple piercing at the next set of lights? Tit for tat, say I: Curse at me all you want, you’re on the street!

2. Jerk ‘n laugh

For this one you need to come prepared with a short length of twine or sturdy string. Simply attach the bag (any likely spot will do; have fun with it!), to the nearest pole and prepare to hold your sides in uproarious laughter. I believe that with practice one could learn to judge the center of gravity on a bag well enough to cause consistently hilarious total-body wipeouts.

Be sure to get off at the same intended stop as the target: Curse me all you want, you’re in the streetcar!

3. The Stick of Justice

This requires even more equipment but it’s the thing that’s least likely to get you brutally beat up. Here we simply affix wide adhesive labels to the target’s baggage to warn others of the dangers you’ve experienced. Keep the message simple, to the point, and brief. Old stalwarts like “Wide Load” or “Baby on Board” are always a good first try.

Just ‘till you get the feel of it. Then feel free to improvise; “Ass” with an arrow pointing upward; “Ask me about child molestation” adorned with a stylized question mark; “Yes, it was me who farted”; “Contact torontocitylife.com to rent this space”; the sky’s the limit. Take that hat off and feel the wind in your hair; inspiration happens in the least likely of moments.

In this scenario the chance of an altercation occurs only when the target notices, or is notified of, your maneuver: Curse me all you want, you’re a rapist! (or whatever’s written on the tag)

Outstanding!

Really, the aim is to make our transit less baggy, and more people-y. The bag on the seat really isn’t a solution, either. I don’t see a transfer in that thing’s hand and it’s bigger than the fourteen-year-old sitting behind it. And don’t look me in the eyes and then go right back down to the book like you didn’t see me! God!

I’m sure there are much more creative solutions out there; I’m merely one punctured guy. The important thing is to exact generous retribution for insolence suffered. And also to laugh.

Why is the weather report such a secret?

It really doesn’t matter which station you watch; CTV, City, Global, Omni; there’s an incredible coverup underfoot to hide the truth about the weather from the public. How in the world was this conspiracy allowed to happen?!

Need proof? Just think to the last time you watched the 11 o’clock news…

…but, sadly, the kitten couldn’t be saved.

Tragic story.

It certainly is, Anne. Now we switch over to Michael to tell us what the weather will be like tomorrow. Michael?

Thanks, Gord. I’ll be telling you all about the doozie of a weekend we’ll be having. But first, here’s Kathryn Humphreys with the sports, and I must say, Kathryn, you look like you’ve gained some muscle.

Sure have, Michael. But enough about me. The Leafs. Whole team: dead. Plane crash. More after the messages…

Yadda yadda. Buy stuff, etc. Back to the news…

…police are now looking for the fugitive infant. If you have any tips, call Crime Stoppers. Gord?

Thanks, Dwight. Boy, is it me or are they getting younger and younger?

Hard to understand. Now we go over to Michael with the weather. How’s our weekend shaping up, Michael?

Well, Anne. It was looking a bit dodgy around noon but from the data we’re receiving from our two-hundred-thousand weather stations around the GTA, I would revise my earlier estimate. Things are going to change drastically!

Uh oh! Sounds ominous, Michael. Or is it swinging to extreme good weather?

Well, Anne, now you know I can’t tell you at this moment otherwise I’d have to sneak into your bedroom while you sleep and place a single drop of poison on your lips via a suspended thread, being held by me, a vague shadow somewhere on your ceiling. That is, if I was even there at all. It’s not like I would leave any evidence behind. How about I tell you the full weather picture after the commercial?

Sounds good, Michael. Please join us after the commercial break as we unveil the weather forecast for your weekend.

I’m pretty sure I missed a couple of breaks and segments in there, but you get the idea.

When the weather finally comes, it’s an orgasmic explosion of weather facts. Michael tosses them to the camera benevolently. Ahhh. Now, at long last, we will know whether to hang on for one more weekend or just end it all on Friday.

Wow. Imagine the power in that guy’s groin. He’s probably the belle of the ball everywhere he goes. Women would go to great lengths just to spend one night with him and, perhaps, bring news of the following week’s weather back to their people.

How was this allowed to happen? The weather should be free for everyone! We should all have the right to know whether to wear galoshes or sandals to work tomorrow.

Or tune into the Weather network where they apologize out their ass for not having that shit in front of you, on a silver platter, every ten minutes.

Stone cold pimpin’