Ministry of Misinformation

Edmonton resident proclaims himself Tour de France winner

2007-07-25T12:16:00.000-07:00

Sam Smug of Edmonton, Alberta, announced today that he has completed the gruelling Tour de France a week ahead of anybody else, making him the clear winner by 245 hours. And he wants to make it clear that he didn’t even have to take any illegal performance-enhancing drugs.

“All I did was build myself a pair of robot legs,” explained Mr. Smug. “Each leg is made from reinforced steel, weighs 212 pounds, is two metres long and 70 centimetres in diameter. When I walk towards my kids, they shriek with alarm. CLANK! CLANK! CLANK! go my legs. EEK! EEK! EEK! go the little monsters. It makes me double over with laughter to see ‘em!”

Sam Smug started the Tour de France on July 7, just like the other cyclists, but his competitive advantage became quickly apparent. Hurtling through the French countryside, he waved to passengers of the TGV (train à grande vitesse – high speed train) and at one point, even accepted a bag of peanuts that a passenger handed him through the window.

“That now stands in the Guinness Book of World Records as the fastest peanut hand-over in world history, at 302 kilometres per hour,” said Mr. Smug, proudly.

Mr. Smug is becoming used to shattering records. The previous record for fastest tour finish, set by American Lance Armstrong, is now lying in the dust.

“Lance Armstrong’s puny legs are no match for my robot machinery!” chortled Mr. Smug. “I phoned him after my victory lap in Paris. I didn’t need to say much. Mainly, I just laughed at him.”

Mr. Smug reports that, unlike other cyclists, for whom the Tour de France is a brutal exercise in self-imposed torture, for him it was an amusing distraction from his day job as a computer programmer.

“It was a delight,” admitted Mr. Smug. “After each day’s cycling, which of course for me was finished during the first hour of the morning, I would generally retire to the nearest café, have a few Leffes and a salade niçoise, and flirt with the waitresses. Then I’d go to the park and stretch out in the shade of a tree and read Ken Follet novels. Brilliant holiday it was. I’d recommend it to anyone.”

Next year, Mr. Smug plans to compete in horse racing.

M.o.M.’s Guide to Walking

2007-04-17T12:45:00.000-07:00

According to just about everyone, walking is going to be the hot new trend this year. But what exactly is walking? According to anthropologists, walking is an activity that humans used to engage in frequently. For example, during the Ice Age, people would walk for miles and miles in order to track a woolly mammoth, kill it, roast it, eat it, and smear its blood on their genitals. In more recent times, people would walk to the subway, jump on a train, disembark, and walk to their office, whereupon they would promptly fall asleep for eight hours.

Sadly, in even more recent times, and in cities such as ours, the ancient art of walking has been almost entirely forgotten. The only people who still maintain this custom are the homeless, some of whom will keep walking even if their socks wear out.

But things are set to change. Walking is going to become glamourous because it can make you fit. And also because it gives you something to brag about to your friends.

Example:

Friend: I drove here for my double-double and a dozen Timbits.

You: I WALKED here for my double-double and a dozen Timbits.

Friend [now visibly impressed]: Holy fuck!

Because of the popular demand for more self-help literature, the M.o.M. has developed a guide to Bi-Pedal Locomotion (a.ka. “Walking”) so that you can get up, stand up, and take a few tentative steps to somewhere. Anywhere! Just remember not to be discouraged if initially you experience dizziness, shortness of breath, or fall down. Walking isn’t easy, and the skills cannot be acquired overnight.

The Guide to Bi-Pedal Locomotion (a.ka. “Walking”)

Things to remember:

1. Unless you want everyone to laugh uproariously at you, be careful not to drag your knuckles along the ground while you walk.

2. Look purposeful. Adopt an erect, slightly aggressive posture, and maintain a brisk pace.

3. Refrain from climbing trees during your walk. You risk breaking the limbs of fragile young saplings. And in the event that you get stuck, you divert the precious resources of the fire department from cat rescue.

Frequently asked questions about walking.

Q: Is it OK to walk while drunk?

A: Drunk walking, while more difficult than sober walking, is nevertheless a much admired skill and as of publication (April 16, 2007) was not prohibited for our neatly-groomed and educated readers. Be aware, however, that for vagrants, drunk walking will result in imprisonment, a trip to the hospital, or an overnight stay at the homeless shelter. The M.o.M. advises that if you are going to drink and walk, do not vomit upon yourself.

Q: I prefer to read about self-improvement rather than actually improve myself. Is there any chance that I will be able to take up walking?

A: Reading about walking, while not as effective as walking itself, does nevertheless require literacy, and so you win a few points in our books. Keep it up!

Q: What happens if I’m walking during the night and somebody removes a manhole cover and I happen to fall in because I didn’t see the gaping hole?

A: You will become crippled or dead.

Q: Is it fair to say, then, that walking is pretty dangerous?

A: Risk-averse readers are encouraged to order the Guardian Bunker, which has been built to withstand hurricanes, tornadoes, flooding, bombing, and the second coming of Christ. At a cost of only $76,000, this handy cement contraption, reinforced with rebar, will offer protection for you and your family for many years to come. All you need is a decade’s worth of non-perishable food and an emergency generator to power the ventilation system and terrorism-detection radar. Huzzah!

Q: Can people of any religion walk?

A: Yes, they can. Astute readers might already know about the Muslims’ annual pilgrimmage to Mecca, the Jews’ flight out of Egypt, not to mention Jesus’ wandering all over Israel in search of fish.

Q: Would you like to go for a walk with me?

A: What a delightful idea! Let's ensure we pack some cheese in case we get hungry along the way.

Ronaldo Ronaldson Enjoys National Non-Sequitur Day

2007-04-17T12:43:00.000-07:00

According to a confidential report haphazardly cobbled together painstakingly by the M.o.M. in the last thirty-eight seconds, Ronaldo Ronaldson, aged 19 years, quite enjoyed National Non-Sequitur Day.

"It was terrible," said Ronaldo. "My grandmother came over for dinner and told me about the $682,143 she is leaving me in her will."

Mrs. Flores Ronaldson, aged 153, arrived on her Vespa at about 6:13 p.m. Shortly afterwards, Ronaldo accidentally spattered melted butter on his new pair of Diesel jeans.

"That's it!" he cried. "That's the final straw! I am tendering my resignation from my job, effective immediately!"

"Is it possible that you accidentally ejaculated into your own eye?" inquired Mrs. Ronaldson, observing her grandson's bizarre gesticulations. "That happens to me quite often."

"I wish you'd stop nagging me about my cocaine habit," Ronaldo retorted. "I've told you, it's because I'm in a loveless marriage, devoid of sex, or even pleasure."

"Well then, I do hope you liked the socks I gave you in 1978," said Mrs. Ronaldson, in her sweet and endearing way.

"Where's my girlfriend when I need her?" asked Ronaldo. "There's a football game that ended seven minutes ago and I predict a resounding victory by Manchester United, even with that gay idol, Christiano Ronaldo, playing!"

But Mrs. Ronaldo was not entirely in agreement.

"I think it's best, when a pheasant is out of sorts, to sing it a pleasant melody," she opined. "'Mary Had a Little Lamb' works best."

Accordingly, Ronald charged out of the room and entered his tank. As Brigadier General of the 4 th Scottish Highlander Infantry Platoon, he was obliged to lead an offensive into Sadr City. In the sweltering heat of the scarred suburb, he did hand-to-hand combat with a mongoose.

"You may be a stern adversary for a cobra, but you are certainly no match for me!" said Ronaldo triumphantly. The mongoose retaliated by biting him sharply on the bladder.

Just then, a nasty August blizzard blew in from the nearby mountains, entirely obscuring the battlefield, and forcing a halt in hostilities.

"Hot enough for ya?" laughed a private.

"Let's go for a swim!" rejoiced Ronaldo, cracking open a hole in the ice of the Tigris River.

"Good heavens, there's been a lot of buggery going on lately," observed a passing Iraqi civilian. "I don't think Allah would approve at all. What do you think, Achmed?"

"Death to the Jews!" cried Achmed.

"Quite," concluded his interlocutor.

Memo from Angry Bus Rider: Shut the Hell Up!

2007-04-17T12:41:00.002-07:00

Jonathan Dawkins, aged 36 and not happy about it, has written a memo that he will be giving to all the passengers who annoy him on the number 9 bus in Edmonton.

“It’s time that people wised the hell up,” explained Mr. Dawkins to the M.o.M. “It’s getting so that I can’t enjoy my Stephen King book anymore, what with the swearing, the blaring of iPods, the idiots yakking on about their boring lives, not to mention the north-side kids who are borderline feral and have sharp, yellow teeth.”

This morning, Mr. Dawkins presented his first memo to Mr. Ronaldsen, who is also known as Crusty, on account of how his ears are so crusted up with wax that he is unable to hear any words uttered below the level of a thunderous bellow.

Dear Crusty:

I know deep down you are OK and not out to hurt anyone. But you know what? When I’m reading It or Carrie, the last thing I need is you yakking on about Prime Minister Harper. Yeah, I get it. You don’t like him. You know what? I don’t like him either! If I had five minutes alone with him, the room would look like a goddam abattoir. However, unlike you, I don’t feel the need to yap on about politics over and over again.

I also don’t need to hear you yakking on about a) your groceries budget b) the Bush family c) a beautiful girl who talked to you in 1987.

It’s getting old, dear Crusty. It really is.

So my advice to you is, Shut the Hell Up!

After presenting this memo, Mr. Dawkins expertly scurried away through the crowd to the back of the bus. He watched at a distance as Crusty slowly opened the envelope. The aging warehouse labourer wore a slack, open-mouthed smile, clearly expecting some kind of present. He read the memo. Then he glanced up and squinted through his thick glasses. He was visibly shell shocked.

“Well, I guess the truth hurts,” said Mr. Dawkins to himself. “But somebody had to inform him he’s an asshole!”

Crusty immediately rang the bell and got off at the next stop. Mr. Dawkins had not expected that.

He presented his next memo to a 14 year-old girl who entered the bus on Whyte Avenue. Typically, her inane chatter with her friends about Justin Timberlake and shoes would enrage Mr. Dawkins within minutes – as would her incessant gum chewing. The latest memo had been crafted specifically for Annoying Girls just like her.

Dear Annoying Girl:

Look, I get it. You think you’re just emerging from a chrysalis like a butterfly and soon you’ll spread your dewy wings and flutter around, attracting admiring men everywhere. But, newsflash! You’re going to have all the charm of a broken sofa once you hit 40, so you better develop some conversational skills and learn something educational pretty quick, or else you’re going to be entirely useless to humanity. I mean a compete waste of skin. So meanwhile, in order to save the rest of us from your stunning idiocy, Shut the Hell Up!

The girl shot a glare at Mr. Dawkins, who characteristically glared right back.

“What’s your problem?” she said. “Are you a sad, lonely, loser?”

“Watch your lip,” said Mr. Dawkins. “When I was a boy, we learned manners.”

“You’re fat,” said the girl.

“I was not aware of that,” retorted Mr. Dawkins, trying to sound biting.

“Have your stupid letter back, loser.”

The girl crumpled the memo into a ball and threw it at Mr. Dawkins. It bounced off his large forehead.

“You’re a wanker,” said the girl, who was particularly proud of the new word that she had picked up last week.

“You have no tits,” Mr. Dawkins retaliated.

“Nobody likes you,” said the girl. “My friends and I call you the Creep.”

“Oh yeah?” said Mr. Dawkins. “Well… Me and my friends say your face was chewed by a dog.”

“But you don’t have any friends,” observed the girl.

Mr. Dawkins’ lower lip started to quiver. The bus had just crested Bellamy Hill. Even though his final destination was an obscure north-end office, Mr. Dawkins elected to exit immediately. He rang the bell.

“You can dish it out but you can’t take it, eh?” said the girl.

“Shut the Hell Up!” Mr. Dawkins thundered, his eyes starting to sting.

Just as he was climbing down the steps to the pavement, he heard the entire bus erupt into a cheer.

“You shut the hell up!” everyone roared.

As the bus accelerated away, Dawkins saw all the passengers waving at him joyfully, united in their glee to see him gone.

Who Wants to Rent an Apartment?

2007-04-17T12:41:00.001-07:00

If only you could see us here at the M.o.M. We’re so excited! Our botox face almost appears alive! Today we have all the juicy gossip about the brand new reality show that everyone is talking about: Who Wants to Rent an Apartment? The show, being filmed in Edmonton by the Home and Garden Network, will follow the fortunes of six super-hot young Edmontonians who must find, rent and successfully live in an Edmonton apartment without going bankrupt or resorting to killing the negligent landlord. Whichever contestant most successfully rents an apartment wins the grand prize: a one-way ticket out of Edmonton.

The M.o.M.contacted the show’s producer, Terry Billingham, for more details about this exciting television event.

M.o.M. Tell us more about this exciting television event.

Terry Billingham: There were six contestants. Five of them were women. Two of them got into a cat-fight in the very first show. Trudy was like, “Oooh, I just have to have this apartment – look at the silky drapes and the view of the river valley,” and then Trixie showed up and attempted to scratch her rival’s eyes out, because the apartment was only $1100/month and that’s a goddam steal. But then both contestants found out they had been fighting over nothing because all of a sudden, the property owner announced that the apartment was being converted into a $450,000 condo! Hilarious!

M.o.M.: Tell us about some of the contestants who successfully found an apartment to rent.

TB: I'd be feverishly ecstatic to. Cindy, a manicurist, found sanctuary of sorts in a $550 slum in Norwood. But when she moved in, she found that her neighbour had recently tethered a yak outside. The animal was staring at her obscenely. She informed her landlord of her concerns and he said, “Why don’t you just move the hell out if you don't like it?"

Then Cindy discovered that because of a surreal plumbing configuration, her water pipes were routed through the apartment of an apprentice surreal killer, meaning, of course, that her shower often sprayed pig's blood. She complained to the landlord, and he said, "How would you like a $200 rent increase?"

Savvy Cindy inquired whether the landlord, under Alberta law, had any obligation to fix the shower before imposing a rent increase, and discovered that Alberta landlords have almost no legal obligations whatsoever, and can increase rent by as much as they like regardless of the living conditions of the premises. Three cheers for the Alberta Advantage!

M.o.M.: How did your lone male contestant fare?

TB: Ricky Biggun? Oh, he got by pretty good by pimping himself out to the female contestants. He bed-surfed for a while before eventually, Sharona Timmins, his last conquest, threw him on the streets.

M.o.M.: So Ricky is homeless now, I take it?

TB: Do I appear to care?

M.o.M.: Did anyone find a nice apartment, settle down, and live peaceably until the show's end?

TB: Yes. Me.

M.o.M.: You weren't part of the show.

TB: Hold on. Let me see here. Would this show have existed had I not traded my integrity to the devil in exchange for a million bucks? No, I think not.

M.o.M.: What shows do you have planned next?

TB: I'm excited that you asked that. My next show is Who Wants to Pretend to Give a Fuck About Africa? We'll be sending some b-list celebrities to Timbuktu or somesuch place, so that they can adopt an orphan or spoon-feed an aging hyena. There'll be sentimental scenes of crying and hugging. There'll be vultures circling. What's really great is my agent tells me it's ethical programming.

M.o.M.: Thanks. Do you have any more time for us today?

TB: I think it's time for Fruitopia, Labatts and CIBC to share their affirmative messages now, don't you?

Ed Stelmach Proudly Joins the Liars’ Club

2007-04-17T12:40:00.001-07:00

At a ceremony in Washington D.C. today, the new Alberta premier, Ed Stelmach, was inducted into the Liars’ Club, a prestigious organization that includes Conrad Black, Tony Blair, George W. Bush, and Jude Law.

“I am humbled to be among so many successful liars,” said Stelmach, who appeared to be star-struck in the company of so many Powerful Men.

Usually, the Liars’ Club does not extend membership to people as fumblingly inarticulate as Mr. Stelmach, given that, in the words of Conrad Black, “Deceit is a masterful art requiring eloquence, wit, and a supreme measure of overweening pride.” However, at the club’s early March meeting, it was agreed that Stelmach’s efforts to give the appearance of taking action on climate change “warranted special attention.”

“It’s glorious double-speak; it’s fraud perpetrated on a massive scale,” said Black, who has been the club's president since he was himself charged with fraud. “One is overwhelmed with approbation, not to mention enormous satisfaction, to see conservative governments, including those of Alberta and Canada, convincing the populace that the environment is in good hands, while actually planning for enormous increases in carbon emissions that will endanger the livelihood of our planet. I can only say hoorah, bravo, and Barbara, I’ll buy you another mink stole!”

Mr. Black thereupon embraced his wife, Barbara Amiel, and fondled her bosom proudly.

“See these, Ed?” he said to Premier Stelmach. “Like glorious fried eggs, yet delectably firm. When you are a powerful man, you can own a woman who owns these.”

Mr. Stelmach blushed ten shades of crimson.

“I’m a… what a… gosh. Mmm. Is that Kobe beef? Over there? Anyone?”

But the Liars had reconvened elsewhere to spread lies about him.

“He smells like cow dung,” said Jude Law, sneeringly. “I don’t think we should be letting farmers into our club.”

“In Alberta, they call him Honest Ed,” observed Tony Blair, very pleased to have Done His Homework, and puffing up with pride. “Don’t you see the beautiful irony of that? Anyone?”

“Yo Tony,” said George W. Bush. “This weekend, I finished reading Crime and Punishment by that Russian dude, Fyodor Dostoevsky.”

Tony Blair could not help but stifle a guffaw.

“Come now, we don’t have to lie among ourselves, do we?” he said.

“I see there’s some philandering to be done,” announced Jude Law, eyeing a young and pretty waitress carrying a tray of canapes. “I bet she’s never bedded a famous actor before.”

Just then, the Prime Minister of Canada, Stephen Harper, burst into the room.

“Hello friends,” he said, with the charm of a dead fish. “I heard you were all meeting. My invitation must have been misplaced in the mail.”

“Yes, misplaced,” said George W. Bush, with his frat-boy grin. “That’s it. In fact, you were going to be the Guest of Honour, on account of how everyone likes you so much!”

The meeting of the Liars’ Club erupted into a cacophony of laughter and applause. George W. Bush was happy to return home with First Prize in the Audacity Award. Having been responsible for the deaths of over 20,000 people in the name of a lie, there is now little chance of the other liars ever catching him.

“I’m not even going to try,” said Premier Stelmach.

“That’s the spirit!” said Tony Blair, patting him on the back. "Don't try, just lie -- that's our motto!"

Cerebrum of Cyril Gideon on Brink of Violent Conflict

2007-04-17T12:39:00.001-07:00

The psychological situation for Cyril Gideon, aged 34, a government employee since 2002, took a turn for the worse today, after a tense stand off between his id and his superego. In the morning, his superego enjoyed a tactical advantage, but increasingly lost ground as the day wore on.

“I am afraid I may be losing the battle to maintain the delicate peace I have engineered in my mind,” Cyril reported to the M.o.M. at 5:30 p.m. during his short bus ride home. “My id is threatening to overwhelm me and lead me on a year-long terror campaign of assault, murder, and demonic laughter.”

At 8:20 a.m., Cyril’s secretary, Susan, a new mother of 37 years of age, arrived late, apologizing on account of difficulties with the “little one” overnight.

“He’s such a little angel, though,” she beamed. “How can I ignore his bleats for help?”

Cyril wondered what Susan would say to a joke about how her baby would taste with mint sauce. Meanwhile, the pert and chipper blonde proceeded to tell him about some products she was ordering from the Amway catalogue.

“I love the candles that smell like rosewood,” she explained.

Cyril observed how, fifty percent of the time, Susan used the word love to describe processed food or retail products. He wondered if her heart would fit into his small frying pan at home or whether he would have to cut it into pieces before cooking it.

By 9:15 a.m. Cyril became aware that the temperature was becoming uncomfortable and decided to consult the thermostat. Despite the outside temperature being minus 11, it was 25.9 degrees in the building. Immediately after this, Cyril received an email from Facilities Management informing him that a power cut at 11 p.m. the previous night had temporarily disrupted the air conditioning, but that maintenance workers were working “around the clock” to fix the problem.

“Hmm,” Cyril said to no one. “I wonder if they’re working around the clock just as hard as they did last summer, when the air conditioning only worked for June and then was broken for July and August. Or if they’re working as hard as the summer before that, when they removed the air conditioning system entirely, promising to replace it with a new one within a week, but kept us all waiting until September.”

To introduce some fresh air, he was sorely tempted to throw furniture through the windows, which otherwise could not be opened. However, he was aware that this would contravene health and safety rules.

At 11:17 a.m., Cyril visited the washroom and crouched on the toilet, hoping to relieve himself of an unusually large build up of excrement that had congested his lower bowels. The laborious procedure was exacerbated by the fact that he had a hemorrhoid, which had not yet succumbed to seven straight days of treatment.

“I wonder if I could simply burn the damn thing off with my Zippo,” he said.

Cyril only owned a Zippo because of a vain hope that one day, he would see a beautiful woman in need of a light for her cigarette, and that after providing the required flame, he would be able to execute a cunning and stealthy courtship, then mate with her.

“I wish I didn’t have to pay for sex,” he said to no one, wiping his bottom. “If I weren’t ugly and acne-scarred, by now I’d have found a woman with whom to settle down, have two children, and accumulate unmanageable debt.”

At lunchtime, Cyril sat in the lunchroom, surrounded by Susan and her friends. He forced himself to ignore jokes that alluded to male stupidity and general uselessness.

From 1 p.m. until 3 p.m., during a pointless meeting about something, Cyril plotted to kill the head of the Information Technology (IT) department, Dirk Vanderboot, who had failed to respond to his request to provide three government IDs for recent staff hires.

“For four weeks now, Dirk has not bothered to stir himself to perform a task that would take merely two minutes, despite two reminder emails, two phone calls, and one verbal notification from my manager,” Cyril reflected. “If I had two horses, I would tie Dirk’s head to one horse, tie his legs to the other horse, and then instruct the horses to run in opposite directions, and rip him in half.”

At 4:15 p.m., with the end of the work day in sight, Cyril received a visit from a consultant named Sharon Blugbusster, who, despite the marketing liability of her family name, possessed physical attributes that would best be described by the ever-articulate and urbane Larry Flint, founder of Hustler Inc.

“If I were the star of a rap video, she would be my bitch,” said Cyril. “But because I am not famous, rich, or good-looking, I will have to respect her and not objectify her. Maybe, however, I will covertly admire her bosom.”

Ms. Blugbusster gave Cyril a forty-five minute presentation about a software program designed to store data in a friendly and helpful manner.

“Accessibility has been maximized,” she explained.

Cyril refrained from smirking pervertedly, and informed Ms. Blugbusster at the meeting’s end that he would reflect on the benefits of her product and decide upon a purchase order by week’s end.

“I think you’ll find the programme meets all your needs,” she said.

“Oh, I doubt it,” Cyril retorted, then suddenly realized that he had failed to use his inside-head voice. He was forced to beat a hasty retreat. “I mean, I’m sure it will,” he stammered.

Cyril fears a further encroachment of his id into his working day tomorrow.

Pee Wee Team Hopes for Successful Crack-a-Thon

2007-04-17T12:37:00.000-07:00

The Norwood Knights, the pee wee hockey team that last year nearly topped the Edmonton Minor Hockey League, hopes that its upcoming Crack-a-Thon will raise much-needed funds for skates, sticks, and rink rental.

“The story of the Norwood Knights brings tears to my eyes,” said Bruce Chalifoux, the team’s coach, as well as father of the Knights’ star defender, Mickey. “Here’s a team of tough inner city kids who have made good. With a little more support, we could turn the lives of more kids around, and, who knows, maybe even win the league this year.”

Funding is a constant challenge for the Knights. Most of the players come from homes where the family income is below the poverty line. Half of them are aboriginal. Almost all of them have behavioural or learning disorders. Many players go home to find their fathers staggering around in a drunken stupor or asleep in a pool of their own vomit.

“My dad’s hobbies include punching my mom and urinating on himself,” observed Knights’ forward, Fred Manyfangs. “I can’t wait till I get big enough to kill him.”

Last year at their casino fundraiser, the Knights netted $2,954. The event was considered a major success, with an attendance of over 200 local people, all passionately devoted to gambling.

“I remember blowing a month of welfare,” reminisced Jackie Laboucan. “It was a fucken’ blast.”

This year, the fundraising goal is $4,000 following a sharp hike in user fees at the Knights’ practice rink. After receiving the unwelcome news of the hike, Coach Chalifoux realized that gambling alone was unlikely to raise the extra revenue.

“We needed something with even more appeal to the community,” he explained. “Crack seemed the obvious answer.”

Knights players, who range from nine to eleven years of age, will wander the inner city streets, each looking to sell as many “rocks” of crack as possible. Whichever player sells the most crack will win a night at the Fantasyland Hotel – a luxurious retreat from a life of incest and violence.

“I’m pretty confident the lucky winner will be me,” said Renee Gigglingbird. “My sister Josephine’s got major connections with hookers and I figure she can sell a grand of crack in under a week – no fucken sweat.”

During the short interview, Renee was being pestered by a potential customer, Colleen “Crabs” Papsamashaquash, who tragically lost an eye in a fist-fight last year. Colleen asked for some crack in advance – promising to pay for it later – but the plucky young Knights player refused. He ordered Colleen to fulfill her dick-sucking quota for the day and come back with at least $100.

“Otherwise, no crack for you, Crabsy,” he said.

Hector Goudreau, Minister for Tourism, Parks Recreation and Culture, whose department oversees charitable fundraising ventures, is enthusiastic about the Knights’ Crack-a-Thon.

“I think it’s great,” said Goudreau. “That’s an example of the Alberta Advantage in action: paying for social programs through the proceeds of addiction, misery, and suicide.”

The minister declined further comment because he was busy eating a pig.

Revenge Tragedy Enriches Montreal Morgue by Two Corpses

2007-04-17T12:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday in Montreal, Canada’s capital of crazed killing sprees, Yves Chiffon, aged 36, visited his former workplace, an obscure branch office of the federal government, and sought redress for a decade of petty grievances. As he marched in through the door, a hammer in one hand and a chainsaw in the other, he shouted, “Mock and scorn the hapless bureaucrat no longer! Behold a vengeance more bloody and gruesome than acts three though five of Titus Andronicus!”

Chiffon proceeded to barge into the office of his former manager, Claudette Poumon, who fired him thirteen months ago.

“Claudette, I’m going to entertain myself with your pancreas,” announced Chiffon. Without a second’s pause, he kicked over Ms. Poumon’s chair and hogtied her. Then he instructed her to look into his eyes and witness his pain.

“The sight of you is terrifying,” said Ms. Poumon, aged 45. “I cannot look. I see only my own sorry fate forecast there. Please spare me, Yves! I beg of you!”

Just then, a horde of nervous government workers rushed into the office to try and save Ms. Poumon. But sadly for them, Chiffon had spent the entirety of his unemployed life practicing kung fu, lifting weights, tattooing himself, and developing a murderous rage.

“You fools want to leave this mortal life so soon?” he asked rhetorically, and laughed.

One of the fools in question, a chubby man named Maximillian, approached Chiffon with a computer cable in his hand. He clearly planned to asphyxiate our scorned psychopath by means of strangulation. But with a roundhouse punch from Chiffon, Maximillian was propelled into the air and through the wall. He landed in a contorted heap in the hallway on the other side.

“Hee hee hee!” chortled Chiffon. “Any more takers?”

As it so happened, every member of the horde was willing to take a swift serving of punishment. For the next minute and twelve seconds, the ordinarily placid environs of the office became a melee of thrashing fists and limbs. One particularly unfortunate fellow had his eye gouged out and thrown into a cup of coffee.

Once Chiffon was done defeating everybody, he returned his attention to his nemesis, Ms. Poumon.

“You, Claudette, made me the insatiable ball of hate that you see here today,” he declared.

“Pity me!” said Claudette. “I had to fire you because you contravened Internet usage policy.”

“Internet usage policy be damned!” Chiffon roared, with the ferociousness of a thousand lions. “You made my every working hour an unceasing parade of pettiness and despair. It was like the slow death of a thousand paper-cuts. Remember when you had me write that report, then made me send it to sixteen people, all of whom requested changes, and then I spent March through August revising it, but then the report was eventually shelved, anyway? You Witch Woman, those are seven hundred and nineteen hours of my life that I’ll never get back! For that, you die!”

Chiffon proceeded to prise open Ms. Poumon’s mouth and levered out two of her teeth with his hammer. Then, with his chainsaw, he cut into her torso, which gaped open in a blood-soaked yawn. He ripped out her pancreas and stuffed it into her mouth. Ms. Poumon suffocated to death.

“My bloodlust is not yet satisfied,” yelled Chiffon, with the menace of a giant howler monkey.

He turned to find Ms. Poumon’s divisional supervisor, Henri Foie, standing in the doorway.

“You were once just a frightened little man,” observed Foie, “But now you have the strength and cunning of at least seven ninjas. What has happened?”

“You villain,” bellowed Chiffon. “Because of your tyranny, I was turned down for promotion not once, but three times. Moreover, you slept with my sister Pauline. For this, you die, but only after I’ve put you through unbearable agony.”

Foie attempted to defend himself with an office chair, even successfully beating Chiffon in the chest. But he enjoyed the upper hand for only nine seconds. Chiffon flew through the air at Foie like a vulture descending on a dismembered lamb. His feet struck Foie with such force that both men crashed directly through the floor and onto the floor below. Whereupon Chiffon twisted around Foie’s neck, breaking it.

“You are approaching death, but are not yet morally destroyed!” said Chiffon. “Now I am going to un-man you!”

Chiffon’s hand darted into Mr. Foie’s pants and performed a murderous ritual upon Mr. Foie Jr.

“God sees all,” whimpered Mr. Foie, “And he will wreak a terrible punishment upon you for this.”

Chiffon laughed, and then threw something resembling a piece of chicken gristle into a paper shredder. Blood spattered the walls. Then Chiffon prised out four of Foie’s teeth. Then he chewed off his nose. Then he cut off his head and threw it out of the window. It rolled into la rue Sainte-Catherine and halted an entire lane of traffic.

On the way out of the office, Chiffon spotted a pretty young secretary who was giggling girlishly.

“I know I’m a deranged, blood-drenched murderer, but do you mind if I rob you of your virginity?” asked Chiffon.

Chiffon proceeded to escape with the girl. He now lives in obscurity where no one can find him.

Classic Rock is a Way of Life

2007-04-17T12:35:00.000-07:00

After years of debate, it has now been scientifically proven by the StatistiCon Research Institute in Facegag, Alberta, that Classic Rock is a Way of Life. StatistiCon has found that practitioners of the Classic Rock Way of Life generally live in cities with corporate-owned radio stations that play “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin, on average, eleven times per day. Classic Rock listeners do not physically differ from regular human beings except for their remarkable ability to repeatedly consume vast quantities of beer and guitar rock without expressing remorse or even nausea. It also has been hypothesized that the cognitive development of Classic Rock listeners ceases at sixteen years of age. This hypothesis is based on observations of otherwise seemingly normal adults becoming unusually animated upon listening to “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen for the eleven hundred and fifty-eighth time in their life. Further observations will be needed to turn this hypothesis into another Fact.

The M.o.M. followed a typical Classic Rock listener through a typical day to find out just why these people are so exciting – at least to marketing companies.

Case Study

Boiler-maker Vaughan Scott, aged 41, wakes up at 6am – which is earlier than he’d like. He often sleeps poorly on account of a bad back. Vaughn lives alone in his suburban bungalow in north-east Edmonton.

After coughing for two minutes, Vaughan trips over a few empty Budweiser bottles on his way to the bathroom, where he spends the next six minutes and twenty seconds urinating. Vaughan’s wife is currently filing for divorce and for sole custody of their three children, Millie, Dot, and Troy. Meanwhile, Vaughan grudgingly but dutifully pays the monthly $746 he owes in child support and, if he feels like it, takes his children to the shopping mall or treats them to dinner at Wendy’s Restaurant every now and then. On average, these family outings occur about once every seven weeks, a situation characterized by Vaughan as “OK” and by his son, Troy, as “more than enough.”

Vaughan plays online poker for twenty minutes and then visits a website called “Young Teen Cum Guzzlers” where he lingers for 12 minutes. After that, it’s time for a shower, a short drive to Arby’s to pick up a beef sandwich, and then onwards to DrudgeCo, a maintenance firm, where Vaughan has worked continuously for nine years, except for a short suspension last year for punching an apprentice in the mouth.

Vaughan neither excels at his job, nor does he botch it up so horribly that he, say, loses an arm or blows up the entire building. He furtively smokes a joint at lunch time – even sharing it when co-worker Jackson “Biggy” Smitz asks for a “hoot.”

“He wouldn’t be doing this if a reporter wasn’t watching,” says Smitz, enjoying a long toke.

“Shut up,” says Vaughan. “I got tickets to the Oilers tonight. I’ll share that with you, too.”

“What about your son, Troy?” inquires Smitz. “Wouldn’t he like to go?”

“Nah, I’m not taking him,” replies Vaughan. “He’s a fucking spoilt little shit. Last time I saw him, he made fun of Rush.”

There follows a fifteen-minute long defence of the legendary Canadian rock band, Rush. During the afternoon shift, Vaughan is observed smoking another joint by himself and then spending seventeen minutes taking a bowel movement. At the end of his shift, Vaughan asks Smitz if he wants to grab a drink at the bar before proceeding to Rexall Place to watch the Oilers “kick some ass.” Smitz reminds Vaughan that he has a wife and kids to go home to.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” says Vaughan. “Goddamit. Now I’ll be going to the goddam game by my goddam self. Fuck.”

But fortunately, this sad prediction does not come true. Vaughan stops in at his favourite watering hole, the Pig and Whistle, and finds his friend Jimmy, who is enthusiastic at the prospect of going to the game.

“One thing though,” says Vaughan. “You pay for the beers.”

Jimmy agrees but is distressed to find that by the end of the second period of the Oilers-Canadiens game that he has already spent $35 just on Vaughan’s beers. He announces, “I’m cuttin’ you off,” to which Vaughan replies, “Whatever.”

After the game (Oilers 1, Canadiens 4), Vaughan offers to drive Jimmy home in his 2002 Ford F150, provided they visit Showgirls strip club on the way. Jimmy is amenable to the idea. At Showgirls, Vaughan necks beers number seven through twelve and throws $7 and $12 in loonies at the vaginas of Judy and Chevron, respectively. On the drive to the Jimmy’s residence, Vaughan hits a Yield sign, but only “a little.” He is in his bed, comfortably passed out, by one in the morning, ready to “get up and rock” the next day, which is Saturday.

All in all, a Classic Rockin’ Day!

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s GOVERNMENT MAN!

2007-04-17T12:32:00.000-07:00

In the seemingly serene hamlet of Puktuk, Alberta, all that stirs the prairie grass is the Chinook wind. Or is it? No wait! An eddy of CIGARETTE SMOKE from a nearby bar of ill repute has wafted outside and besmirches the previously virginal landscape.

What scoundrels could be responsible for this dastardliness?

A cluster of scared and helpless Alberta citizens gather around the bar and stare in hope at the blue sky. When will GOVERNMENT MAN appear? Surely any minute now! There is a WORKPLACE VIOLATION going on and everyone knows that GOVERNMENT MAN cannot STAND it when people VIOLATE PROVINCIAL LEGISLATION AND/OR MUNICIPAL BYLAWS!

“When has GOVERNMENT MAN ever let us down before?” says little Trixie Tickletoots, knowing – even at her tender age of 14 – a rhetorical question when she hears one.

Meanwhile, inside Pisstank Tavern, poor Susie Muffjob, aged 33, is serving the motley crew of patrons, all the while inhaling thick, noxious fumes of deadly CIGARETTE SMOKE.

“Ah me!” she utters as she almost swoons. “How can I ever defend myself against these hordes of devilish nicotine fiends? There are six of them and only one of me! Oh!"

In between delivering another glass to Huck the One-Eyed and picking Denny the Legless out of his vomit, Susie furtively exits the bar.

“Where, oh where, is GOVERNMENT MAN?” she sighs, looking at the sky.

But the scourge of law-breakers and tax-dodgers does not appear. What could have happened to him?

“I hope ANARCHY MAN hasn’t gotten his fidgety little fingers on GOVERNMENT MAN and spray-painted a peace symbol on him, or worse, written the word ‘Listen’ across his face,” says Trixie Tickletoots, apprehensively.

“There’s nothing for it,” concludes Billy Bulginghead. “We must take matters into our own hands. We must get off our asses and send an E-MAIL to GOVERNMENT MAN!”

The resulting e-mail blasts an incendiary trail through cyberspace, arriving at the government server mere seconds later. Within only THREE DAYS it is redirected to the appropriate department, the Ministry of Health and Wellness. No sooner said than done, the e-mail is fired like a cannonball to the Alberta Alcohol and Drug Abuse Commission (AADAC). A team of two intrepid government workers are assigned to deal with this highly vexing case, and they are led by none another than…. GOVERNMENT MAN!

“We need to refer the citizens of Puktuk to a website,” declares GOVERNMENT MAN to his eager team of anarchy haters. “Also, we need to bring in our tobacco experts, researchers, and executive administrators.”

“If only the Puktuk residents could see GOVERNMENT MAN’s powers of DELEGATION!” says Bobby Bureaucrat, almost reverentially. “He could have taken on this job himself, but he FEARLESSLY SOLICITED HELP FROM THREE AADAC DIVISIONS!”

The downtown Edmonton office quickly becomes a hive of feverish activity. A response email is drafted. It is carefully scrutinized and revised. Three phone calls are made to the tobacco experts to obtain additional input. The response email is then e-mailed to research services who interrupt their water cooler chat to discuss it. The very next day, they return the draft with RUTHLESS EFFICIENCY, having made no changes. The latest draft is then brought to GOVERNMENT MAN. He eyes it over with his superhuman powers of observation.

“All I’d change about this draft is to include another website reference,” declares GOVERNMENT MAN.

“Holy shit!” yells Bobby Bureaucrat, unable to help himself. “I guess you have to be born on another planet to think up something as stunningly insightful as that. Thank you for your leadership, GOVERNMENT MAN!”

A mere twenty-eight days after the citizens of Puktuk begged GOVERNMENT MAN for help, a response scorches its way through the wireless Internet infrastructure and arrives at the computer of Billy Bulginghead. He summons the good citizens of Puktuk to listen to him read it aloud.

“Puktukkers! Behold the decree from GOVERNMENT MAN!”

There is a brief silence.

“What does it say? What does it say?” shouts Trixie Tickletoots, now unknowingly two weeks pregnant thanks to Garry the Goat-Fingerer.

Billy Bulginghead raises his head from the e-mail print-out and speaks to the crowd.

“According to this, GOVERNMENT MAN recommends that we visit a website to find out whether our municipal district has a smoking bylaw that exceeds the provisions of the Smoke-free Places Act. If it does, then we can inform a peace office of this fact and he/she can investigate the local workplace violation. If not, the Smoke-free Places Act prevails and our local workplace and/or public place must follow its provisions, which include restricting access to minors and posting the appropriate signage. He also refers us to the tobacco website developed by AADAC to inform citizens of the dangers of tobacco smoke!”

There is a long silence. A deer mouse, affectionately known locally by its Latin name, peromycus manicalatus, emerges from the stack of packing crates outside Pisstank Tavern, curious as to when the crowd will finally disperse and allow him to go off in search of seeds and grasses and his other favourite sources of nutrients. He is startled when the Puktuk crowd suddenly erupts in cheers and shouts of joy.

“Hoorah!" they yell. “That response is so impossible to understand that it could only be the work of GOVERNMENT MAN!”

And so to this very day, the denizens of Pisstank Tavern continue to smoke happily, and lucky Susie Muffjob has throat cancer. Meanwhile, the non-smoking residents of Puktuk prosper and thrive, safe in the knowledge that the ways of GOVERNMENT MAN will forever remain inscrutable and mysterious to them.

Paddlesmack Resident Seeks to Join Fight with Drugs

2007-01-25T19:12:00.000-08:00

Paddlesmack resident, Larry Melchyk, aged 39, has written to the premier of Alberta to offer his assistance in the “Fight With Drugs.” The M.o.M.’s source at the Alberta Government has provided us with a copy of this letter. We now print it in its entirety, thus committing our first-ever violation of Alberta's Freedom of Information and Protection of Privacy (FOIP) Act.

Dear Premier Ed Stelmach:

As president of Canada’s “Meet Me at the Top” Clubs I want to inform you about some of the stuff I have been involved with to make sure Alberta kids don’t make some of the mistakes that I did when I was young and not smart like I am now. In local schoolyards here in Paddlesmack, I do workshops and sessions with kids warning them about some of the dangers of drugs like cocaine, marijuana, heroin, and the biggest menace of our times, crystal meth. I have an amazing rap pour with kids and so I can always find a way of making them respond to me.

Just a few words about my qualifications. I put on the Tribute Dinner for Wendy Dixie, the girl that got mauled by a grizzly bear. I also cheered Wendy on through her endurance race at the town fair log run. At the fair, my innovative new product of an ashtray that looks like a human skull was unveiled and a huge number of people thought it was a brilliant way of telling people that smoking can kill you.

What I propose now is no other than a total Fight With Drugs on every street corner and back alley in Alberta. I regret to inform you that this is a Fight that so far we have been losing. The drugs are winning, especially crystal meth. So many of our kids are hooked on this drug and our society risks becoming like zombies. Have you ever seen the effect of crystal meth on a healthy, normal, loving kid? One minute they are doing good in school and captain of the football team. The next minute they will chew off your face for another hit. Plus crystal meth scientifically puts holes in your brain. These holes can never be removed.

I have teamed up with health experts at the North American Centre for Disease Control (NACDC) through their advisor, Dr. Rodney Fields, at Washington DC, and discussed the neurobiological effects and the latest treatment methods. He is in agreement with me that we need to take some of these latest techniques into the Fight With Drugs in Alberta. I have not asked him yet, but I am sure that for a professional fee, he will personally come up here and oversee some of his strategies for helping kids get put in place. This is part of the reason why your help is so important, because “Meet Me at the Top” Clubs needs the funds to finance this.

But the Fight With Drugs doesn’t stop there. We also have to deal with the dealers who prey on young people like they are vultures. Have you ever met a dealer? I have. Believe me, they are not like you and I. They thrive on weakness and desperation. It’s like Shaking Hands with the Devil when you touch a drug dealer’s palm. Their blood is cold and their eyes are two black holes. I met a drug dealer once and I’m not in a hurry to repeat the experience.

What I’m saying is there is no point dealing with these people as if they are human beings. Canada’s justice system is a joke. So, you rape a woman eat her intestines? How about watching TV, smoking, and playing pool all day as a reward? All funded of course by Canadian Taxpayers. Sorry, but that doesn’t seem the best way to reward somebody who just went out of his way to rape a woman and eat her intestines. Nor is it a good way of rewarding somebody who just gave a kid some blow and has now enslaved that same kid for life.

You can’t be too tough on these people. Even execution isn’t tough enough. I recommend sending them to a country where they know how to deal with these types: Syria is a country that comes to mind. I’ve researched the things they do to criminals. Believe me, being forced to stay in a stress position for a day or two is no picnic. If Canada’s rich and privileged criminal drug dealers heard about even HALF of what goes on in a Syrian prison they would seriously think about getting another job!

These are just the very tips of the iceberg in my Fight With Drugs and is an overview of information I want to personally fill you in with when your busy schedule permits.

Keep it real and honest,

Truly,

Larry Melchyk
President and CEO
“Meet Me at the Top” Clubs of Canada

News Bullets of the Day

2007-01-25T19:10:00.001-08:00

In a bid to keep pace with our media competitors and to boost our youth readership, the M.o.M. is getting rid of its usual investigative journalism format. No longer will we provide analysis, research, or any evidence to support any of the things we say. Nor will we provide hard news. We will provide news as soft as a mountain of guano.

Here are today's news bullets, aimed to fill your head with holes like a block of Swiss cheese.

PARIS HILTON THINKS FRIEND’S BABY IS GROSS
We would run a photo of the famous heiress but alas, we cannot. So you’ll just have to imagine her face. Still with us?

Apparently, Paris Hilton is not fond of the baby that recently emerged from the womb of celebrity-pal, Katie Holmes. Ms. Hilton said the following:

“Everyone else admires it, but I think it’s a drooling, shitting, weird, alien-looking thing.”

Hilton has announced she won’t attend functions where babies are present because they divert too much attention from her.

“Everyone stands around cooing and aahing at this little sack of saliva, and meanwhile, I’m flashing my vagina! Everyone goes, ‘Paris, we’ve all seen that before.’ What the hell?”

MAN DECIDES TO BECOME A KANGAROO
Ozzie Hamilton of Alice Springs, Australia, has decided to become a kangaroo. For many years, he had envied the prancing, dancing marsupials as they flitted about the rugged outback. He was especially jealous because while kangaroos had seemingly unlimited freedom, he was stuck behind a desk in an insurance broker’s office doing little more than waiting to retire.

“I feel like a man reborn,” he said, as he climbed into his kangaroo suit. “I can’t wait to join my fellow kangas and jump around.”

Hamilton added that he is dissatisfied with the foreign policy of the Australian government, especially its unwavering support for the war in Iraq.

“Once I’m a kangaroo, I won’t have to watch this tragedy unfold every night on my television screen. I’ll be busy eating grass and shrubs. I advise anyone who can’t handle the unrelenting negativity of politics to become a kangaroo. Or maybe a wombat.”

NEW STUDY TIES HAIR VITALITY TO OVERALL HEALTH
StatistiCon, the well-endowed research institute based in Facegag, Alberta, has just confirmed what many have suspected all along. Immediately following a successful haircut, respondents reported experiencing an average 34% increase in self esteem. However, following an unsuccessful haircut, respondents experienced a 66% drop in self-esteem.

“The stakes are clearly very high,” explained StatistiCon researcher. “Get the right haircut, and you’ll be filled with bonhomie and buoyant good spirits. Get the wrong haircut, and you might end up having to double your Prozac intake.”

UNSOLICITED OPINION OF THE DAY
Today's unsolicited opinion of the day comes from Jack Payton of Gagandrape, Alberta. He wants to draw everyone's attention to the issue of smoking in public places.

"I know the new goverment (sic) wants to ban smoking everywhere now and I'm asking, when exactly did Alberta become communist? I never voted to go communist. Why can't people do what they want? My kid's got better sense than those suits in Edmonton. This fragrant (sic) disregard for the rights of smoker's (sic) is no laughing matter."

Jack Payton's doctor informed the M.o.M. that the 49 year-old welder has advanced emphysema as well as throat cancer, so it looks like death will have the last laugh!

THIS JUST IN
A new poll commissioned by CNBC has found that only 3% of North Americans can find Iran on a map and an equal number need a map to find their own ass. But the good news is that a healthy 100% of North Americans plan on eating this week, which contrasts favourably to the paltry 60% of Burundians who will eat this week.

And that was the day that was!

Bush Announces New Iraq Strategy to Supplement Last Week’s Strategy

2007-01-25T19:10:00.000-08:00

Frustrated by the lacklustre response to his announcement of a new Iraq strategy last week, President George W. Bush has announced another new strategy. At a hastily-scheduled press conference held in front of a Black Hawk helicopter in a hanger at Ramstein Air Base, Germany, President Bush explained that his new strategy will entail killing America’s enemies himself.

“I was damn good at the video game Street Fighter back in the day – nobody else in my family could taken me down, not even Jeb – so I figure that with my brilliant hand-eye coordination, I’ll be right at home with our boys in Baghdad,” he said.

Bush also cited his successful comportment at a heretofore unpublicized bar brawl in Waco, Texas in 1970 as another qualification for his battle readiness.

“This dude who called himself Chester ‘The Molester’ Biggs tried to grab Laura’s ass. I took a glass of Bud and poured it down his shirt. He tried to sucker punch me but I kneed him in the gut and dropped him. Then I kicked his head in. Then my dad pulled some strings to keep me out of police custody. Man, those were the days.”

When he arrives in Baghdad, Bush plans to shoot as many enemy combatants as possible as he pilots his Black Hawk helicopter one hundred feet above street level.

“I’ll keep America safe from terrorism by killing the terrorists,” he explained.

Just then, Bush’s chief ally in the War on Terror, UK Prime Minister Tony Blair, made an unannounced visit to the podium.

“I want everyone to know that I’m with you all the way, George,” said Mr. Blair.

“Yo, Tony,” said Bush. “Why you bum rush the show? We no black-talk in months and now you be jive-talking at MY press conference? Get back in your kennel, homey!”

“Please don’t hit me,” Blair grovelled. “Hoooo!”

“Hey, Tone, I boned my lady four times last night. I beat your record,” Bush proclaimed proudly.

“Wraaaa!” yelped Tony. “At least let me join your tour of Iraq, Georgie. I want to win this war. I need a legacy. My days as England's alpha male are almost over.”

Blair beat his chest and pursed his lips defiantly but even this display could not hide the imminent onset of tears. The bizarre spectacle of the gesticulating prime minister was soon removed from the press conference by security guards, leaving the president free to field questions from the press.

“How long will your tour of duty in Iraq last, Mr. President?” asked one reporter.

“I’m gonna stay until we’ve killed all the terrorists,” Bush replied. “It’s that simple.”

“By terrorists, do you mean al-Qaeda, Shia militants, Sunni insurgents, Saddam loyalists, or Iranian and Syrian provocateurs?” asked the reporter.

“Hold your horses,” Bush snapped angrily. “Tryin’ to confuse people’s heads with this confusing talk is not going to end terror. Only killin’ terrorists is going to end terror. Our mission is simple. Kill the terrorists.”

President Bush declined to answer any further questions because no other reporters had been vetted by the State Department. He announced that there would be a photo-op from the comfort of the hanger for the benefit of the press.

Bush climbed into his Black Hawk helicopter, successfully buckled his seat belt, then was heard asking where the button was to close the “hatch thingy.”

“We went over this ten times in training!” an unseen voice hissed. “You can’t be serious!”

“I am serious, man. I gotta close the hatch thingy! Then I gotta start the rotor thingies goin’ round. What’s this thingy here? Whoa! Hold on!”

The president was then catapulted thirty feet into the air. He became lodged between two girders of the hanger roof.

“Lemme down! Lemme down!” he cried out. “This metal’s real sharp in my jugular.”

A German fire and rescue crew appeared on the scene and took half an hour to liberate the American Commander in Chief. It is understood that Mr. Bush is currently in the Ramstein military prison recuperating from abrasions to the neck, head and shoulders.

Joey Gibbering Elects to “Go Native”

2007-01-25T19:08:00.000-08:00

Joey Gibbering, a lifelong resident of Edmonton, Alberta, decided this week to “go native” after watching Mel Gibson’s film, Apocalypto. The comic book salesman wants to discard his khaki pants in favour of a loin cloth, stick a bone through his nose, and retreat to an idyllic village where he can hunt, fish, feast, and fornicate frequently.

“I am envious of the life of the savage,” said Gibbering when we caught up to him at the piercing shop, where the painful process of inserting a bone into his nose was just beginning. “I reject a life of materialism, convenience and comfort. From now on, I’m going to prance around fires, stare death in the face, sow my wild oats liberally, and howl to the moon.”

Gibbering was deeply moved by the early scenes of Apocalypto, which depicted the lives of plucky Jaguar Paw and has friends and family prior to being killed, maimed, raped or imprisoned by Mayan attackers. Gibbering even envies the savages that died, because “to die honourably” is “a good death.”

“I don’t want to slowly rot in a seniors’ home as nurses wipe drool from my face and excavate poop from my bottom,” said Gibbering. “If I’m going to die at all, I want to be shackled and led to the top of a Mayan temple, get my heart ripped out and shoved in my face so I can watch it still twitching, then get my head chopped off and kicked down the steps to the chanting crowd. That’s a heroic death.”

Gibbering also anticipates running breathlessly at the speed of a Geo Metro through the jungle, fleeing his pursuers for days at a time, stopping only to throw a beehive in self-defence or jump over a 100-foot waterfall or narrowly escape the vicious claws of a panther.

“Bring it on!” said Gibbering.

Gibbering wants to make it clear that unlike Smoke Frog in Apocalypto, he is not infertile. “My wang works. I’ve had two illegitimate children, and I’m only twenty-nine.”

Gibbering is currently seeking a woman who will expose her “sleek, tanned” breasts liberally and bear him many children and, if necessary, spend days living at the bottom off a pit waiting for him to return from his adventures, even if it means she must fend off howler monkeys and floodwater.

“Too many women these days lack that sense of romance,” said Gibbering. “If I’m going to become Panther Fang, I need my Mrs. Fang.”

Gibbering proceeded to leap out of the chair, tear off his clothes, revealing his loin cloth. As his bone piercing oozed blood, he ran around Kingsway Garden Mall shouting, “Where’s my Mrs. Fang? Think you’re woman enough for me? Look at my loincloth! I’ll eat a tapir raw.”

Gibbering then encountered his first danger as a savage. Two burly security guards blocked his path. Gibbering head-butted the first one but there was no beehive handy to throw at the other one. He found himself unceremoniously wrestled to the floor and sat upon by a 220-pound high school drop-out.

“Hanal!” yelled out Gibbering in his rudimentary Mayan. He kicked his naked legs.

“Police services have been called,” said the guard. “You better go quietly or else they will throw the book at you.”

“Where’s a cobra to bite your neck when I need one?” Gibbering lamented out loud.

Gibbering was released by the police later in the day. He is scheduled to appear in court next month on charges of assault, public mischief and public obscenity. He has been fired from Captain Comicbook.

Our Self-Diagnostic Test: It is Remarkably E-Z

2007-01-25T19:07:00.000-08:00

To start off 2007 on the right note, M.o.M. has a self-diagnostic test that will determine whether or not you are weird. As any 13 year-old girl can tell you, being weird is not cool. To increase your cool factor, you should strive to decrease your weird factor. That way, you can fully enjoy 2007 as a cool person as opposed to a weird person. It’s E-Z!

1. Do you own an iPod?
a) Yes
b) No
If you selected b, you are weird.

2. Do you think having body hair is strange as well as gross?
a) Yes
b) No
If you selected b, you are weird.

3. Do you ever use scientific terminology in a casual conversation with friends?
a) Yes
b) No
If you selected a, you are like, totally weird. We won’t talk to you if you keep using words like entropy. You belong to that branch of weirdness called nerdiness.

OK, now we move on to the more hard part of the test. Notice, though, that this test is less hard than a Math 9 exam, which is good, because Math is really hard and it sucks! In this part of the test, we’ll see how you behave in social situations.

4. Your best friend just dissed your boyfriend, saying he doesn’t have nice abs like you claimed he did. What should you do?
a) Tell your friend to stop being shallow.
b) Agree with your friend and ditch your boyfriend and find a new boyfriend who more closely resembles Usher.
c) Develop an eating disorder to help cope with the stress.
If you selected a, you are weird. If you selected b, you are a winner. If you selected c in addition to b, you are totally cool!

5. Your friend wants to go shopping at the mall. What should you do?
a) uh, is this, like, even a serious question?

6. You have developed a rare form of juvenile cancer and all your hair has fallen out. What should you do?
a) Avoid contact with everyone, like, forever!
b) Embark on a new life of selfless acts, such as working among the poor of Calcutta, so that you will be judged by what you do and not by your physical attributes.
If you even understood the point of b, you are, like, a freak!

7. Some ugly guy says he wants to go on a date with you. What should you do?
a) Tell the pervert to get lost.
b) Get to know him as a person.
Hold on, get to known him as a person? Did you actually say something that cheesy? Gross!

8. A super-hot guy says he wants to go on a date with you. What should you do?
a) String him along for a while so that he will spend lots of money on hot dates as well as clothes, then eventually give in and kiss him, and then giggle.
b) Question why someone displaying just as little charm as the ugly guy should be given any particular preference.
If you selected b, you have short-circuited this test. That fails to compute. Weird weird weird. What are you going to do next? Talk politics? Read a book? Go for a walk outside? You are such a loser. Do you pick your nose, too?

That is the end of this E-Z test. If you scored top marks, 2007 is going to be a good year for you, full of new clothes, many admirers, and lots of giggling! If you scored less than 4 out of 8, your 2007 is going to completely suck and you will become depressed.

Have a cool year!

Travails of Sufferer of “Anxiety of Influence”

2007-01-25T19:06:00.000-08:00

This week, the M.o.M. commences a sporadic feature in which a spotlight is cast upon a previously unknown person in order to illuminate the sundry activities of his or her life for the general amusement of our readership. This week’s lucky candidate is Vincent Fairbairn, a 38 year-old employee of Movie Station in Oliver Square, Edmonton.

In his own words, Fairbairn is a “victim of his lofty aspirations.” He has aspired to be, in this order, a rock star, a film director and a novelist. So far, he has failed to accomplish anything more than incur debt, lose friends, and become bitter.

“But I am a romantic,” admitted Fairbairn, “And I will not abandon my artistic pursuits – not for love or money.”

The M.o.M. offered him $20,000 to give up on writing his current novel.

“Are you serious?” Fairbairn inquired.

The M.o.M. politely informed him that we were not serious.

“Scoundrels!” Fairbairn hissed, in a surly fashion. He then announced that he would no longer be cooperating with the M.o.M. for this article.

“Whatever,” said the M.o.M. “We’ll cobble together an article by weaving together strands of rumour and innuendo to arrive at something approaching hearsay.”

“You do whatever the hell you want,” Fairbairn retorted. “You couldn’t possibly make me look like a bigger shithead than I already am.”

When the M.o.M. first mentioned Fairbairn’s name to his former friend, Jules Timberton, the heavy-duty mechanic of 36 spit out the word “loser!”

“I lent that guy five grand to make a vampire movie. What an idiot I was. Consider the premise. Blood of the Ancients was written by, directed by, and starring Vincent Fairbairn, who was even then – seven years ago – not much to look at, and yet we’re supposed to believe that he is able to travel through time and seduce, for his demonic purposes, Cleopatra, Boadicea and Mary Queen of Scots. All the money went to paying the amateur actresses, who were local strippers. Then Vince gets a crush on the girl playing Cleopatra, keeps making out with her even after the camera has stopped rolling, gets slapped, and the project slowly implodes from there. And I’m back in the oil patch, busting my ass, knowing I’ll never see a cent of that money again.”

Fairbairn’s attempt to be a rock star was equally costly and unfortunate. Gary Glitter (no relation to the convicted pedophile), the booking manager of Sidetrack Café, remembers when Fairbairn’s hardcore band, Conformity Sux, landed a gig at his venue in the early nineties.

“He sweet-talked me into it,” said Glitter. “It was the worst booking of my life.”

Somehow, after drinking six pints of Traditional Ale and smoking two joints, Fairbairn became convinced that an A&R man from Columbia records would be in the audience that night. No one quite knows where Fairbairn got the idea. But when Conformity Sux took the stage, Fairbairn gave the most incendiary performance of his life. He screamed himself hoarse during the first number, “Fuck the Clergy,” and gasped his way through the second number, “Death to the Neo-Cons.” During the third and final number, Fairbairn decided that his band should destroy their instruments. He smashed his Fender into the stage, snapping its neck. He then proceeded to attack the instruments of the drummer, bassist, and keyboardist. Despite his bandmates’ best attempts to protect their equipment, Fairbairn’s destructive frenzy caused thousands of dollars in damage, including to the Sidetrack itself. From the estimates of various sources, this performance cost Fairbairn three thousand dollars, much of which had to be recovered through small claims court.

“Shit happens,” concludes Glitter with a shrug.

Fairbairn has been busy pollinating his latest project for five years but it is still no nearer to bearing fruit. The project is a fantasy trilogy called Doom of the Damned, and according to Fairbairn’s co-worker at Movie Station, Pedro Gonzales, the finished tome is expected to surpass two thousand pages. Fairbairn reportedly carries the entire manuscript with him everywhere and as a result, has developed severe back problems. However, a crisis has beset this latest project. When Pedro read Part One of Doom of the Damned, he observed that it was a lot like Lord of the Rings.

“Only it wasn’t, like, as poetic, and stuff,” he said.

Fairbairn, by all reports, subsequently “hit the wall” with Doom of the Damned, and has found out courtesy of Wikipedia that he is suffering from the “anxiety of influence.” He has recently been heard pondering out loud, “Will I ever emerge from Tolkien’s voluminous shadow?”

Pedro Gonzales does not agree that Fairbairn's chief problem is "anxiety of influence."

"He just needs to get laid more."

Mark Middleton: an Obituary

2007-01-25T19:05:00.000-08:00

Mark Middleton was killed last Friday in a freak shark attack while snorkelling over the Great Barrier Reef off the coast of Australia. He is survived by his wife Trudy, and sons Mervin and Max. Middleton was generally regarded as the world’s most mild-mannered man. When he was dragged under the surface of the water by the tiger shark that proceeded to chew off his legs, arms and head, Middleton’s last words, according to onlookers, were “Oh dear.”

It is indeed remarkable that Middleton achieved the level of fame that he did, since he never sought to be anything but shy, retiring, polite, unassuming, and quiet. Above all, he strove to always avoid even the slightest suggestion of hyperbole.

“I think I might rather quite love you a bit, perhaps,” were the words that prefaced has proposal to Trudy in 1991.

A year later, when asked by the Reverend Gordon Gambon whether he took this woman to be his wife, to love and honour for the rest of his life, Middleton replied, “I do believe that I do.” It was the most succinct sentence of his life and Trudy was moved to tears. She kissed Mark on the lips, but only briefly, because she knew that he wouldn’t want to make a scene.

The couple were walking down a dark alley in Ipswich a few months later, having spent the night enjoying one pint each in the Queen’s Legs – Middleton’s favourite pub. Two hooded men with knives attacked them and asked for all their money. One of the hoods threatened to slit Middleton’s throat.

“It really shouldn’t be necessary to do something as dramatic as all that,” said Middleton. “If you wouldn’t mind withdrawing the blade from my throat, I will ensure that you receive the twenty pounds that I currently possess in cash, and we can conclude this rather unpleasant affair as amicably as possible.”

The hooded men were so impressed by the courtesy and respect shown them that they immediately abandoned the attempted mugging and turned themselves in to the police. They confessed to a three-year crime spree that included a bank robbery, a car jacking, a home invasion, and interfering with a farm animal.

“Middleton was just such a decent man that I knew I had to bring my horrible and hurtful ways to an end,” said one of the criminals interviewed afterwards.

Thirteen years later, Middleton manifested his first and only episode of irritation. His son, Max, stole the family car and drove it into a seniors’ home, causing over ten thousand pounds of damage. Middleton arrived at the hospital where his son was being treated for minor cuts and bruises and stood in an agitated state over the bed.

“I do believe that I am rather cross with you over this very unfortunate incident,” he said. “I am afraid that I will have to take some rather punitive measures in light of your transgression. Henceforward, your pocket money is reduced by thirty-three percent. And I do intend to keep it at this lower rate indefinitely. Yes, indefinitely! The rate will be reviewed in the future, but with no guarantee that it will be increased. I hope, my son, that you will learn a lesson from this.”

Middleton’s mild-mannered and polite nature never failed him, not even in bed. When once he accidentally ejaculated prematurely and besmirched Trudy’s nightdress, he was prompt and sincere in his expression of regret.

“Please accept my apologies for this accident,” he said. “Be aware that I will take great pains to ensure that it isn’t repeated. Would you mind awfully if I make amends somehow? Maybe by pleasuring you orally, if that would suit you?”

As an accountant at a small light-bulb assembly plant, Middleton was never rich, but nor was he poor. The holiday in Australia was the first outside of the British Isles for Middleton and his family, and was the result of four years of patient and prudent saving. Sadly, the Middletons only enjoyed two days of leisure before Mark so tragically lost his life.

“I will miss him,” said Trudy in an interview with the Canberra Times on the day of the incident. “It will take a while to get used to Mark not being around.”

In her first interview with the British press upon arrival at Heathrow a week later, Trudy said, “Well, I’m used to him not being around now.”

Creative Talents of Ed Stelmach Discovered

2007-01-25T17:14:00.000-08:00

The M.o.M. has discovered that during his nine years in Premier Ralph Klein's cabinet, Ed Stelmach, Alberta’s premier-elect, found time to manage his ministerial responsibilities as well as write and illustrate three books for young children. Meanie and the Mousers, Fatty and the Freeloaders, and Nutty and the Noodle-heads are delightful morality tales and also thinly disguised portrayals of Klein and the political forces at work in Alberta and Canada during the nineties and early zeroes.

“Everyone says how quiet and unassuming Steady Eddie is,” said Stelmach’s long-time friend, Health Minister Iris Evans. “Turns out that while Ed was quietly nodding and smiling during cabinet meetings, pretending that he was a harmless oaf, secretly he was making notes in his head for another stealthily satirical children's classic."

In Meanie and the Mousers, a sleek tomcat – a caricature of Klein – vows to get rid of all the vermin in the barn who are stealing the yummy-yummies, and with his team of enthusiastic mousers, Meanie accomplishes just that. The rats, weasels, mice and other vermin flee in terror and afterwards, the pile of yummy-yummies grows until it reaches the roof.

“Let’s eat!” Meanie cheers happily at the book’s end.

In Fatty and the Freeloaders, the main character, Fatty, is now a bull mastiff, who valiantly guards the gates to a large apple orchard. Along comes a poodle speaking with a bizarre and suspicious French accent.

“Allo zere, cute little deug,” says the poodle, who is called Frederic. “What leuvely apples. Can my freeloaders and me ‘ave some?”

“Hands off our apples!” woofs Fatty, angrily. “They’re for me and my pals.”

“But deugs cannot eat apples,” retorts Frederic, cunningly.

“Get back or I’ll chomp your frilly tail off!” says Fatty, lunging at the poodle.

The remainder of the book consists of Frederic scheming to overthrow Fatty and raid the orchard, but he is always thwarted, because Fatty is so tough and smart. At the novel’s end, Fatty and his canine friends frolic and marvel at the beautiful apple trees, whose leaves are turning an autumnal yellow.

The final book in the series, Nutty and the Noodle-heads, would appear to mark a distinct shift in Stelmach’s sympathies, and may explain why he never sought to publish his marvellous works. The main character, Nutty, is a clown, who enjoys prancing about in lavish outfits and saying unpredictable things such as, “Jabber jabber!” or “Anyone can become a clown!” or “Behold my Clown Legacy Fund!” The antics of his friends, the Noodle-heads, are even more bizarre. They stick noodles up their noses and in their ears so as to deafen themselves to Nutty’s gibberings and to block out the stench of Nutty’s soiled undershorts. But all the while, they gather around the circus ring and applaud Nutty as he makes a total ass of himself. Meanwhile, an escaped elephant bearing ten vats of crude oil is charging towards the big top tent, hell-bent on destroying everything inside it.

The last page reads, “The end?”

Renowned psychologist, Dr. Cyril E. Ness, has examined the trilogy and concludes that “the unseen hero of the final book is clearly the author himself. Eddie has set the scene to come in and save everyone from their collective lunacy.”

For the sake of Alberta as well as expectant children everywhere, we can only hope that this is what Steady Eddie actually intends!

The Quest to Find the Meaning of a Word

2007-01-25T17:11:00.001-08:00

At the ominous hour of 11:11am yesterday morning, Gavin Gimbler’s English professor, Dr. Johnson, sowed the seeds of chaos in the usually serene life of the 20 year-old student. The rotund, cheerful professor, a member of faculty at the University of Alberta since 1978, said,

“The title of the Thomas Pynchon quarterly, Pynchon Notes, has always struck me as strangely prosaic.”

From that moment on, young Gimbler’s day was plunged into doubt and, at times, despair. What on earth was the meaning of this odd and almost foreign-sounding word, “prosaic”? It sort of rhymed with “mosaic," but while everyone and his dog knows what mosaic means, what on earth could its bizarre doppelganger signify?

Gimbler ceased to have any thoughts of Pynchon. It was as if a stick had become stuck in the spokes of his brain. All through the lunch hour, as his friends discussed inebriation, Survivor, and syphilis, Gimbler remained silent.

Finally, the torment of ignorance became too much for him to bear.

“Do any of you know what prosaic means?” Gimbler asked.

His friends stared at him blankly. For almost a minute, none of them said a word.

Finally, the conversation resumed. “So anyway, as I was saying, this chick with the rash…”

It was as if Gimbler had said nothing at all. He felt that he’d committed something of a social faux pas. He resolved to never again make a fool of himself with his big mouth – at least not in front of his friends.

At 13:09, Gimbler realized he had already missed the first nine minutes of his afternoon economics class. He decided to skip the remainder and instead journey down Whyte Avenue to consult the visiting Buddhist scholar, Lama Olé Nydahl, about the meaning of the strange new word in his life.

“Please Lama Olé,” said Gimbler. “Can you enlighten me on the meaning of the word prosaic?”

The Danish lama smiled and then sighed.

“Sadly I cannot,” he replied. “English is not my first language. There is, however, a Danish word that means ‘mind orgasm,’ and that is what Buddhism at essence is, young man. It is a mind orgasm.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Gimbler.

He thanked the lama for his wisdom and then boarded a bus to Calgary to visit the premier of Alberta, Ralph Klein, at his modest suburban home.

“Please Mr. Klein, as the most powerful man in this province, at least for the next eleven days, can you educate me on what prosaic means?”

Mr. Klein put down his job offer from the nuclear consortium, Safe, Silent & Sexy Inc., and pondered the question.

“Young man, where did you hear this word uttered?”

“At the University of Alberta,” replied Gimbler.

“Well then, in my opinion, it’s safe to assume that it’s not really relevant to anything,” Klein said. “Don’t worry about it. Get out there and make some money, kid! Don’t you know there’s an oil boom going on?”

Night was falling, and Gimbler became aware that he was unlikely to get back to Edmonton in time for dinner with the family. While he was wandering around in search of lodgings for the night, he stumbled across the Tooth Fairy preparing to deliver a shiny quarter to the home of little Stacey Gubbins.

“Excuse me, Miss Fairy,” said Gimbler. “Can you tell me what prosaic means?”

The Tooth Fairy shook her head sadly and fluttered her wings with agitation.

“I typically only encounter humans with a reading level of grade six or less,” she replied. “I can tell you what pooh means, but not, sadly, prosaic.”

“Fair enough,” said Gimbler. “All the best with Stacey Gubbins. Word on the street is she lost a molar.”

“She did indeed,” said the Tooth Fairy. “And an incisor!”

It was now very cold and dark indeed, and Gimbler feared that if he stayed any longer on the winter streets of Calgary, he would succumb to hypothermia. It was a very desperate situation. He should have packed a down-filled coat for his quest. But sadly, the warmest garment on his shivering body was a fleece sweater.

“This quest might well kill me,” he lamented to no one in particular. “And so far, it's been an utterly useless pursuit.”

“—Almost quixotic, one might say,” said a voice from the darkness.

"Wha- what was that?” Gimbler stuttered, startled.

Emerging from the shadows came the shadowy form of the Word Wizard. Unlike the Tooth Fairy, he was old and unkempt, but the lustre of his wand and his golden locks of hair were proof of his former glory.

“Who are you?” asked Gimbler.

“I am the Word Wizard,” said the Word Wizard. “I have been offering my spells for many a year, but sadly, nowadays, most people do not want them."

Gimbler felt a twinge of pity for the noble wizard.

“Well, I need one of your spells,” he said.

“You do?” said the Word Wizard.

“Indeed I do, sir. What does prosaic mean?”

Lo and behold, without hesitation, the Word Wizard conjured up the meaning of the word that had heretofore been as elusive to Gimbler as the Holy Grail was to Sir Lancelot.

"Ancient sorcery lives!" exclaimed Gimbler, incredulous.

“Observe, son, that my spells are invaluable to any contemporary man or woman of sophistication," said the Word Wizard with growing pride.

Gimbler agreed, “You are about the smartest entity, human or otherwise, that I've encountered all day."

“Share this message with your brethren," suggested the Word Wizard. "I have need of some help in marketing my particular and rather idiosyncratic skills."

"I'll keep an eye out for you," said Gimbler.

He thanked the Word Wizard, who in turn, wished him well. He then found, by complete accident, a parked car with the keys in the ignition, the motor still running, and no apparent owner in the vicinity. Feeling a little guilty, he jumped inside, and proceeded to drive away – noticing as he did so that there was enough gas to take him all the way home.

“What a stroke of good luck!” he chortled. "Now I don't have to freeze to death in the suburbs of Calgary for the sake of a word that, ironically, merely means 'commonplace and dull!'"

Sadly, Gimbler did not hear the outraged voice of the Word Wizard, who was scrambling to catch up to the car. The wizard's lanky legs were working frantically, but alas, he suddenly slipped and fell into a snowdrift.

“That’s my car, you scoundrel!" he cried out. "Stop, you crook, you criminal, you kleptomaniac, you underhanded miscreant!”

M.o.M.’s Guide to the PC Leadership Race

2007-01-25T17:11:00.000-08:00

Cancel all your weekend commitments! There is only one commitment that matters this weekend and the M.o.M. is here to breathlessly inform you all about it. Unless you’ve been hiding in a gulch or a gully, you will know, of course, that we’re talking about the Tremendously Exciting Vote for Alberta’s Next Pater Familias – aka – the Progressive Conservative Leadership Race!

Girls, put down your Ken dolls – you will soon have a new male role model to hero worship. Behold the M.o.M.’s guide to this historical event, which for your handy reference, includes a guide to all the candidates we could remember! Unless you are a severely abnormal Alberta – ie. a communist or a vegan – TOMORROW YOU MUST VOTE FOR ONE OF THESE EXCITING MEN OF THE FUTURE.

Candidate: Mark Norris
Age: Middle-aged
Slogan: I’m from Edmonton not Calgary!
M.o.M. Analysis: Mark’s main accomplishment to date has been reducing his weight from a stunning 340 pounds to a lithe 250 pounds. Vote for him or he’ll sit on your face! And what of his professional accomplishments? He got elected in 2001, immediately became a cabinet minister, and did such an effective job that he lost his job three years later. Plus he openly admits to looking at porn. That’s the kind of frankness Albertans can expect from Mark.
Recommendation: Vote for him if he promises to lend you Good Girls Take it From Behind vols III to XIV.

Candidate: Jim Dinning
Age: Late middle-aged
Slogan: I’m gonna win… hence this confident grin
M.o.M. Analysis: If Jim doesn’t win, he’s going to be very Angry Indeed for having spent the last decade being the Heir Apparent. Boy, are those corporate boardroom meetings going to be tense! But not to worry, Jim will win because, well, everyone’s been saying he will win since forever and we believe them! Interesting obscure fact: Jim was Finance Minister for Alberta back in the early Cretaceous period. Thanks to the demise of countless dinosaurs, he was able to help Ralph balance the budget. How did the Economic Genius do this? Well, when billions of oil revenue came in, he refrained from spending it all and borrowing more for no reason. What a good idea! If Martha and Henry won the lottery and then cunningly paid off all their debt, could we also call them Economic Geniuses?
Recommendation: Think before you defy destiny.

Candidate: Dave “Bruiser” Hancock
Age: Middle-aged, but sporadically hiding it well
Slogan: I’m angry that no one paid attention to me until yesterday.
Alternate slogan: I’m also from Edmonton!
M.o.M. Analysis: The only man with hands softer than that other famous cake-eater, Marie Antoinette. Yes, everyone knows Dave likes tucking into a good pastry. Don’t refuse him his pastry or else he’ll use his legal learning to argue very convincingly why you should most certainly refrain from doing so! But being argumentative is not Dave’s style, unless you ignore him. Then he might well take that pastry out of his mouth for a second and throw a crumb at you! Hazzat! “I hope that crumb stings like the dickens!” he’ll say.
Recommendation: Say: “How about we share that pastry?” Next: Run.

Candidate: Ted Morton
Age: Professorial age
Slogan: This dirty scumbag country plus all its dirty scumbag provinces better leave Alberta the hell alone!
M.o.M. Analysis: Ted has what it takes to boldly lead Alberta into the 50’s. The 1950’s, that is! Whenever somebody mentions homosexuals, Ted looks like he’s ready to kill one with his own bare hands! Ted wants more than anything to pass a law whereby schoolchildren, if subjected to the word “gay” meaning anything more than “cheerful,” will be saved by a squad of Parental Enforcers, who will spirit them out of the classroom and back to the God-fearing household, where, naturally, the TV has been kicked in, the computer dumped out the window, and the radio set is programmed permanently to 630 CHED. In case you thought Ted was just a dumb throwback, think again. He used to teach Political Science!
Recommendation: If Ted sees you carrying your ballot all fey like that, he’s gonna rip your head off and shit down your neck! Whatever you do, don’t let him see you doing it!

Leadership Race Q&A

Q: Are there any other candidates?
A: Yes.

Q: Can the M.o.M. enlighten me about the other candidates?
A: Well, one of them is called Lyle Oberg. He knows a lot about “skeletons in the closet” and he also knows that someone working for one of the other candidates has done bad stuff, but he can’t name which candidate or what bad stuff they did. How exactly can the M.o.M. shed light on this fetid swamp? One of the other candidates is called Ed Stelmach. He seems nice enough. It would be a shame wasting any pixels on such poor satirical material. Another candidate is a gimp. Not even the M.o.M. is going there! Plus, he’s not going to win. Only people who become gimps by virtue of drinking solidly for decades earn Albertans' trust!

Q: How exciting is it going to be to live under the regime of the new Premier?
A: In 2002, there was a film called FUBAR produced in Calgary. It depicted the lives of head-bangers, Terry and Dean, who spent their time chugging Pilsner and destroying campsite grounds and falling over. In the sequel, scheduled to begin filming in 2007, they have become millionaires, but endearingly have not changed their leisure activities in the slightest. This, friends, is what you can expect writ large in the New Alberta, if everything goes according to plan.

Communicating Made Easier with Hilarious T-Shirts

2007-01-25T17:07:00.000-08:00

Marvin Middling, aged 23, of Edmonton, announced today that thanks to a recent spending spree, he now owns a large number of T-shirts that can effectively communicate his thoughts and preferences on a wide range of personal, social, and cultural subjects. For example, his T-shirt bearing the wording, “I Got to First Base,” will indicate to others that at some point in his history, Marvin touched a woman.

When asked by assembled reporters at his hastily-scheduled news conference about the point of all this, the Grant MacEwan music student paused, fidgeted with his ear, and then mumbled, “It’s, you know, funny.”

Middling is equally amused by his T-shirt that depicts the silhouette of a naked woman straddling an upright pole, accompanied by the text, “I Support Single Mothers,” which Middling sees as a clever reference to his fondness for attending strip clubs. Middling appears to be particularly amused by the prospect of women being abused and abandoned by their husbands, left footing the bill for their children, and finding no other recourse for survival except making their vagina into target practice for men throwing coins. Middling’s own girlfriend, Sharona, concedes that this is hilarious.

“Boys will be boys,” she smiled, as she stood supportively at Middling’s side.

The real knee-slapper in Middling’s T-shirt collection is one he purchased in 2002, which says, “Shy Guy, Big Dick.” Shortly after purchasing this T-shirt, Middling met his current girlfriend, who secretly wants to marry him. Middling concedes that without the aid of this T-shirt, Sharona might never have picked him out from the crowd at Cowboys nightclub.

“I was so fucked up beyond all recognition that I couldn’t talk,” said Middling. “My T-shirt did the talking for me.”

For her part, Sharona likes to wear a T-shirt which says, “Will Work for Shoes,” which she admits suits her personality perfectly.

“Everyone knows I love shoes,” she confessed, brimming with pride. “I have more than one hundred pairs of shoes. I haven’t even worn some of them!”

Besides wearing hilarious T-shirts, Middling’s other hobbies including drinking, sleeping, and watching the hysterical series of online reality shows, “Bum Fights,” in which homeless people are given money to fight each other, injure themselves by performing reckless stunts, or otherwise degrade themselves on camera.

“I saw this one show where they gave a crackhead five bucks to take a dump on a street corner,” Middling reported. “It was a laugh riot.”

When he graduates from music, Middling hopes to obtain an education degree from the University of Alberta and become a music teacher.

“I love children,” said Middling. “I think as a teacher, kids will connect with me because of my sense of humour.”

Middling admits that there will be some T-shirts he will have to refrain from wearing once he finds himself around Grade 6 students for most of the day. For example, his T-shirt that says, “Everyone is Entitled to be Stupid But You’re Abusing the Privilege,” will have to stay in the closet.

“It’s pure comedy to wear a T-shirt that randomly insults people in the street but unfortunately they’re still a bunch of tight-asses about that kind of shit at Edmonton Public Schools,” Middling admitted.

Middling’s friend Harvey wears a T-shirt that for comic genius surpasses anything Middling himself wears. Harvey is a weightlifter and when he attends the University of Alberta gym he proudly sports a T-shirt that says, “Don’t Ask Me if I Take Steroids and I Won’t Call You a Pencil-Necked Bastard.”

“I really like that one because Harvey actually does pop steroids like candy, so if anyone ever took offence to his T-shirt, Harvey could punch their nose in and stamp on their face, which would make me laugh 'til I puke!”

After the news conference, Sharona had wanted to go to dinner but Middling declined, saying he was going to spend the evening getting “totally shit-faced” with his friends.

“Boys will be boys!” Sharon repeated, and started making plans to have coffee with her respectful and articulate friend Kevin, who secretely yearns for Sharona, but is well-aware that he lacks the requisite stupidity, selfishness -- and hilarious T-shirts! -- to win her love.

Breaking Shattering Election Update Special Exclusive! Newsflash Excitement Tits!

2007-01-25T17:06:00.000-08:00

President George Bush, whose Republican Party suffered severe losses to the Democrats in yesterday’s American election, secretly blames his advisor, Karl Rove, for the political calamity.

“Where was your voodoo magic?” Bush asked Rove, who is credited with winning practically every election he has ever been involved with. “What about all those tricks you said you had up your sleeve, like gerrymandering the electoral districts, rigging the voting machines, harassing the blacks, push-polling, harassing the Latinos, stuffing ballots down your pants to look more confident, legal challenges, harassing the Apache?”

The list of questions was virtually endless. Mr. Rove eventually totally lost his shit. “Go ask God for your own magic, you ungrateful chimp,” he retorted.

“That’s it,” Bush declared. “I know what happened. You forgot yesterday’s 8:04am prayer meeting. You have angered God, you fool!”

Meanwhile, Donald Rumsfeld has been demoted from Secretary of Defence to coach of the White House Little League Soccer Junior ‘B’ Team. The first challenge for the Eagles under the new regime will be their match against the Camels, a less well-funded yet more aggressive team that currently stands at the bottom of the division but has recently enjoyed three consecutive victories.

“What we know about the Camels is that there are known unknowns in that team who might make themselves known when we least expect it and then we might know that the knowns we thought we knew are totally unknowable,” Rumsfeld explained in his first meeting with the plucky Eagles, whose average age is ten.

“But don’t worry,” said Rumsfeld. “If I see you guys are in trouble, I’ll suspend the league’s rulebook, detain the Camel's players, hogtie ‘em, chain ‘em to the floor, beat 'em, and smear their favourite book, Harry Potter, in feces.”

“Three cheers for the Eagles!” yelled the Eagles in boisterous, boyish unison.

Meanwhile, despite the election results, Barney the First Dog is acting as if nothing particularly troubling has happened at all. At his own hastily-scheduled press conference, he announced his intention to bury a bone under the lime tree bordering Pennsylvania Avenue.

“No one will find my bone there,” he chortled. “Afterwards, I’ll trot back to my so-called master and beg for another bone, and that silly chimp will probably give me another one because he totally won’t remember that he gave me one only six minutes previously. Woof! Then I’ll have two bones, which is 100% more than Mervin the First Mouse has. Woof!”

Meanwhile, Vice President Cheney has been wondering why his pact with Satan failed to extend his reign of Evil.

"I drained the blood of two Muslim babies yesterday, then ate their entrails, and yet, nothing! The Democrats still won. Unbelievable."

In other news, a comet is hurtling towards earth at breakneck speed and is expected to make impact within 24 hours. It will obliterate life on earth as we know it. Fortunately, Prime Minister Stephen Harper of Canada is on top of things.

"I introduced some legislation into Parliament that will impose voluntary speed intensity reductions on all cosmic bodies, including comets. By 2050, comets will travel no faster than ten google-gigglyplex light years per hour. The Canadian economy -- and more importantly, the American economy -- will not be compromised. Let's hear it for loosening regulatory burdens!"

The audience, an economist from the Fraser Institute, applauded enthusiastically. Meanwhile, there were long line-ups of consumers looking to buy bunkers from the Bunker Barn whose famous slogan is "Get Underground and Stick Around to Witness the Reign of the Rat!"

M.o.M. was also expecting some entertainment news but sadly it missed the last donkey leaving Cordoba, Spain, and isn't expected to arrive until the 1000th anniversary of the death of Miguel de Cervantes. There are rumours, however, that the news is expected to say something exciting about Britney Spears' divorce from K-Fed, the world's first rodent rapper. You didn't read it here first!

Dick Cheney’s Halloween Costume Instils Fear Everywhere

2007-01-25T17:04:00.000-08:00

The Vice President of the United States, Dick Cheney, has alarmed his family and friends with his choice of Halloween costume. Mr. Cheney announced today that he is going to the Halloween party of the Bush family dressed up as... Dick Cheney.

“Argh, no!” Laura Bush was heard to exclaim. “Every time he shows up with that thing on his head – he calls it his ‘face’ – it totally freaks me out. “Last time we had a party and Dick showed up, Barney the dog was hiding in the Oval Room growling as if the ghost of William H. Taft[1] himself were flitting about the house!”

Mr. Cheney – or Grimace, as he is affectionately called in secret by his friends (which is not a reference to the lovable, fuzzy, huggable McDonald’s character) – has a long track record of terrifying people merely by smiling. It is widely expected that his Halloween party banter is likely to be up to his usual standard.

“He’s going to be leaning over the table of hors d’oeuvres, nibbling on hoagies, and cracking jokes about the US policy of pretending to drown people in order to gain information from them,” Mrs. Bush predicted. “It’s really sinister, especially when he mimics a torture victim. ‘Please don’t drown me! I’ll tell you where Osama is hiding! Please don’t dunk my head in the water again!’”

It is widely acknowledged that Mr. Cheney’s own daughter, Lynne Cheney, was so traumatized by years of her father kissing her goodnight that she decided to become a lesbian so that she would never have to submit to a kiss from a man again. Fortunately for Ms. Cheney, her childhood has provided her with a dependable source of jokes with which to regale her friends for the rest of her life.

Her famous one-liners include:

“You should see him in an apron at Thanksgiving!”
“He’s just a little boy at heart!”
“He spared the life of a squirrel once!”

Meanwhile, her father is excited about yet another Halloween with the Bush family.

“It’s good to take a break from the war on terrorism every now and then,” said Mr. Cheney. “A good party relieves stress, much like shooting your best friend in the face with a deer rifle. At this time of year, I also enjoy sneaking up behind a brown person, or someone with a rag on his head, and whispering, ‘Guantanamo!’ right into his ear. Boy, does it ever freak them out!”

Cheney also confessed that whenever he visits the Bushes, he enjoys visiting the Presidential Washroom, where the Geneva Conventions have been printed in 12-point Arial font onto the Presidential Toilet Paper.

“The sensation of wiping my ass on the Geneva Conventions almost revives feeling in my squishy parts,” Cheney admitted.

Mr. Cheney had to cut short his interview because he was running late for a meeting being held in the Cigar-Smoking-Corporate-Tyrants-of-the-World Room, where he was expected to sign into law new rules permitting the stuffing Chihauhau dogs down the mouths of recalcitrant children as punishment.

“I don't like children and I don't like those Mexican rat-dogs,” concluded Cheney, with his famous snarl. "This laws gets 'em both."

1. William H. Taft, president of the United States of America, 1909–1913, is acknowledged by historians as the fattest president in American history, maxing out at over 300 pounds. The First Dog, Barney, as is also widely acknowledged, is small, because he is a Scottish terrier, a breed that rarely exceeds 22 pounds. Barney would clearly be quite alarmed if the ghost of Taft were made flesh, because if the former president of the United States were to sit on him, he would find himself crushed to death, and the much-beloved canine companion to George W. Bush would breath no more. What has been less widely acknowledged by historians, at least to this point, is that this is the M.o.M.’s longest-ever footnote.

The Alarming Consequences of Compulsive Behaviours Left Untreated

2007-01-25T17:02:00.001-08:00

Vince Lornigan has a problem. He is addicted to tickling. He rolls over and his fingers feverishly start fidgeting away under the arms and knees of his wife. “Gilly gilly!” he yips, giggling like a child. “Get away from me you freak!” she hollers, delivering him a hefty shove of her elbow into the gut. “Ooomph!” he gasps, winded, and falls to the floor. “You’ve got a problem,” his wife yells for the umpteenth time. “This tickling thing is getting out of hand. You need help. You need a 12-step program.” “I deny that!” says Vince, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Classic denial symptoms!” snaps his wife. “Go talk to a counsellor or else I’m divorcing you and marrying a fireman instead.”

Heavy of heart, Vince finds himself at his first ever Ticklers Anonymous (TA) meeting. He must chant with the others:

“I admitted that I was powerless over my tickling habit. I decided to put my faith in God and with His help, strive every day to stop my dangerous and self-destructive addiction to tickling.”

But saying the word “God” makes Vince feel like he is choking on a tennis ball.

“What’s with this God thing?” he inquires of the group facilitator. Oh no, now he’s not merely asking a question, he is following his quivering fingers which seem to be magnetically drawn to the group facilitator’s tummy. “Bloody hell!” yells the group facilitator. “Get a grip, Vince! Oh – Hee! Hee! No, stop it….Whoa… That actually felt good. Stop it! FOR THE LOVE OF BABY JESUS, STOP TICKLING ME, VINCE!”

Vince tears his frenetic hands away and dashes madly from the room. “Oh no oh no oh no,” he stammers. He sees an attractive female officer on the pavement in front of him.

“I’m in for it now!”

He runs right into the police officer, and his hands can’t refrain from tickling her as if she were a little girl.

“You thug!” she screams, finally recovering her composure sufficiently to get her gun out of its holster. “I’ll shoot you if you don’t back up.”

“Please,” Vince begs, “Don’t shoot! I’ve hit rock bottom. I’ve snapped. I’m now totally at the mercy of this terrible vice!”

“You’re going straight to the slammer for assaulting an officer of the peace,” says the cop. Vince’s fingers are twitching. He knows she’ll splatter his brains on the sidewalk if he even pokes her gently with his pinkie, but oh, he can’t help it. Can’t help it!

“Watch out for my fingers!” he yells.

Mere hours later, Vince finds himself in the remand centre. He shares a cell with a man who calls himself the Punisher.

“Why do you call yourself the Punisher?” asks Vince, his fingers nervously squirming in his pockets. The Punisher sees this, and thunders, “Quit playing with yourself!”

But, oh no, it’s happening again!

“Coochie coochie coochie coo!” Vince laughs hysterically. “Here come the funny fingers! Bend over! Who’s going to be punished now? Are you a silly billy? Do you like the silly-tickles???”

But the Punisher isn’t as understanding as Vince’s wife, or the group facilitator, or even the female cop. He grips Vince in a headlock and proceeds to smash the giggling tickler’s cranium into his knee. Vince’s body drops limply to the floor. The Punisher then lifts his size 15 boot and stomps it down mercilessly onto Vince’s neck!

“That’s why they call me the Punisher!” roars the Punisher.

Vince dies instantly of massive head injuries and from choking on gratuitous amounts of his own blood!

And that is the story of the tragic death of the Silly Tickler, who entered into Alberta mythology just as soon as he was buried.

George Fossington-Jowel Thanks Party Host

2007-01-25T17:02:00.000-08:00

George Fossington-Jowel, aged 22 – heir to the fortune of his eccentric mother, Baroness Marjorie Fossington-Jowel of Gizzardton, UK – has carefully crafted a letter to Ronnie Reckless, the host of a party he attended last Saturday in Edmonton.

Dear Mr. Reckless:

Please accept my sincerest gratitude for your hospitality at my first ever North American party. I had a truly delightful time and do hope that my attendance was welcome enough that I might anticipate invitations to other festive occasions in the future! How I dearly hope so!

Please also pass on my thanks to Ms. Charmaine Klosko for being such a witty and intelligent interlocutor for such a long duration of the evening. I truly enjoyed meeting such a quintessential north Albertan! Were you aware that Ms. Klosko’s great-grandmother was from the Samson Cree tribe of the Hobbema area? Imagine my delight upon discovering that I was talking to a living and breathing descendant of Indians! I had detected from the evening’s outset a certain wild glint to Ms. Klosko’s dark-hued eyes and I must say that it makes her quite beautiful in a very naturalistic sort of way. I am very grateful to her for letting me take a little nibble in her musky nether regions during an extended private session in your well-appointed bathroom. I will not soon forget Ms. Klosko, as indeed, I hope, she will not soon forget me!

Some of your other guests were also delightful company. I marvelled in particular at the antics of Kevin Keghead, who managed to inhale from his cigarette, then consume an entire pint of Molson Special Dry, and exhale afterwards a fine plume of silvery nicotine smoke, all whilst humming the theme song of The Great Escape! I laughed so much I nearly besmirched my trousers when he proceeded to stand on his head in the bathtub and drink directly from the barrel of beer that you had so generously provided. Mr. Keghead is a man of considerable talent. I am sure that he would have been welcomed fondly among my own circle of friends, especially on our Rummy nights of the olden days, when we would gather in the dining hall at Mandrake Manor, play cards and sneak sips of rum (hence the double-entendre of “Rummy”!) and exchange amusing tales about deflowering the local peasantry! How fondly I remember our schoolboy days at Eton, when we used to have terribly exciting towel fights in the showers, and on special occasions, re-enact the Spartan soldiers’ initiation rituals of young novices! How much I pine for the company of those splendid old buggers! Now, sadly, they have all moved on to brokerage companies, or retired to their country estates or various rehabilitation facilities. How I miss them! And how I miss in particular the soft hands of Billy Giggles!

Sorry about that. I am going on what you would call a tangent, my dear Mr. Reckless!

In any case, as you can tell, a party like last Saturday’s is just the sort of thing for a boisterous blue-blood like me!

I am sorry about the tussle with Freddy Federowicz. I do hope I’ve spelt his name correctly. I did a spot of genealogical research and apparently, as he is Polish, this spelling prevails over the Russian variant, Federovic. When I first encountered this rather forthright fellow, I was quite inebriated, as I am sure you will recall. When he suggested that my exposed testicles were smaller than those of his little cousin (who apparently is a mere nineteen months of age!) I was gripped by a rare fury. I hope he is not still smarting from when I stuck my index finger in his left eye. That was an accident. I was trying to deliver a roundhouse punch, but sadly, those have never been my forte. We Fossington-Jowels have awfully long and dangly fingers – check the memoirs of Sir Theodore Fossington-Jowel (published 1892, Bodley Head, London, UK) if you doubt the long tradition of our dangly digits. They hinder our abilities to excel at certain activities – but greatly enhance our ability to excel at others (see Ms. Klosko!!!)

Anyway, in my circle of friends, after temporary bouts of booze-induced boisterousness like that, we generally sleep it all off, and after a hearty breakfast brought to us by the butler, we phone each other and act as if nothing serious has happened, and then we go fox-hunting. So please provide the phone number of Mr. Federowicz, if you please. If I can’t make amends by taking him fox hunting, at the very least, we could go scouting for beavers! (Double-entendre intended. Chortle!)

In conclusion, you are a bloody good egg, Mr. Reckless, and I don’t regret my three-day hangover in the slightest. Aside from a bit of listlessness from the old trouser snake, it wasn’t anything I can’t handle! (I do believe I’m setting a record for double-entendres in one letter!)

My most effusive regards, old boy,

George “Georgie-Boy” Fossington-Jowel

Government Reorganization Creates Ministry of Nothing

2006-10-15T14:16:00.000-07:00

The Alberta government has embarked on another government reorganization, centralizing the job of doing nothing in one ministry instead of all 24. This reorganization is the result of work conducted after the last government reorganization two years ago, which created the Ministry of Restructuring and Government Efficiency (RAGE).

“The creation of the Ministry of Nothing was the culmination of RAGE’s work,” said a spokesman, who wished to remain anonymous for fear that his comments could be construed by some as controversial.

RAGE employees were charged with the difficult and emotional work of trying to pry away the jealously guarded task of doing nothing and collecting it under the auspices of a new department. Most ministries were highly reluctant to part with the core business of doing nothing, which in some cases (International and Intergovernmental Relations) constituted close to 90% of their mandate.

It is clear that the new developments are unpopular among many government workers.

“I became highly specialized in my field and now I’m getting shafted,” said one disgruntled employee from Infrastructure and Transportation, who now finds himself shuffled from his comfortable office on 104th Street to a less comfortable office on 105th Street – the headquarters of the new Ministry of Nothing. “It’s outrageous,” he added. “I don’t even have an ergonomic mouse pad in my new office.”

Particularly egregious to this worker, and many like him, is the government’s decision to reclassify their job titles. Many workers claim that this will strip them of the professional respect of their peers. One worker is going from “Partnerships and Accountability Coordinator” to “Nothing Specialist.” Another worker is going from “Coordination and Results Planning Administrator” to “Senior Nothing Specialist.” Another worker is going from “Core Business Planning Results Planner” to “Nothing Special Specialist.”

“It’s an affront to my dignity,” said an unnamed bureaucrat, so fraught with indignation that he temporarily misplaced his Starbucks card and lost his place in line. “We’re going to be indiscernible from one another, like a hive of bees. Who is going to know which worker is responsible for which aspect of doing nothing?”

Now that the Ministry of Nothing can assume responsibility for doing nothing, other departments will be freed up for other important work, including not doing nothing. In fact, most ministries now intend to create internal units devoted to not doing nothing. One bureaucrat, Gordon Gormless, has already found himself appointed head of the Division of Not Doing Nothing for the Ministry of Education.

“I’m really excited about the challenges and opportunities afforded by my new role in coordinating the job of not doing nothing,” said Gormless. “This is highly important work. We owe it to Albertans to not do nothing. This work is just as important as doing nothing – every severely normal Albertan knows that.”

The first thing Mr. Gormless will do as head of Not Doing Nothing for the Ministry of Education is establish a committee for the coordination of specialist functions within the new division. This committee will draft a framework paper outlining principles for not doing nothing. A sub-committee will then be struck to report to the main committee on the implementation of the principles of not doing nothing.

“We’ve got a lot of work on our hands,” Mr. Gormless admitted.

The Ministry of Education’s Division of Not Doing Nothing expects to accomplish the goals of its mandate by 2011, although, as Gormless confessed to the M.o.M., “that might be rushing things a bit.”

The main challenge for government now, experts say, is balancing doing nothing and not doing nothing with other things, such as educating children, rehabilitating drug addicts, and saving the lives of people attacked by wild dogs.

“Government must be careful that those things don’t interfere with doing nothing and not doing nothing,” said one expert insider. “I do foresee a day, however, when Albertans’ demand for stuff like roads, cat scans and calculus tests becomes so great that the whole lot will have to be contracted out to the private sector, leaving the government to focus on doing nothing, which is its main strength anyway.”

*

The RAGE Ministry actually exists. Here is the address:
www.efficiency.gov.ab.ca

Jack Perkins Announces Nuclear Ambitions

2006-10-15T14:08:00.000-07:00

Jack Perkins, aged 13, has announced his intentions to acquire a nuclear bomb in order to protect the sovereignty of his bedroom against his father, George Perkins, aged 40 – a single parent.

“If my dad makes any incursions into the territory of my bedroom, I will have no other recourse but to retaliate with overwhelming force,” announced Perkins Jr.

When asked by the assembled reporters at his press conference whether this means that he would actually blow up his own father, the teenager paused for five seconds to consider this.

“Yes,” he replied.

Perkins Jr. asserts that his conventional forces, which consist of a toy sword and a butter knife smuggled from the kitchen, are insufficient to respond to his father’s “increasingly belligerent” demands that he clean his room.

“I weigh approximately eighty pounds less than him. A butter knife just isn’t going to cut it – pardon the pun. But with a nuclear bomb, I have the upper hand, which in the long run, should ensure long-term peace between us. No father would dare launch a strike against a kid armed with a cruise missile.”

The feud in the Perkins household dates back to late September, when Jack dismembered several dragonflies, flies and moths on his bedroom floor in a scientific experiment. This experiment was so time-consuming that he took bread into his room to sustain himself during his long hours of work. This attracted mice and their associated waste. The bedroom is now, according to Perkins Sr. “a total pit.”

“He just doesn’t get it,” said Perkins Sr. “That room is a goddamn health hazard. If he doesn’t clean it, I’m going to be forced to barge in there and clean it myself.”

His son, however, claims to have learned the new geo-political rules of military engagement.

“Contrast the situations of Iraq and North Korea. Nowadays, if you don’t have a nuke, you leave yourself vulnerable to invasion. But the second you do have a nuke, the whole world is scared of you. The goal is to acquire nukes as quickly as possible. For smaller powers such as myself, the nuke is our only hope for peace.”

Perkins Jr. plans on assembling a nuclear bomb by building a centrifuge capable of performing nuclear fission in the spin-dryer, which after being fitted with a Lockheed Martin VIXI jet engine, will exert twenty million kilopascals of torque on a uranium particle.

“The science is sound,” said Perkins Jr. “Those who doubt my capacity for bomb manufacturing are no better than people who say the earth is flat. They are as ignorant as mentally-challenged chimps.”

Perkins Jr. will acquire uranium from Uranium City in northern Saskatchewan.

“I’ve heard there’s enough uranium left over to make a big explosion – at least enough to blow up a dad.”

Perkins Jr. privately confided in the M.o.M. “off the record” that he loves his dad and doesn’t really want to kill him, but, given the circumstances, “I’d be a fool not to prepare for the worst. Dad is increasingly bellicose. But he’ll smarten up when I join the nuclear club, make no mistake.”

Perkins Sr., in a brief statement, said he is considering taking pre-emptive action against his son, but refused to answer questions because he was late for work.

Breast Cancer Association Celebrates Successful “Run for CIBC” Event

2006-10-15T14:07:00.000-07:00

The Breast Cancer Association is celebrating another successful Run for the Canadian Imperialist Bank of Commerce (CIBC) event. Participants ran and/or crawled five kilometres to show support for CIBC’s crippling customer service fees, non-existent customer service, billion-dollar profits, and misleading marketing campaigns.

“It was a brilliant event,” said Breast Cancer Association chair, Bertha Bigguns. “Our association pretended to care about breast cancer, and meanwhile, millions of people nationwide ran around with CIBC emblazoned on their T-shirt. Everyone’s a winner!”

M.o.M. attempted to contact a CIBC spokesperson for comment, but it was 3pm, and the local bank was closed. The M.o.M. staffer attempted to call CIBC, but was put on hold for seventy-three minutes. The muzak enraged the M.o.M. staffer, who proceeded to throw his phone through the window. Then the M.o.M. staffer sat on his IKEA couch and attempted to calm down, but the couch’s supporting beam snapped in two because it was only held together with Elmer’s “Kidz” glue.

Just then, a squirrel scurried in through the smashed window.

“You should disengage yourself from the tyranny of corporate power,” the squirrel squeaked. “Why don’t you live off the land like me?”

Meanwhile, CIBC announced that in light of the weekend's efforts, it has donated $3 million of the public’s money to the cause of pretending to find a cure for cancer, and has also racked up $1,497,543,290 million in service fees.

“That’s irony, eh?” chortled the squirrel.

Back on the beat, the M.o.M. managed to interview a few stragglers from the fun run/crawl.

“I like the CIBC’s new robot phone-answering chick,” said Gil Gas, aged 36, from Facegag, Alberta. “She has a soothing tone. Such a refreshing change from the sound of my wife. With Brenda the Bank Robot I can simply press 7 if I get bored of listening. Then I have the freedom of leaving a message for someone who won’t get back to me, or listening to a lecture by Stephen Hawking about the relativity of compound interest rates.”

Said another pre-authorised interviewee, “I like the fact that CIBC takes the service fees out of your account every month without you having to send them a cheque or anything. It’s so convenient!”

Just then, the friendly yogic squirrel showed up again.

“It’s intriguing how many people suffer from false consciousness nowadays,” he said.

“What’s false consciouness?” asked one of the fun runners/crawlers.

“Why, that’s easy,” said the squirrel. “According to neo-Marxists, that’s when citizens of affluent market economies think they are free, when in fact, they are prisoners of a capitalist dictatorship, with few choices except which company they want to rape them that day.”

“I see,” said the anonymous fun runner/crawler. “Well, interesting talking to you, cute little critter. You should audition for the upcoming Disney movie. I’m hungry from that fun run. I’m off to McMeat’s now to chow down on some sawdust and cow testes. Only $3 per bumburger – can’t beat that!”

“Who are you going to interview now?” the inquisitive little squirrel asked the M.o.M. staffer. “Everyone has vanished back to suburbia. The only people left on the streets are bums and lunatics.”

The M.o.M. staffer conceded that it would be impossible to conduct any further interviews and resigned himself to yet another poorly researched, unbalanced, and biased article.

“You know, if your bias were different, you could work for FOX News!” concluded the squirrel with a merry little chirp, before scampering up a tree to mate with Mrs. Squirrel.

Domesticated Animal Debate Remains Unresolved

2006-10-15T14:06:00.000-07:00

The debate among grade 5 students at St. Theresa’s Junior High School over the respective merits of the domesticated cat versus the domesticated dog has entered its third day, with neither side prepared to concede an inch, or even a yard. Most recently, the pro felines have vociferously objected to the proposal that their class, which is instructed by Mrs. Dobbs, adopt a golden retriever.

“Dogs are stupid,” said Jimmy Bib, reflecting the consensus view of the pro felines. “They can’t clean up after their own poo or lick their bums, and look how they follow you around everywhere like they don’t have any ideas of their own. They are stupid with a capital s.”

In staunch opposition to Bib and his pro felines are the pro canines, who are so opposed to cats that as the debate heated up, they even suggested banning cats from the entire metropolitan region of Edmonton.

“Cats will lie on your face and suffocate you,” noted avid pro canine, Tim Bit. “But dogs, like Lassie, will pull you out of a coal mine after it collapses on your head. A cat would probably just sit there and meow or something, while you’re laying there dying, because it would still be, like, ‘Where’s my kibbles?’”

The pro felines are urging Mrs. Dobbs to rescue a kitten that has been living in the bushes that surround the school grounds. The kitten is very nervous and has only one eye. Grade 5 sources say that its left ear appears to have been significantly chewed by a squirrel or a bird or something. The kitten might also be undergoing major psychological stress because it does not have a mother.

“It has abandonment issues,” says Carol Vat.

“Yeah, and it will be dead soon if we don’t save it,” said Jimmy Bib. “Once it feels at home with us, it will purr and sit on people’s laps and be grateful. But if you saved a dog, it would probably just shit on the school floor.”

He stifled a giggle. He was cautioned by Mrs. Dobbs for “inappropriate language in a class debate,” even though the debate was at that time being conducted in the playground.

“I just hate to hear them swear,” Mrs. Dobbs admitted to the M.o.M. “My father, who is now dead, was a devout Episcopalian, and he would’ve gone berserk and hit us with a boat paddle if he had ever heard us swear.”

There are currently 12 proponents of the mission to rescue the kitten, with an equal number of proponents of the golden retriever adoption. There is only one undecided student, Leon Libra, who is weighing the pros and cons of each argument.

“I don’t really like cats or dogs,” said Leon. “I once saw this cat with spots like a leopard. It was climbing up a tree and then it got stuck. I thought that was kinda stupid. But dogs can be stupid too. Once this dog was chasing its tail – in the middle of the road! It got hit by a Geo Metro. The poor Geo was, like, totalled, and the owner was really mad at that stupid dog. So the whole 'stupid' argument doesn’t work with me.”

He added, “My idea is to get a snake. Our class should adopt an anaconda. Or a piranha, which can eat a man in ten seconds.”

Meanwhile, Jimmy Bib has secretly advocated kidnapping Leon Libra and subjecting him to intensive brainwashing techniques so as to forcefully convince him of the merits of cats.

“Like they do in Guantanamo,” he explained, enthusiastically. “Play music real loud and sleep-deprive him and chant at him over and over, ‘Cats are best, cats are best!’”

“Yeah,” Carol Vat agreed. “And smear menstrual blood in his face!”

The pro canines have attempted to run a more positive campaign to win the support of Leon Libra. Tim Bit gave Leon seasons one and two of “The Littlest Hobo,” on DVD. This heart-warming Canadian television production, which ran from 1979 to 1985, follows the adventures of a homeless German shepherd who wanders around from town to town helping people, with no thought for himself.

“After watching how heartwarming dogs can be, Leon's going to vote for dogs, I just know it,” Tim Bit concluded. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll get my pit bull on him. My dad told me that pit bulls bite from the ass, which means their jaw muscles are connected to their ass muscles. Once they bite, they can’t let go. They are totally crazy. Leon would be like in complete and utter agony.”

M.o.M. – Lad’s Mag Edition

2006-10-15T14:05:00.000-07:00

Without the benefit of photos, is it possible to whip up teenage boys in a frenzy of lust, sexual frustration, and neurotic self-consciousness? Is it possible to make them titter about unfortunate people’s crippling accidents and obsess over celebrity gossip? Is it possible to turn a healthy boy into little more than a banana-throwing chimp? With a fraction of the budget of lad’s mags such as Maxim or FHM (does zero dollars over a million dollars count as a fraction?) M.o.M. intends to find out!

Here are some hot stories M.o.M.’s Lad’s Mag is following.

THIS CHICK IS TOTALLY OUT OF YOUR LEAGUE
Imagine a chick with totally unreal bazookas and a spank-tacular tailgate who is gazing at you with a come-hither look as she inserts two fingers into her salivating mouth. Phooooah! You don’t know any girl that can look this hot in fishnets and a garter belt! In fact, you don’t know any girls besides your sister. Ha! You’ll never get with this girl. She’s totally out of your league, dude!

IF YOU SEE A MAN EATING QUICHE, PUNCH HIM
Despite the fact that we expect you to have rock-solid abs and consist of 90% muscle and 10% tanned skin, it’s unacceptable for you to eat anything besides pizza or donair and drink anything besides beer. So if you see a man eating quiche or extolling the virtues of some fancy French wine, why not provoke him into a fight? Throw some donair meat at his face. Ha ha! Take that, you faggot!

THIS OBESE WOMAN GOT STUCK IN A CHAIR AND THEN ROTTED TO DEATH!!!!
In some backward state of the southern United States, this like totally gargantuan woman who weighed 67821 pounds or something got stuck in her mechanical wheelie chair on a trip to the outhouse. Nobody saved her! She was eaten by black flies and slowly rotted to death. Some intrepid Lad’s Mag reader sent in a picture that we can only describe to you – but rest assured, it’s TOTALLY DISGUSTING!

THE INHABITANTS OF PHUKET ARE PRIMITIVE
Ah, the island of Phuket, Indonesia. We print its name, you laugh. We print its name again, you laugh again. Sometimes, Phuket’s inhabitants are so primitive, freakish and wacked out that they stick entire bicycles through their fat, animal-like lips! And they eat tsetse fly grubs! They’re not even on Survivor and they still do that!

WHO CARES ABOUT PARIS HILTON?
We don’t, but we’re going to talk about her anyway! Isn’t it funny what a talentless, brainless slut she is? Did you see her sex video? Sorry, lame question to which we knew the answer already. Anyway, Paris is in the news this week because she’s in the news every week. She said something stupid. She went to a party. There are rumours she’s with this guy and that guy. Maybe two guys at once! Har de har!

IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE A TOTAL LOSER IN THE SACK, READ THIS
It’s unlikely that your Beavis and Butthead lifestyle has afforded you the privilege of getting off with, like, a chick, hot or otherwise, but we’ve got free sex advice for you anyway. Women, who are like a totally bizarre species that we barely understand, nevertheless share something in common with us men. They like to get off! Therefore, your mission in the sack is to get them off. In order to do that, you’re going to have to spend a lot of time analysing the smallest detail of your performance. Do you know where to find all the body bits that when expertly manipulated make her scream and writhe around like a drunken cobra? Do you know at least 23 positions and have you incorporated a kitchen table or an axe handle into your routine? Do you know what “tantric” means?

Are you neurotic yet? Yes? Good! Join the growing ranks of all the other neurotic sixteen-year old males out there. Acne isn’t your only worry, buddy!

Johnny Briggs’ Business Plan Forecasts 50 percent Increase in Killing

2006-10-15T14:03:00.000-07:00

Johnny Briggs, aged 33, and a successful serial killer in the North Bay region since 2002, has drafted a business plan for the killing year 2006-2007, forecasting a 50 percent increase over last year in the number of victims killed.

“Last year I killed six people, this year it will be nine,” said Briggs, with an understated yet quiet confidence.

Briggs learned how to kill from his father, George Briggs, who successfully murdered his business partner in 1986 after a long-standing disagreement over the disbursement of company profits. With his son in tow to keep watch, George Briggs broke into his partner’s house, hit him repeatedly in the head with a tire iron, dragged him into the backyard, and proceeded to feed his body through a wood chipper, spraying the neighbouring houses with a Jackson Pollockesque splatter of red globs. George then went into hiding, living like a feral dog for eighteen days. In the largest manhunt in North Bay police history, George was finally discovered washing himself in a duck pond.

“My father was a hero to me,” explained Johnny at his hastily-scheduled press conference, attended by a lacklustre crowd of black rats. “I can only fault him for having been caught with his pants at his ankles. I won’t make that mistake.”

Mr. Briggs is excited about the growing opportunities in serial killing afforded by the establishment of North Bay’s first ever post-secondary education institute – the North Bay Community College.

“With the growing number of young females in the area, the killing business has nowhere to go but up,” he announced, beaming giddily like a kid in candy store who can't decide which to grab first, a gob-smacker, tooth-breaker, gut-buster or pancreas-punisher. “This is an unexplored market for me.”

Briggs took a moment to reflect on some of his past successes, which are chronicled in his Annual Report, 2005-2006. These include:

Billy Little, aged 12. Tickled, choked, garrotted, stuffed in suitcase, dumped in the bay.
Gertrude Morvan, aged 89. Induced heart attack with the music of Slayer, shot, cut into small pieces, turned into wallpaper for outhouse.
Violet Turner, aged 55. Beaten, tampered with using coal poker, propped up as pretend house guest at dinner party, fed rats, drowned in toilet bowl, burned in farm incinerator.

“These were inventive, innovative and creative kills,” said Briggs. “But as with all things, I feel that I am getting better as I practice more.”

For 2006-2007, Briggs plans to expand his business into impaling, raping and eating body parts, such as kidneys and brains.

"Eating bits of people is a long term business benefit to me because I thereby possess the souls of my victims," Briggs explained.

Briggs would also like to imprison a student for several weeks and slowly starve him or her to death.

“That would be fun!” he chortled.

Briggs is hoping that after several successful years in the serial killing business, he can himself be killed in a hail of bullets from police gunfire, and that his story will then be turned into a blockbuster Hollywood movie.

“My part should be played by Heath Ledger,” Briggs suggested. “And my love interest will be a Rottweiler.”

Some of Johnny Briggs’ competitors in the killing business have announced plans to step up their own efforts so as not to be outkilled by the young North Bay upstart.

"No way I'm gonna let that punk collect more corpses in his basement than me," said East Side murderer, Frank "Diddler" Franzen.

Man Writes Strongly Worded Letter About Danger of Infestation

2006-10-15T14:02:00.000-07:00

Jeffrey Parson, 34, an unmarried and out-of-work political science graduate, has drafted a stinging letter to the property manager of his apartment building, Byron Palace, warning of a potential infestation on the premises.

Dear Sir:

Yesterday, I found an ant crawling along the skirting board of the northeast corner of my bedroom. I successfully identified it as a carpenter ant, camponotus pennsylvanicus. You are aware, surely, that only seventeen days ago, September 3, I discovered another carpenter ant, also in my bedroom. I informed you of this by leaving a phone message at 1805 hours. At time of writing, you had not returned this phone call.

Regarding the ant, if I continue to discover an ant every 17 days, I will have discovered 21 carpenter ants by this time next year, which is more than enough. Frankly though, what I have related is a best-case scenario, because in reality, the rate of ant-discovery is likely to increase exponentially. Why? Because carpenter ants are highly organized and intelligent insects and are resistant to common eradication measures, such as the application of lethal powder or bug baits. A current ant colony in the United States extends all the way from San Diego to San Francisco. It numbers billions of ants. I doubt you knew this, but it is fact.

In short, what I’m attempting to explain to you is that we’re dealing with the tip of an iceberg. It’s time to stop ignoring this problem and start dealing with it like professionals instead of amateurs who don’t even return phone messages.

Both carpenter ants that I have discovered were quite large, over a centimetre in length, and had wings, which is conclusive evidence that there has been an active colony in the environs for at least three years. The gravity of this situation should not be underestimated. The colony is clearly well advanced and is gaining territory with every passing day. I have already consulted local experts in this regard – Killit Enterprises – and they believe it highly likely that the colony of ants is seeking to establish a satellite colony. You should call Killit with no further ado because these people are not amateurs – they are trained and equipped to deal with North America’s most sophisticated and relentless pest: the carpenter ant. I doubt you knew about the concept of satellite colonies. Would you like Byron Palace to become a satellite colony for carpenter ants – that is, if it is not one already? Frankly, call me crazy, but I certainly do not want my bedroom to become a satellite colony for carpenter ants. And if it becomes one, I will hold you completely and utterly liable for the consequences.

As I write this on my computer, I have become aware of yet another ant, this one crawling up the wall. That now totals three ants in 17 days. I warned of an exponential increase mere paragraphs ago. I have already been proven right. Can’t you see what’s happening here?

This latest ant is not winged. This means that he is a worker ant – a mere foot solider in the ranks of the advancing force. Do not think because he is smaller and less mobile that his presence means any diminishment in the threat posed to us. He is surely on a reconnaissance mission to search out and bring back food to his winged brothers and sisters – and to the queen – the queen who is breeding another 2,000 young workers over the course of the parent nest’s reproductive cycle. The situation is clearly spiralling out of control.

A friend of mine yesterday suggested imprisoning an ant in a receptacle of some kind. I think I will do this. You need to see what we’re dealing with first hand – that is, if you even care.

I know you are in negotiations to buy Shelley Manor and Baudelaire Heights to add to your current portfolio of eleven city properties, so maybe the existence of an insect of under one inch in length is small on your list of priorities. But this is a foolish mentality. Maybe you think you can simply tear down Byron Palace and build a more profitable luxury apartment building in its place and hence in one swoop eradicate the ant problem and enrich yourself even further. But I warn you that this will not work. The ant colony is most surely established in the nearby spruce trees and the ants will remain entrenched there and make incursions into whatever structure you erect on this lot. Killit are in agreement on this. They say that they will need to find the nest and destroy it. This is the final solution. Anything else would like be putting a band-aid on somebody who has been torn in two by shrapnel.

In other words, your plans are destined for failure if you don’t deal with this. Another thing to worry about: if you tear down Byron Palace, as it is rumoured you will – guess what the carpenter ants will probably do? They will see all that rotten lumber lying around and most probably move in. Then when you build a new building, the tenants will be condemned to an infestation from day one.

I can offer you more advice on this but if it falls on deaf ears because you’re too busy becoming a millionaire then that, sir, is a sad state of affairs. For want of a horse, the kingdom of Rome was sacked, i.e. the snowball gets bigger as it rolls downhill – to use a euphemism probably easier for you to understand.

I implore you, sir, if you don’t want to develop a reputation for being a slum landlord, admit the enormity of our current problem, call Killit, and face the ants like a professional as opposed to a coward. I remain for your disposal.

Yours truly,

Jeffrey William Parson

Grind the Peasant into Mincemeat Orders Thag

2006-10-15T14:00:00.000-07:00

Thagday, BC 23829 – At a hastily-scheduled press conference held from atop a pile of mule bones, Warrior-King Thag today ordered that Pong the Peasant be ground into mincemeat and fed to a dragon.

“Pong is bad,” declared Thag. “Pong take bright rock from wife #3. Thag mad at Pong. Pong pay price!”

A cheering crowd of onlookers proceeded to storm at Pong. One of them gnawed on his leg. Another ripped out Pong’s hair. “Har de har!” everyone laughed. Then they lit a massive bonfire, skewered Pong on a stake, placed him at the centre of the inferno, and pranced around him while Thag looked on with satisfaction. Meanwhile, Pong yelped like a whippet.

“Skin burn!” Thag roared approvingly, as he watched Pong’s epidermis turn into pork crackling. “Eyes melt!”

When Pong was thoroughly cooked, Thag’s helpful subjects wheeled out a large grinding machine, specially designed for rendering flesh and bones into a pulpy, jellied mess. Pong was fed into the machine and came out the other end. He was no longer recognizable, not even, sadly, to his own blind mother.

“Where Pong?” she was heard to lament as she rushed about frantically, sporadically bumping into menhirs1 and ossified mammoths.

“Mom of Pong sad,” observed a local witch doctor. “She need help.”

“Yeah,” said Eg the Empathetic. “She do no wrong. She is nice.”

While the local dragon ate Pong, the concerned residents of Thagalia wondered how to console Pong’s mother, Mag. There was much consternation that the conditional verb tense had not yet been invented, limiting Thaggians to speaking only in a pidgin present tense. Because it would have truly benefited Mag if she could have explained to her son when he was young what would happen if he weren’t well behaved. As it was, her crude sentence structure had always made it difficult to explain cause and effect.

“Now Pong is poo,” Eg declared sadly, watching the dragon burp.

“Pong, Pong, Pong!” cried Mag.

“Feed Mag a dog!” suggested one particularly clever peasant. The Thaggians yelled with approval. They went running into the dark and foreboding woods, pausing briefly to chant the name of the forest god in order to allay their superstitious fear of being eaten by the darkness, then continued on their hunting expedition. They rounded up four wild dogs and brought them back to Mag.

“Dog for Mag,” announced Eg, handing Mag a kicking and squirming poodle. “Cook dog and eat him and Mag be glad!”

Mag took the poodle onto her lap and caressed it.

“Pong?” she said.

The onlookers exchanged quizzical glances. There was uncertainty as to whether they should correct Mag’s misconception about the identity of the furry beast in her lap. Somebody mentioned that Thag should be consulted. But as somebody else pointed out, Thag had long ago abandoned his news conference and was currently in a cave fornicating with wife #8. He would surely be displeased to have his pleasure-making interrupted.

“Pong!” Mag exclaimed delightedly as the poodle licked her face.

“Brain of Mag broke,” observed the witch doctor with a sigh.

The primitives eventually decided to let Mag believe that her new furry friend was indeed Pong.

“I’m sure we’ve invented several things here,” said William, the first polysyllabic primitive. “Psychology, counselling, the concept of delusions, not to mention animal domestication!”

A quick poll of Thaggians today revealed that nobody had understood what he had said. The latest news is that Thag will imprison William for reason of insanity.

"That man is thoroughly unstable," Thag declared.

1 This is the M.o.M.’s first ever footnote!!! A menhir is a very large stone. It hurts if you run into one, even if you are a thick-skulled primitive.

Sexy People Suffer Worst Plight in Decades – M.o.M.

2006-10-15T13:59:00.000-07:00

The latest scientific survey from StatistiCon has confirmed what most people have been whispering to each other nervously and furtively for years. There has never been a worse time to be sexy, and sexy people persistently suffer more discrimination than any other group. Said one survey respondent, “being sexy nowadays is almost worse than being a Jew in Germany in 1942.”

How has our society reached such an alarming state of affairs? And who will be its saviour? Some say it will be pop-star, Justin Timberlake, whose promise to “bring sexy back” has brought much-needed solace to millions.

The survey found that although sexy people do not need to wear a yellow star, they are nevertheless easily singled out in the street, in the marketplace, cinemas, playhouses, and even in their own homes. We found one survey respondent, Gloria Riviera, cowering under her own kitchen table.

“I live in constant fear,” she said. “When I leave the house, I am the target of voracious and frenzied verbal taunts from people everywhere – from heterosexual men, lesbians, even gay men. For example, the other day, a gay man said, ‘OhmyGod! I’d just die to have legs like that.’ I felt like vanishing from the face of the earth. My friend Julia, who is as plain as a door-handle, doesn’t suffer anything like the same discrimination.”

Sexy people report that sometimes they feel like they are an alien race and that everyone is staring at them as if they have three heads or drool dripping from their mouths.

“It is small solace,” said sexy person, Hank Manspray, “to know that these uncomfortably long stares are because of my genetic perfection.”

StatistiCon’s longitudinal study has uncovered a disturbing trend. Much like in 1930s Germany, when the fate of Jews departed radically from that of non-Jews, so too are the fates of sexy people and plain people increasingly diverging.

Chief researcher, Billy Con, explained.

“You only have to look at a typical popular social spot -- Whyte Avenue in Edmonton, for example -- to see how sexy people are becoming ghettozied. On Saturday night, it's as if a wall has been built around the place, imprisoning the sexy people. Not long ago, the normals used to mix with the sexy people, but now they won't go anywhere near. The bars are prison camps for those with chiselled cheek bones, perfect hair and almond eyes."

Hank Manspray agees. “They might as well be shipping us off to death camps,” he said. "That's how isolated we are."

Researcher Billy Con explains how sexiness informs identity at an ever-earlier age.

"The ostracization starts young," he said. "For example, twenty years ago, a pretty girl of 14 might expect to be treated more or less like any other kid. Now, her family and friends will see her, above all, as a sexy person in the making, which will also come to be how she views herself. Where in the old days she might have pined for owning a pony, now she pines for owning a new thong and a scoop-neck Diesel top."

Sexy people are further being segregated from the general populace due to the fact that they mainly breed among themselves.

“I’ve never dated an ugly man,” admitted Gloria Riviera. “They don’t go near me. These stunning good looks might as well be leprosy. Men are literally afraid of me.”

Also, much like how Jews in 1930s Germany were considered intrinsically evil – even agents of the devil – sexy people nowadays must tolerate similar prejudices. It is typical for common people to think that sexy people’s symmetrical features mean they are more trustworthy, healthy and virtuous than regular people.

“In public, babies inexplicably smile at me,” said Hank Manspray. “There’s no rhyme or reason to it. I’ll be at the food-court, and the baby will disregard the dumpy, balding suit next to me, but stare at me with reverence as if I’m luminescent – like the sun god, Re, or something.”

The sexy respondents to the StatisticCon survey were united in the hope that the celebrity efforts of Justin Timberlake might start to reverse their dismal prospects.

“I do hope he achieves some success in his fight to bring sexy back," said Riviera. “I’m not expecting a return to the halcyon days of yesteryear, when being sexy was socially accepted, but I’d be happy with some small improvements. Just to be treated a little more like other people – that’s not too much to ask, is it?”

M.o.M.’s Guide to Coalbed Methane Extraction

2006-10-15T13:58:00.000-07:00

Many avid M.o.M. readers have suggested that the M.o.M. follow up its recent guides to Edmonton tourism and university or college with a guide to coalbed methane extraction. The M.o.M. has bowed to popular pressure and prepared such a guide. Be warned, though! Following this guide could make you a billionaire. It will at least make you sound as smart as us.

1. Where will I find coalbed methane?
The first step in extracting coalbed methane is finding it. If you get up early enough, you’ll beat the rush of people who had exactly the same idea as you! Try surfacing from your hangover at nine in the morning instead of at noon. You might like to don your coalbed methane exploration gear. This consists of white pants, a black T-shirt, a pair of safety goggles, and a hard hat. Also bring a Swiss Army knife. You never know when you’ll need to stop and uncork a bottle of wine, cut a piece of paper, or use the toothpick to remove some grit from your teeth.

The best place to find coalbed methane is on private property – preferably the farm of some half-wit who can easily be conned into letting you set up business on his land. Stay away from lands belonging to the federal government, the provincial government, or Indian bands. They can afford a legal team. You, sadly, cannot. Not yet, anyway.

2. How do I set up my coalbed methane extraction process?
First of all, make sure no one is watching you. Some troublesome country folk have gotten wise to the fact that coalbed methane extraction can sometimes leave salty water on the neighbouring land and render it infertile for several decades. Do you want pitchfork-wielding in-breeders foiling your plot to retire in the Cayman Islands? No! So, remember: softly, softly catchie monkey, or in this case, methane.

Next you’ll need to transport and set up your infrastructure. There are technical guides by engineers and whatnot that can explain this, but why bother with them? The M.o.M. breaks this down into layman’s terms that anyone can understand.

3. Extracting the coalbed methane
The methane is in the coal bed. The challenge is getting it out. “Getting it out” is a less technical term for “extraction.” Because the coal bed is buried deep beneath the surface of the soil, you’ll need to do some digging. This is an ideal time to roll up your sleeves. Begin digging.

Have a break. Have a Kit Kat. You’ve earned it.

Continue digging.

OK, so now we reach the part where we’ve hit the hard bit. That’s the coal bed, or at least we hope so, for your sake. It would be pretty depressing to dig for eight months just to hit a big, useless boulder.

Now you’ll need your drilling equipment. And also 900 cubic metres of pressurized water. This is where it gets a little tricky. You need to drill into the coal bed and get water into it and pump out the methane. You also need to trap the methane in a methane receptacle so that you will have a marketable resource as opposed to a fart.

You should now have some methane trapped in a big vat. Don’t light up a celebratory cigar just yet, or else you might explode. In fact, it would be best not to do anything yourself. Why not leave all of the hard work to some cheap, imported labour? The Hondurans and Nicaraguans are pretty dependable for $8 per hour. Please go to the Christian Labour Association of Canada (CLAC) to find out more.

After you’ve done selling your methane to TransAlta or Epcor or whoever, it’s time to start living like a tycoon. This is not simply about conspicuous consumption, ie. buying a Lexus, wearing Gucci, buying a fishing lodge. Now that you are a self-made millionaire, you must observe the etiquette of other self-made Alberta millionaires:

Being rude to everyone with less money than you
This ranges from downright hostility and vitriol for bums (ie. spitting on them, throwing cash in their faces after mocking them for not having jobs), to barking orders at waitresses, to subtle condescension for regular middle-class losers such as teachers and bureaucrats.

Another thing you might consider:

Starting a right-wing think tank
The problem with this country is too many people are sucking off the teat of government. That includes single mothers, who think that getting preggers entitles them to free cash. Right-thinking Canadians should be entrepreneurial resource barons like you. This should be the argument behind every article and book produced by your new think tank. You can name it after yourself!

There, that’s our guide to coalbed methane extraction. Pretty handy, eh? And you thought it would be hard!

M.o.M. Picks Firebrand Fry over Count Ignatieff

2006-10-15T13:56:00.000-07:00

After careful deliberation, the Ministry of Misinformation has decided to endorse Ms. Hedy Fry for leader of the Liberal Party of Canada. It is the official position of the M.o.M. that the last-place contender, Fry, is weird enough to be likeable, whereas the leading candidate, Michael Ignatieff, hereafter referred to as Count Ignatieff, is a twat.

Many factors were considered in ranking the candidates.

1. Which candidate is nicest to their mom?
Count Ignatieff left the hard work of taking care of his ailing mom to his brother. Meanwhile, he wrote a book about how hard it is to take care of one’s ailing mom. He made a small fortune out of said book, Scar Tissue.

How clever!

However, Hedy Fry wins this one because she is nice to her mom, as opposed to writing books about being nice to her mom.

2. Which candidate “does not lose sleep” over the deaths of innocent civilians?
We all know that Count Ignatieff, who is fond of sophisticated and nuanced principles that work in the abstract but not in practice, supported the invasion of Iraq. But did you know that he “does not lose sleep” over the deaths of innocent civilians?

That’s good, because it sounds like a lot more innocent civilians will die under his watch!

Hedy Fry wins this one because like most Canadians, she recognizes that walking straight into a shit-storm, even if armed with a shit-shovel, still means you’re going to end up eating shit sandwiches.

3. Who would wear briefs outside their pants if they could?
We all know that Count Ignatieff has the good looks of an aristocratic member of Canada’s miniscule patrician class. But did you know that, if he could, he would wear his briefs outside his pants and wear a big cape bearing the letter “C” (for Clever)?

He came from a galaxy a long way away to save Canada from itself, don’t you know!

Hedy Fry wins this one because she would get locked up like a crazy woman if she put her Fruit of the Loom cotton panties outside her pants. We know it; she knows it.

4. Who gets to flit from UBC to the BBC to Harvard on a whim, like a gadfly?
If you’re bored of one sensationally high profile, handsomely paid job, just go get another one – that’s the Count Ignatieff way. Does this make it any harder to relate to the rest of us?

Yes! Hedy Fry wins again.

5. Which candidate is going to invite you to a dinner party and proceed to bore you over the course of four hours as he talks about his own cleverness?
“Which one of my nineteen books shall we discuss next?” asks Count Ignatieff as he licks some foie gras from a Breton cracker.
“Oh do tell us more about your sophisticated and principled stand on the British coal miners’ strike!” yelp two female undergraduate students.
“Mmmm… Where should I begin?” muses Count Ignatieff, stroking his handsome chin.

Fun?

Not!

Hedy Fry wins again.

6. Which candidate is going to strangle people the best?
Count Ignatieff’s nimble fingers are adept with the workings of a Mont Blanc pen and a notebook computer on which he taps away another very clever and profound book. But watch out, Iggy, here’s a scruffy student on the Concordia University campus coming right for your face because he’s incensed with your position on Iraq.

“I’ll defend myself with another book,” proclaims Count Ignatieff. “It will articulate with great precision the intrica—”

Smack! Count Ignatieff is out for the count. Blimey! Why didn’t you just throttle him by the throat? Don’t you know anything about being prime ministerial?

Hedy Fry wins again. Do you seriously doubt she could strangle somebody if pushed to it?

M.o.M.’s Guide to University or College

2006-10-15T13:55:00.000-07:00

It’s September! Time to relax, quit your summer job, settle into a comfy chair, and listen to a teacher’s assistant nervously whisper something about mitochondria! Yes, it’s Back to University or College!

A lot of you might be thinking. “I don’t need a guide to university. I know what university’s all about. It’s about winding up profs with my apathetic attitude, getting shit-faced every Friday, and sex with strangers!”

But there’s so much more to university or college than that. Did you know that behind their veneer of high fashion, tawdry sex, and rampant commercialism, universities and colleges are institutes of higher learning?

It’s true!

Yes, there is a good chance that if you drink enough coffee, you will learn a thing or two in university or college. For example, did you know that the vile patriarchy of male, meat-eating rapists is the cause of every problem everywhere in the world? Once liberated from men, women will be as happy as Care Bears.

Fact!

There is also a good chance that in university or college, you will develop a good relationship with one of your professors. You will look up to him as a mentor! (This part of the guide was for you beautiful young female students only.)

The M.o.M. conducted a reconnaissance mission to the institution closest to its headquarters – the University of Alberta – for the express purpose of finding out exactly what is in store for freshmen (that’s American for Confused Student) this year. Here’s how our tour went.

8am. Hub Mall
Goodie, goodie, it’s time for a cookie! Nothing beats a double chocolate-chocolate chip and chunk chocolookie from Cookies by George. Thank you Cookies by George! And thank you for your delicious coffee, too! It’s simply delicious! And we really mean that.

So far we’ve learned that commercial endorsements and sponsorship deals are a win-win for everybody. Look at that beautiful Telus mural on the north wall of Hub. Hey, why can’t I buy a Pepsi in this place?

8.10am. Hub Mall
We don’t feel very good. Must find a place to lie down and/or a toilet.

9:00am. River Valley
It’s good to walk these things off. It’s not the fault of Cookies by George we feel bloated and panicky. It was the fault of breakfast. It’s a bad idea to eat breakfast before going to school. The food is so much better at school. You must leave room for it.

Can’t wait until Ho Ho’s Chinese Food opens for lunch!

10:07am. A quadrangle
There is a student. The student is walking quickly. The student bears a backpack. That’s a handy place to keep books, kids! But first, we must buy some books!

M.o.M: Hello student. What books do you have in your backpack?

Student: Teleological Structures of Post-Tectonic Increments

M.o.M. ????

Student: I’m in a hurry.

M.o.M.: Can you just take a second to write down the name of that book?

Student: [Sighs] OK. Whatever.

10:25am. University Bookstore
Holy shit! This is like the biggest book we’ve ever seen! It weighs as much as a Geo Metro! How the hell are we ever going to learn all the information contained therein? No wonder students are all alcoholics! This is going to drive us to drink too!

10:35am. University Bookstore
To get through this book, we’re going to need another book. The dictionary! This is crazy! Nobody could possibly be so smart as to actually understand this book. It’s a conspiracy theory. Half of these words are made up. Ganglia? What the hell kind of word is ganglia?

Is it fatal?

11:00am. University gym
You have to be fit and lean to be a successful student nowadays! Refreshed from their beauty sleep, the fashionistas are out. Here we find the brunette boys with their frosted tips and Jessica Simpsons in training with their $190 lululemon sweat pants.

You don’t think university students can afford $190 for sweat pants? Wrong! That’s why the M.o.M. does this kind of investigative journalism. Take note, Global-CTV-CHUM-Rogers-Faceless-Capitalist-Giant Media Services!

11:05am. Men’s locker room
Cripes, it smells like a dead dog in here. What the hell happened?

11:07am. Men’s locker room
We did not need to see that! Is that legal?

12:02am. Hub Mall
Ho, ho, ho! No, it’s not Christmas. It’s lunchtime! This is the very best part of every student’s day. Here we are at the hearty Ho Ho’s Chinese Food. This stuff was packed in containers in the Szechuan Province of China along with a couple of Chinese who went along for the ride. Then it spent three months in transit on the Pacific Ocean, arrived in the Port of Vancouver, arrived two weeks later in Edmonton, and has been fermenting and growing in flavour in the meat trays at Ho Ho’s kitchen ever since.

No wonder it’s called Ho Ho! This is a Chinaman’s idea of a joke on round-eye!

12:06am. A table in Hub Mall
A passing girl just smiled at the M.o.M.!!!

Did that signify something, or was she laughing at our plate of noodles and fish heads?

M.o.M.’s Tourist Guide to Edmonton, Part III

2006-10-15T13:53:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows that Edmonton is a hip, cutting-edge, nanotechnology-friendly city with ready access to Starbucks coffee, but what about this city’s illustrious history? Here, in brief, is a guide to Edmonton’s history and where to find the historical sites referred to herein.

1980s
With the arrival of a young hockey player called Wayne Gretzky, Edmonton is born! But what about that place in the river valley called Fort Edmonton? Friends, that is a tourist trap, not a historical artefact. Do you really think Edmontonians would be archaic enough to use trains or heat their homes with wood stoves???? Get real! When was the last time you burned wood in order to fend of a minus 40-degree wind chill? Exactly. It’s not possible. Fort Edmonton was created by geriatric Edmontonians to fool the rest of us into thinking that back in the day, they were tougher than us. Which they weren’t, the liars! For one, no one back then had to contend with the monstrous shopping gulag known as South Edmonton Common. Most of the rugged “homesteader” types were living in bungalows in the suburbs of London, England before 1980 and they damn well know it!

HISTORICAL SITE: The statue of Wayne Gretzky at Northlands Coliseum or Skyreach Centre or Rexall Place, or whatever it’s called this year.

1990s
Edmonton really gets out of the crib and starts throwing its weight around in this decade. That is largely thanks to all the money sloshing around town because of the mega-bucks of Big Oil. Edmonton, the Rome of northern Alberta, recognizes that it behoves the cultural epicentre of the prairies to build monuments to its industry and brilliance. With no further ado, a light-rail transit station is opened. South Edmonton Common (see above) is built. A dozen sprawling suburbs are added, visible from space. Tens of thousands of Edmontonians buy vehicles that are so big that they require their own postal code. Our puny ancestors had nothing to compare to that! A horse rots in a ditch, but a rusting SUV is an eyesore for decades!

HISTORICAL SITE: The University LRT station

2000s
Edmonton moves into what is called its Golden Age. There is now so much money that the elected premier of the province has had to bag it up and give it away! In His generosity, he also throws some extra at the Poor! Another LRT station is opened, with the promise of another to open at a time decided upon by city council after its thirty-seventh debate on the issue. Somewhere on 23rd Avenue and 111th Street, a car gets stuck in the left turning-lane for eight days. This is later called the Eight-Day Wait. To ensure even more exciting rage in that part of the empire, another turning lane is added at 19th Avenue. Visitors to the city can now pretend they are in Los Angeles and sit in exhaust fumes for half of their visit.

HISTORICAL SITE: The intersection of 23rd Avenue and 111th Street.

And what does the future hold, folks? What can tourists expect to see in Edmonton as our city gallops into the future like a filly on crack?

1. The Brick Furniture Warehouse will hold a sale so big that a small child called Fred will be trampled to death in the mad stampede of the crowd to secure a cheap loveseat. This will be a civic tragedy. It will be summed up evocatively by future mayor Billy Miggins as “Flattened Freddie Day.”

2. But in happier news, the annoying blond woman who does the Edmonton Ford commercials will retire!

3. Some prostitutes will go missing. A few left-wing whiners will go, “Oh woe is us! Why does no one care about poor women except for us?” Then one of the prostitutes will be found. She’ll be decomposing in a snowdrift and her face will be half-eaten by a dog. What’s her name again? Nancy Cardinal, that’s it.

4. What was the name of that dead prostitute they found in the snowdrift, again?

5. Millions of Edmontonians will watch and cheer madly as South Edmonton Common is blown up and removed from the map forever. Edmontonians will be screaming, “Hoorah for the death of that disgusting monument to greed and philistinism!”

6. Only joking! What will really happen is that millions of Edmontonians will cheer the construction of Son of South Edmonton Common and troop inexorably towards its capitalist clutches like prisoners on a death march. “How much would you like to spend today?” the Wal-Mart greeter will ask with an inane smile on her hairy face. “Nine-hundred dollars,” will come the reply. “Oh good, I can find you nine-hundred dollars in worthless shit right now. Just follow me!”

7. In the year 2037, Big Oil will totally dry up, Edmonton will wither and start to die, and the surviving residents – deformed and rendered like dwarves because of years of sedentary living coupled with exposure to trace-level toxins – will drift listlessly around town, riding on tumbleweeds.

8. What was the name of that big city that used to be in northern Alberta, again?

In conclusion, enjoy Edmonton’s glory years while you can!

Secret Transcripts Reveal PM’s Plan for Species Act and Mars

2006-10-15T13:48:00.000-07:00

Last week, the mainstream media reported that the federal government is reviewing the Endangered Species Act, but they only told you half the story. The M.o.M. has learned that the government's stated motive for reform – ensuring the protection of property rights – is only partly true. The government's greater motive is to starve, maim and ensnare in traps all of Canada’s cute and cuddly animals so that their presence no longer offends Prime Minister Stephen Harper's delicate sensibilities.

We have published today, in their entirety, the transcripts of a strategy meeting between the prime minister, environment minister, Rona Ambrose, and an unnamed official.

PM: Why are there cute animals in the world? To make me feel bad, of course, and to lower my credibility among Canadians. What did those animals ever do to become cute? Nothing—they are completely lazy! Whereas I have worked exceedingly hard all my life and haven't become even remotely cute. Look at me! I have the eyes of a pedophile and the haircut of an accountant. Even my own son would rather shake hands with me than hug me.

UNNAMED OFFICIAL: Let's kill the cuddly animals.

PM: Yes, let's. I thought of that first, actually, so don't try to take credit for it. I am the policy wonk here.

UO: Yes, sir.

PM: What am I?

UO: A wonk.

Rona Ambrose: Which will we kill first: the Fluffy-Tailed Doe-Eyed Bunny Deer or the Pygmy Crested Snuggle-Squirrel?

PM: How about a dose of noxious gas that will get both of them at the same time?

RA: But that might kill the flora as well as the fauna.

PM: Explain for the edification of our unnamed official, what exactly are flora and fauna, Rona?

RA: Fauna means animals. Flora means flowers. And I like flowers. They are pretty, and they never did anybody any harm.

PM: Flowers? You mean like daffodils and dandelions? Ugh! They make me sneeze! Let’s get the flowers too, Rona. Write that into the act.

RA: If you insist. What else would you like to starve, maim and ensnare in traps today, sir?

PM: How about some Palestinians?

RA: Should I get Stockwell in here to discuss the Middle East, sir?

PM: Don’t worry. Mr. Day and I are going to catch up later. No, what I want to discuss with you today – my stunning female minister whose charms are utterly lost on my pulseless and cold being – is whether or not there is life on Mars.

RA: Mars, sir? Mars is out of my mandate as environment minister. Mars isn’t even in Canada, sir, even though we are a very big country.

PM: I know Mars isn’t in Canada! What do you think I did with my youth? Laze about playing with myself? Not me! I had my nose in atlases, copies of Hansard, and the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

RA: I know you did, sir.

PM: I removed all vestiges of fun from my life when I was ten and a half, so don’t go insinuating that I don’t know where Mars is!

RA: I’m not insinuating anything, sir… [Wiping a tear] I am finding this meeting even rougher than my last trip to Edmonton, sir.

PM: Don’t exaggerate, Rona. Anyway, my inquiry about Mars is entirely rational and policy-driven. I need to know whether we can make Mars inhabitable.

RA: I’ll look into it. Why?

PM: After killing all the flora and fauna, plus reneging on our Kyoto commitment, plus giving carte blanche to oil and gas industry development on every square inch of available land, I’m thinking we’re going to need another planet to live on.

RA: Brilliant, sir. That’s why you’re PM and why I’m merely in charge of the ironically titled “Environment Ministry.”

PM: Oh, yes, the irony! I love it! Just like how I called Israel’s bombing of Lebanon “measured.”

RA: It’s your robotic delivery and lizard blood that makes your irony so effective.

PM: Thank you, Rona. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.

M.o.M’s Tourist Guide to Edmonton, Part II

2006-08-18T21:08:00.000-07:00

Last week, we told you how to get to Edmonton. Now that you are here, what are you going to do? Here are some ideas.

1. Purple City

Nowhere on earth has this, so prepare yourself for some mind-blowing exhilaration. Wait until night, smoke some pot, and stumble down to the Alberta Legislature. That’s the home of Alberta’s elected dictatorship. See those big lights that are illuminating the big, brown building? Stare into one of them until your eyes hurt. Then, look out at the city.

It’s purple!

You do not need to adjust your eyes, buy special glasses, or wear a funny hat to repeat this experience. It is absolutely free of charge – well, except for the pot, although, hang on, even if you don’t smoke pot, the city will still be purple, but if you don’t smoke the pot, Purple City won’t seem like the coolest thing you have, like, ever seen, like ever. So really, the pot cannot be called optional.

2. Visit a shopping mall

Like, duh! Where else can you shop at the Gap, Club Monaco, Le Chateau, HMV, and countless other chains? Only here, the experience will be a bit different from what it would be in say, Minneapolis-St. Paul, or almost anywhere else outside of Canada. When you bring a purchase item to the till, it will suddenly become 7% more expensive! Wait, no, only 6% more expensive. Now that’s kinda cool! Thank you Mr. President of Canada, whoever you are!

3. Go to a festival

Edmonton is famous in the capital region for its festivals! This exciting tourist experience will only work between May and September, unless you go to the First Night festival, which is held on New Year’s Eve. Far be it from the M.o.M. to editorialize, but the First Night Festival might possibly be the only festival on earth designed to simultaneously bore you and freeze you to death. Do not go.

OK, since we’ve got our balls out now, here are all the other festivals you might consider skipping. For your convenience, we have included the reason for skipping it.

Festival: K-DAYS
Reason for skipping: Too many children.

Festival: Folk Festival
Reason for skipping: Too many hippies. Plus Ani de Franco most years.

Festival: Street Performers Festival
Reason for skipping: We are assuming you are already familiar with the concept of contorting a balloon into the shape of a poodle.

Festival: Taste of Edmonton
Reason for skipping: Line up for a ticket. Line up to redeem ticket for a thimble of food. Repeat. Seven hours later you are sun-stroked.

Festival: Heritage Days
Reason for skipping: The Israel pavilion patrons won’t talk to the Arab pavilion patrons. For the real fireworks, CNN is so much better!

Festival: Cariwest Festival
Reason for skipping: Caribbean people getting up to their usual cavorting, just as they do back home. Hint, there is an inverse correlation between the amount of your cavorting and the size of your GDP, people!

Festival: EnglishFest
Reason for skipping: It doesn’t exist! But when it does, it will probably consist of people standing around uncomfortably, talking about the weather, being dour, and complaining about Caribbeans. Fun? Visit the UK instead for the real experience.

Festival: The Works
Reason for skipping: You probably tripped over something resembling a gallery exhibit from the Works in your basement. Far cheaper just to stare at a toilet for a bit and attach whatever symbolism to it you like.

Festival: Capital Ex
Reason for skipping: This one is exactly like K-Days. Wait a minute, it is K-Days. What’s going on here? Did K-Days change its name? What’s the new name again? Brand Y? Product Zed? Oh good, I like generic products – they’re always so much cheaper than brand names. But wait, this generic product is more expensive than the original. What’s up with that?

This leaves one festival that the M.o.M. fully endorses: The Fringe. Good thing it lasts ten days, or something like that, and that it’s on right now, so you can still go! There are a lot of thespians at The Fringe. For all you Republicans planning a trip to the Edmonton Fringe, a thespian is not a lesbian, even though the two words sound suspiciously alike. However, a thespian can, on occasion, assume the identity of a lesbian. The playbill might not warn you that this might occur in the play you are watching. So to be safe, skip the plays and just wander around, get drunk, and get fat from the food! That’s what most people do. While you’re at it, be sure to watch that strange Dougie fellow doing push-ups. He’s in the Guinness Book of World Records, don’t you know!

Well then, those are three things you can do in Edmonton right there. To review: Purple City, visit a mall, go to the Fringe. That will keep you breathlessly entertained until Tuesday.

M.o.M.

M.o.M’s Tourist Guide to Edmonton, Part I

2006-08-18T21:06:00.000-07:00

As Edmonton’s prosperity grows, so too does its reputation as THE tourist hotspot of central Alberta. Last year, Edmonton received nine tourists, this year it received thirteen, and that’s not even including the two involuntary tourists who were given free trips by Edmonton City Council as a cunning promotional ploy (see National Post, “Edmonton Having a Hard Time Giving Away Free Trips to City.”)

What exactly is it that draws tourists to our city? Is it the friendly inhabitants they are sure to meet, when of course they eventually find said inhabitants? Is it our charismatic mayor and his cherubic smile? Maybe they have heard how, unlike less civilized cities (we’re not going to mention your name, Calgary), Edmonton has smoke-free bars and restaurants. Mmmm! Fresh air! Or maybe the world has simply woken up to the fact that in the new global warming era and its associated tsunamis, earthquakes, hurricanes, floods and heat-waves, the best places to be are those places where nasty freakish weather doesn’t happen. And in an era of suicide bombers, disproportionate military responses, and terrorist attacks, the best places to be are those places where nasty violent things don’t happen. Industry experts say that the hot new trend in tourism is visiting places where almost nothing happens, ever.

With that in mind, M.o.M has a pitch for the city’s new slogan:

Edmonton: Probably Nothing Will Happen While You’re Here

Or how about, Edmonton: You’ll Get a Good Night’s Sleep!

Well, enough of the preamble. Let’s get down to sensible and practical advice that will help you get to Edmonton, stay in Edmonton, and experience Edmonton. We might even tell you how to leave Edmonton, but only if you’re good!

1. How to get there
…by air
The convenient thing about Edmonton for today’s modern traveller is that no matter where in the world you are, even Toronto (which is in Canada!), Edmonton is a long, long way away. This makes budgeting easy. How much will it cost you to get here? A lot! There, that’s your budgeting worries sorted then.

Another great aspect to Edmonton’s complete and utter isolation is that it makes a great hide-away for people seeking to hide away from things. For example, let’s say you happen to be dastardly bank-robber Billy Badass, on the run from Johnny Law. Which is more likely for the police to say:
a) “I bet Billy hightailed it to Reno!"
b) “I’ll wager Billy fled to the Canaries!"
c) “I’d put good money on Billy being in Cuba right now!”
d) “I got a hunch that Billy is in Argentina sipping tequila and doing the tango right now!”
e) “I feel it in my bones: Billy’s holed up in a bungalow just off Argyll and 99th in Edmonton, Alberta – don’t tell me I’m wrong!”

You will notice that when you arrive at Edmonton’s airport, you are still not in Edmonton! Hah! There’s that quintessentially Edmontonian sense of humour for you. You will instead find yourself in a place called Nisku. Do you have any money left over? We sure hope so! The cab to Edmonton going to cost you a small fortune, or your kidney, or maybe your sister, whichever is of greater value.

…by foot
Walking to Edmonton is not generally what comes to mind as a capital “f” FUN experience. But then, what generally comes to mind for people is, “I wonder if a dish draining tray will be less at Zellers or Wal-Mart.” Don’t be like the herd! And moreover, if Lewis and Clarke can wander around with a couple of horses, so can you, although you should tether the horses at the city limits.

If you’re going to walk to Edmonton, give yourself about a year to arrive. Once you find yourself at our city’s periphery, give yourself another week to get anywhere noteworthy, such as Whyte Avenue. Walk up the historical and scenic Gateway Boulevard. Nobody has ever done it before! Edmonton might erect a statue of you if you survive the journey. On your trip up the worldwide famous boulevard (see articles, “Edmonton’s Gateway Boulevard in Top Ten Ugliest Streets of North America”) you can enjoy five lanes of traffic, box stores, the direct light of the sun – blissfully unimpeded by nasty trees – and in many places, you will have the privilege of an unpaved walking surface, because city council has cunningly calculated that if you are walking in the middle of winter after a heavy snowfall, the lack of a sidewalk will mean you’ll get snow up to your knees! Where else are you going to have that kind of fun?

OK, have you made it to Edmonton yet? You have? Hoorah! You probably feel like going to sleep for a month! But don’t do that. Stay tuned, because in our next issue, the M.o.M. is going to tell you where to stay and what to do, so that your stay in Edmonton is absolutely unforgettable…

“Is Earth even a planet?” asks befuddled earthling

2006-08-18T21:05:00.000-07:00

August 14, 2006 – Notoriously ponderous earthling, Quincy Quibble, has been thrown into existential angst upon learning that the International Astronomical Union (IAU) may downgrade the official status of Pluto from planet to “big lump of rock.”

“First it’s Pluto, is Earth next?” asked Quibble, breathing erratically, and visibly perspiring from his face and armpits. A faint cloud of marijuana smoke hung in the air at Quibble’s hastily scheduled news conference, because without his customary joint, the young philosophy student is liable to have a panic attack.

“Why are you so worried?” asked one of the gathered reporters.

“Why aren’t you worried?” snapped Quibble, irritably. “Good God, man, as we speak, astronomers from around the world are deciding the question of how to define a planet. Think of it. Could there be any bigger question? The very substance upon which we walk – this very floor that my feet stand on – could turn out to be part of, not a planet, but instead, an as-yet undefined ‘something else.’ What is that ‘something else?’ And what is the defining essence of that ‘something else’?”

The assembled reporters scratched their heads contemplatively. Quibble took another frenzied toke of his cannabis spliff.

“I mean, Lord almighty,” he continued. “Ever since its discovery in 1930, Pluto has considered itself a fully-fledged member of our solar system – a paid-up planet, just like we are, or Mars, or Venus, or Neptune – or even Saturn, with its bizarre but majestic rings! But now the discovery of a new rock in our solar system called Xena has cast everything into doubt, because Xena is BIGGER than plucky Pluto! Is Xena going to brusquely shoulder Pluto aside and consign him to obscurity? And like I have already asked, will Earth be next? What are we if not a planet? Can we continue to call ourselves ‘earthlings?’ And if I am not an earthling, what then, am I? What then, is Man?”

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” said a reporter, “I think it’s supposed to be us asking the questions.”

“But what makes you think I have the answers?” asked Quibble.

“Well, why don’t we try asking some questions and see?”

“Touché!” Quibble exclaimed suddenly, and erupted into a fit of giggles, then laughter, followed by teary-eyed silence. “I am late for my customary pint with my fellow philosophy students,” he said dejectedly, moments later.

“Why is this question so important to you personally, Mr. Quibble?” asked the intrepid staffer from the M.o.M.

“Why is your question so important to you, personally?” retorted Mr. Quibble, crossly. “Why are the definitions that determine the lexicon of our lives so important to one man and mere distractions to another? What is the signifier and what is the signified? Is God dead? I don’t know. Maybe the IAU in its infinite wisdom will also resolve these questions, but I for one sincerely doubt it. They are irresolvable, I tell you, irresolvable. Am I really here? The sky isn’t blue, but we perceive it that way. My introductory philosophy text says asking questions is an instrumental part of philosophy – indeed, may be philosophy’s ultimate aim. The unexamined life is not worth living. Why did my girlfriend leave me? Did I fail to satisfy her? How goes the search for a theory of a meta-theory? Was my girlfriend’s love for me real or illusory? Why are human relations so ephemeral? Were her groans of pleasure genuine or contrived? Why is Squidward so depressed all the time? What did Pluto ever do to anybody? Does anyone have any sympathy for the solar system’s smallest planet?”

Mr. Quibble ran from the podium, tripped over his untied shoelace, fell on his face, grazed his chin, and got up again. “That is the essence of man: we fall over, we get up again, we don’t know why.” Then he continued running, pushing aside the reporters, uttering breathlessly, “Still… late… for… beers…” And next he had charged through the door, out into the summer heat, and was bolting down the street towards his favourite pub where his friends awaited him.

Astronomers will announce Pluto’s fate next week.

Rona Ambrose Takes the #9 Bus to Northgate

2006-08-09T18:26:00.000-07:00

August 9, 2006 – Canadian Environment Minister, Rona Ambrose, boarded the #9 bus today for her journey from Edmonton’s Southgate Centre to Northgate Centre. She was intent on demonstrating that taking the bus is a good way of helping the environment. She also wanted to stop the rumours that started when she last visited Edmonton that she finds bus people smelly and offensive.

“Bus people are ordinary Canadians like me, minus the stunning good looks and senior Cabinet post, of course,” she said.

Minister Ambrose proceeded to drop her $2.25 bus fare in the cash box happily

“I’m going to tell everyone with a bus pass that they qualify for a tax credit under my government’s bold new initiative,” she announced.

She proceeded to sit next to Cyril Smithers, aged 82.

“Did you know about the Conservative government’s exciting new transportation initiative?” she asked.

Mr. Smithers replied, “My Bertie were the best carrier pigeon a man could ever want. ‘Twas the saddest day when he flew the coop never to return.”

Mr. Ambrose decided it would be more productive to talk to citizens who do not suffer from senile dementia. She moved to the back of the bus and struck up an amicable chat with Vaughn Jameson, aged 23, a student at Grant MacEwan College.

“Hi, young citizen,” said Minister Ambrose. “I’m Minister Ambrose. I hope you will be saving your bus passes this fiscal year.”

“What will the government give me for ’em?” replied Mr. Jameson.

“A tax credit,” beamed Minister Ambrose.

“How about a bit of something-something?” said Mr. Jameson.

“Sorry, what? You’re mumbling.”

Minister Ambrose elected to talk to someone who was more interested in transportation policy than the provocative cut of her skirt. Just then, a pregnant young woman in an Oilers cap sat down on the seat opposite and proceeded to conduct a screechingly loud conversation with the father of her unborn child.

“I been fucking working all day and I ain’t got no fucking time to go to Zellers. What the fuck? Where the fuck you been? I called you like ten fucking times. Where the fuck were you?”

“Excuse me, young lady,” said Minister Ambrose. “Can I interrupt your phone conversation for a minute to tell you about a new government initiative? My time’s a lot more valuable than yours.”

The young woman took a five second break from her important conversation.

“Why don’t you shut up?” she said.

At Whyte Avenue, Minister Ambrose tired of listening to the screeching conversation and returned to the front of the bus. Just then, a large and sweaty man with a noticeable limp staggered on board, dragging a trolley full of groceries, and nearly crushed Minister Ambrose.

“Sorry missus,” he said. “I got a chronic degenerative disc disease.”

“I'm sure with hard work you'll get over it,” said Minister Ambrose, dusting herself off.

The disable man said, “I get nine hundred dollars a month from AISH. But Wonderbread is only ninety cents a loaf. I buy eight loaves every trip and then freeze them. I’d buy more but I only got room for eight. I had to ditch my car cause I can’t turn my head proper to do a shoulder check and no one will insure me. My cat ate a whole bag of Whiskas yesterday. He somehow got into the cupboard. I’m gonna have to tie it shut with twine. Don’t I recognize you from somewhere?”

Minister Ambrose was about to suggest that the disabled gentleman probably recognized her from television, delivering statements on important subjects, but she was interrupted when the bus stopped north of downtown and a solvent-sniffer from the George Spady Homeless Shelter violently threw himself against against the bus door.

“That startled me!” exclaimed Minister Ambrose.

A couple of minutes later, two young men in hoodies, headscarves and Puma sneakers climbed aboard, and by this time the bus was so crowded that they had to stand, and the crotch of one of them was mere centimetres from Minister Ambrose’s nose.

“I tapped Trixie’s ass till it was sore,” said one of the men.

“Her sister’s a lush,” said his companion.

“Yeah, she’s an ugly bitch, too.”

The bus driver, alerted to the obscene use of language, proceeded to tell the young men to clean up their act. One of the men in hoodies said something unprintable about the bus driver’s mother. Then the other said, “Let’s split, bro,” and lunged for the bell, smacking his pelvis directly into Minister’s Ambrose’s face. The bus screamed to a halt and the young men departed, laughing amongst themselves about stabbing the driver next time.

“Are you OK?” said the driver as the bus finally pulled in at Northgate Centre.

“No, I’m not,” retorted Minister Ambrose. “That was the most unpleasant experience of my life. It seems that only delinquents, grubbies and cripples take the bus. I’ve reconsidered my government’s transportation initiative.”

“How so?” asked the driver.

“I’m scrapping the tax credit. People like that don’t deserve any breaks.”

And with these words uttered, Minister Ambrose retreated to the relative safety of the chauffeured, air-conditioned Lexus waiting for her in the parking lot, and returned to the Westin Hotel.

Society is oppressing Jim Carruthers

2006-08-09T18:24:00.000-07:00

August 8, 2006 – After attending a local poetry reading, Jim Carruthers of Edmonton, aged 22, has discovered that society is oppressing him. He had heretofore been labouring under the misapprehension that he was a relatively affluent citizen of a prosperous and democratic nation, which offered him a range of promising mid to long-term employment prospects. Now he knows that is false.

In a hastily-scheduled press conference, held in his parents’ basement, Mr. Carruthers announced how aggrieved he feels on account of the crypto-fascist capitalist hegemony that has enforced a patriarchal societal structure onto his unwilling and thin shoulders.

“Listen yo,” he said. “The Man is keeping down my sisters and my brothers/ with its devious duplicity/and jackboot of conformity/ and meanwhile in your name/ global leaders play their games/ and the war machine rages on/ and I can’t get a hard on/ because I’m worrying about the Jew-on-Lebanon Armageddon.”

Mr. Carruthers is appalled that no one in his family has even heard of Darfur, Sudan, let alone stopped to do anything to halt the genocide occurring there. He blames an “apathetic media” for “waging a war of lies” on an “unsuspecting public.”

“If all the people, yo/ wake up to the world/ and smell the coffee/ and the exploitative conditions it was manufactured in/ and realized that while we sleep/ Americans are killing babies in their cribs/ and I ain’t telling no fibs/ because that’s the truth/ just as sure as my name ain’t Ruth,” said Mr. Carruthers.

When asked if he was prepared to let that sentence fragment stand or actually finish the train of thought he had started, Mr. Carruthers picked up two recorders, inserted one in each nostril, and proceeded to play Greensleeves.

Afterwards, Mr. Carruthers fielded questions from the assembled reporters. When asked how society was specifically oppressing him, the young University of Alberta anthropology major paused long for thought.

“Look at tuition, yo/ and the major league increases/ which never ceases/ and I am so amazed/ that we can stand here like in a daze/ and let Ralph Klein and his crooks/ treat us all like schnooks!”

When asked for any more examples, Mr. Carruthers brought up the example of his hair, which is currently in dreadlocks.

“People judge my personali-ty/ because my hair so rat-ty/ but this express my identity/ dating back to the day of Bob Marley/ and you take away my pride/ it’s just another act of genocide!”

Mr. Carruthers also brought up the example of his girlfriend, Daffodil, three years older than him, who was recently breast-feeding on Whyte Avenue. Mr. Carruthers reported that a male of approximately fifteen years of age had overtly attempted to catch a glimpse of Daffodil’s right breast upon which the baby was suckling.

“Yo, sisters/ this brother ain’t gonna stand for no sexual oppression/ or sexual repression/ you and your fallopian tubes be free/ they make me happy/ and so does your free love/ which flies like a dove/ and into my loins/ more real than smoking a joint/ yeah.”

When asked by reporters what the solution is to intolerance and globalization and capitalism and sexism and homophobia and genocide and suicide and native land claims and breast-peeking, Mr. Carruthers proudly produced his five-part action plan from his pocket.

FIVE PART ACTION PLAN
1) Educationalize
2) Theorize
3) Radicalize
4) Proselytize
5) Rise up and be free!

When asked what exactly constitutes rising up, Mr. Carruthers explained, “Throwing off the chains of our oppressors/ their heirs and successors/ eating the rich/ and throwing the bones in the ditch/ smashing the state/ and getting irate/ and lynching the Man/ because you know you can/ whoooooaaaaah!”

There were more questions but Mr. Carruthers had no time for them. Daffodil had just arrived in her mother’s Volvo to pick him up and go on their date which would consist of eating persimmon-and-dandelion salad washed down with fresh herbal tea at their favourite local restaurant, Café Utopia, where no animal parts are used – not even those parts that animals inadvertently shed, such as feathers – because these are offered up instead as part of elaborate prayer rituals in order to give thanks to the gods Odin, Thor, and Smiley.

The Hopes and Dreams of Boys Today

2006-08-06T20:41:00.000-07:00

According to a new survey by StatistiCon Canada, more boys want to grow up to be a railroad baron or publishing magnate than a chimney sweep. Oil tycoon also ranks highly, but fishmonger does not. As for being a greengrocer, one boy interviewed said he’d rather be a hatter!

Chief researcher, Ed Biggue, was available at a hastily-scheduled press conference to help explain the results.

“What is stunning about these findings,” he said, “is that 98 per cent of boys appear to have entirely ignored popular culture for the last fifteen years, and have instead been highly influenced by nineteenth and early-twentieth century literary fiction. How else to explain the 6,034 boys in our study who mentioned haberdasheries?”

The survey looked in-depth at boys’ interests, hobbies and social values. For example, many boys agreed that, “tastefully chosen clothes from one’s favourite haberdashery help make the gentleman.” But they also thought that, “wearing excessive bling-bling and Pimp-Czar T-shirts makes a man resemble an attention-seeking thug.”

Many boys found that after consuming a meal of mutton accompanied by a rich cream sauce, smoking a cigarette aided considerably in their digestion. However, they did insist on retiring to a private room for this, preferably a parlour or drawing room, given that such confines are more conducive to quiet and civilized conversation than the dining room, which is generally situated closer to the kitchen, and the ensuing distraction of the servants’ hustle and bustle, not to mention the “chatter” of ladies.

One boy said, “I appreciate ladies more when they are decorative than talkative!” cracking a grin and then sneezing into his handkerchief. His friend delivered him a playful poke to the bosom.

“Quite naughty you are!” he chortled.

One hundred percent of the boys agreed that the females of our species should not smoke and those that do can generally be dismissed as vulgar and most probably prostitutes or otherwise “loose.” Boys generally do not favour degenerate behaviour.

“I prefer women who restrict themselves to consorting chiefly with their families in public,” wrote one boy in the comments section of the survey. “To do otherwise is to bring ill-repute not only upon the lady but also upon her husband and children.”

As for sports, many of the boys are quite mad for them! Cricket is universally adored and its terms and references have entered the popular lexicon. For example, most boys agree that only a clueless halfwit would express distaste for something by saying “That shit is not dope.” If you disagree with something, future gentlemen, you should say, “That is not cricket.”

For example, “Israel invading Lebanon? That is not cricket!”

Speaking of Lebanon, most boys take a keen interest in politics and world events and would rather read the newspaper than trick out their car and cruise down the boulevard looking for bitches. The interest in politics extends to local considerations.

Said one boy, “I am actively involved in the charitable sector and can think of no greater aspiration than committing oneself to the plight of the downtrodden.”

This boy gives twenty percent of his pocket money to the local homeless shelter every week! He is also a frequent patron of his local club.

Most boys find the ongoing complications in relations between Britney Spears and Kevin Federline to be an example of “atrocious behaviour” and wish that if the media truly insists on incessantly rambling on about superficialities, they could at least turn their attentions to something more instructive, such as the proper cut of a waistcoat.

Meanwhile, among themselves, boys talk decently and profoundly – far above the level set by the universally reviled “prurient press.”

For example, when expressing interest in a lady, most boys, contrary to popular belief, do NOT say, “Shit, I’d love to tap that ass.” They say, “It would be a pleasure to make that lady’s acquaintance!” Similarly, if a boy is describing an intimate encounter with a larger lady, they do NOT say, “She shook me all night long.” Instead they say, “Her considerable girth provoked a good deal of exertion on my behalf!”

In all things, good taste is paramount. For example, 9.7 out of 10 boys cite author Henry James as a hero. Only 0.3 of a boy cites rapper 50 cent as a hero.

In conclusion, the future of North America is in good hands, because today’s boys are healthy, rugged, stoic sorts with rosy cheeks and firm handshakes and a compelling need to do good for their brethren!

Johnny Taxpayer Wants His Money Back

2006-08-06T20:40:00.000-07:00

EDMONTON, July 28, 2006: Johnny Taxpayer, the world’s most famous taxpayer, has issued a press release demanding that the government return any money spent on evacuating from Lebanon those Canadians that don’t currently live in Canada.

“Why should I pay for bailing out someone who doesn’t even live in Canada?” his press release asks, or would appear to ask. It took a long time to decipher the scrawl. “Their [sic] responsible for they’re [sic] own safety. They don’t want to live in Canada – the greatest country in the world – then they can pay for the consequences.”

Finance Ministry officials have calculated what portion of the Lebanon evacuation costs accrue to Johnny Taxpayer. If Prime Minister Harper agrees to make a special exemption of Johnny, the Canadian government will be forced to issue the world’s most famous taxpayer a refund of two cents.

Prime Minister Harper was unavailable for comment.

“Scared, isn’t he?” said Mr. Taxpayer at his hastily-scheduled press conference outside Bubbles Car Wash on Whyte Avenue, Edmonton. “When politicians come face to face with real life Canadian taxpayers, they like, drop a loaf in their drawers! Their [sic] not used to it!”

Just then, a homeless person asked Mr. Taxpayer if he had any spare change.

“Why don’t you get a fucking job?” asked Mr. Taxpayer, appearing on the verge of a psychotic moment, à la Zinedine Zidane.

“Hey chill out, buddy,” said the homeless person, smiling. “It’s not like I called you a dirty terrorist or insulted your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister,” retorted Mr. Taxpayer.

“I’m going to the homeless shelter now. Farewell,” said the homeless person.

This provoked a fresh outpouring of rage from Johnny Taxpayer, the world’s most famous taxpayer. He asked the assembled reporter (your dedicated M.o.M. correspondent) to return his press release. He scribbled on it. When he was done, the amended press release called for his portion of the homeless shelter costs to be returned to him, because, according to the release, “I got a job, bums can too, so I shouldn’t have to subsadize [sic] they’re [sic] sorry asses.”

Mr. Taxpayer then asked the M.o.M. for a copy of the news report that it will be filing on this story. The M.o.M. responded that it never lets politicians, or anyone else for that matter, interfere with its relentless pursuit of the truth. But Mr. Taxpayer threatened to head-butt the M.o.M. The M.o.M. was forced to abandon its principles, albeit fleetingly.

Reading the press report, Mr. Taxpayer asked, “What does sic mean?”

Just then, a fire truck whizzed by with its sirens screaming. A small crowd gathered at an apartment where Suzie Sloth lives. Suzie had allegedly been smoking in bed and her entire bedroom had caught ablaze. Suzie was unhurt, but the fire was quickly spreading in the unseasonably hot 34-degree weather.

This provoked a fresh monsoon of murderous outrage from the world’s most famous taxpayer. His fists were shaking at Ms. Sloth.

“I don’t smoke. Why should I pay for cleaning up after your disgusting smoke-related accident?”

He amended his press release again.

Just then, a fat onlooker dropped to the pavement from an apparent heart attack. An ambulance showed up. Johnny Taxpayer declared himself ready to “strangle the next obese or lazy or cigarette smoking bum” that unfairly burdens him with the cost of “bailing out they’re [sic] sorry asses.”

Another onlooker, a political science student, said to Johnny, “Look, instead of just amending your press release again, why don’t you simply ask the government to return all the money that was spent on anything besides you?”

Mr. Johnny immediately declared the student to be the smartest man in the room.

“But we’re not standing in a room,” said the student. “And I was being facetious, anyway.”

The world’s most famous taxpayer now alleges that the Canadian government owes him $980,008.

Mr. Harper is still unavailable for comment but was most recently seen somewhere in the vicinity of the White House, scrubbing the presidential toilet. “Anything I can do to be supportive,” he was heard mumbling cheerfully.

UN Issues Gentle Resolution to Israel

2006-08-06T20:39:00.000-07:00

M.o.M. News Services

NEW YORK, July 18, 2006 – The United Nations today issued a “gentle” resolution about the ongoing Israeli-Lebanon conflict. It had planned on issuing a “stern” resolution but had to make it gentler when the United States and Britain complained that some of the stern words might hurt Israel’s feelings.

The following are examples of Resolution 6298D, before and after the re-write by the United States and Britain.

BEFORE: We urge Israel to stop bombing innocent civilians.
AFTER: We urge Israel to stop bombing innocent civilians when you’ve run out of bombs. Then ask America and Britain for more bombs. Please remember, however, that bombs don’t grow on trees, so use them wisely, please!

BEFORE: We urge Israel to apologize for killing foreigners in Lebanon, including eight Canadians.
AFTER: We urge Israel to appreciate how embarrassed we feel that while we were lauding your “measured” response, some of our silly civilians got in the way of your bombs. We are evacuating them now so it doesn’t happen again. This will make it easier for your bombs to reach innocent Lebanese civilians unimpeded.

BEFORE: We urge Israel to exercise every precaution to avoid civilian casualties.
AFTER: We urge Israel to hit at least a few token strategic targets. All those dead Arabs on TV are bad PR! We understand you can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs, but at least pretend to make an omelette!

BEFORE: We urge Israel to start obeying international law.
AFTER: “International law”? Huh?

BEFORE: Israel must not over-react to terrorist provocations.
AFTER: That Adam Sandler is funny!

President George Bush was available for a short press conference following the emergency UN meeting. He answered one question from a FOX news reporter.

“Yes, that last resolution was mine, it’s true,” he said. “Yo, Blair, did you ever see Happy Gilmore? That movie is a riot!”

“I am not a poodle,” British prime minister Tony Blair told the BBC.

“I deny all allegations that I don’t like the Lebanese,” snarled Canadian prime minister, Stephen Harper to the CBC. “I eat donairs all the time.”

Meanwhile, beautiful, young, and talented Canadian punk rocker, Avril Lavigne has just married the frontman of the band, Sum41. Look at the pictures here: www.avrilisfuckinghot.com. And some nude pictures of our Canadian pride and joy here: www.gofetchsomekleenex.com and Britney Spears has posed naked whilst pregnant! www.bigbuthotbellyonthatyoungie.com. And Justin Timberlake has a new album out! www.justiniscoolandfunkybutnon-threatningtowhites.com.

And in unrelated news, a mongoose won a fight with a cobra! And a squadron of killer hornets massacred an entire hive of bees!

And over here, www.foxnews.com, Bill O’Reilly has some stern but wise words of advice for George Bush:

“If I were President Bush I would urge restraint on Israel publicly, but privately encourage them to kill as many terrorists as they could…”

So far, it appears that Israel is heeding this advice! The score is 210 Lebanese dead to 29 Israeli dead. Not bad, plucky little Israel!

Will to live crushed? You’re not alone.

2006-08-06T20:38:00.000-07:00

M.o.M. Science Fax

According to the latest survey from StatistiCon Inc, six out of ten North Americans have had their will to live crushed and are merely “going through the motions” in a drone-like state, with little thought to any meaning or higher purpose in life.

“Your typical North American is only the shell of a human being,” reported chief researcher, Dr. Iva Hed Fornumbas. “When it comes down to it, he/she could be shot in the head, buried and forgotten, and after a brief period of half-hearted and rather contrived mourning, the surviving friends and families would just get on with life as if nothing had happened.”

Survey respondents cite the following reasons for the crushing of their will to live:

a) job
b) spouse
c) traffic
d) no sex drive
e) nothing good on TV
f) local sports team lost
g) got screwed over by someone
h) all of the above

“Sadly, most of these people lack the courage to go the next step and just finish off their sorry existences,” said Fornumbas, affectionately eyeing the test tubes and beakers in her Newark laboratory. “If they legalize euthanasia, I’ll do it for them – so at least there’s hope.”

Most people cite the following as the most effective “coping mechanisms” for the sheer futility and inertia of their lives:

a) nurturing a satisfying grudge against everything
b) excessive shopping
c) excessive eating
d) excessive boozing/drugging/smoking/solvent sniffing
e) excessive sleeping
f) internet
g) videogames
h) picking on people even more pathetic than oneself

“On a bright note,” said Fornumbas. “I just got another two and half million dollars in research funding to continue my study on the futility of life!”

Iva’s husband stumbled drunkenly into the lab at this point, accidentally kicking over a shelving unit of Petri dishes.

“I haven’t seen you in eleven days,” he slurred before collapsing into a cart of Bunsen burners.

“Sorry about that,” apologized Fornumbas to the M.o.M. “He was making unreasonable demands on my time so I locked him into the basement. Apparently he has found a way to escape. Too bad he had to go through my entire wine collection before he did so! Oh well. Men are useless anyway. I’m inventing a way of making them expendable.”

Fornumbas plans to sell self-impregnation kits to women by the end of 2008.

“It will remove the need for the unnecessary, messy, disgusting, loud, smelly, obnoxious and unproductive reproductive ritual known as mating.”

The M.o.M. suggested that this invention would suck even more joy out of life, thus exacerbating the problem initially identified by Fornumbas.

“Yes, it will make life more clinical and efficient. But it’s my job to do that.”

At this point, loud gurgling noises were heard from the prostrate figure of Mr. Fornumbas. Upon closer inspection, it was observed that he was choking on his own vomit. The M.o.M. has a strict policy of not intervening in the goings-on of life when on assignment. Dr. Fornumbas also refrained from intervening, because she was preoccupied with her periodic table of the elements, as well as looking at microbes under a microscope. Mr. Fornumbas’ windpipe became blocked and in two minutes and thirty seconds, he was visibly dead.

“Hmph,” said Dr. Fornumbas. “Unfortunate. He was very good at the dishes. And his tuna casserole wasn’t too bad either.”

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a talentless slut!” declares young Madison

2006-08-06T20:37:00.000-07:00

SPRINGFIELD, Illinois: At a hastily-scheduled news conference yesterday, Madison Carruthers, aged 11, formally announced her career choice to the public and her parents, Tony and Agnes.

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a talentless slut!” announced Madison boldly. “I’ve researched all my options, and that one seems the most lucrative for a girl in modern-day North America.”

Her parents were observed quietly sobbing tears of pride.

“What father wouldn’t want a talentless slut for a daughter?” asked Tony.

Yesterday’s announcement relieves considerable stress in the Carruthers household. It has long been known that Madison is intelligent, pretty, and ambitious. It was a concern to many, however, that her fondness for horses and other animals was inclining her to a job as a veterinarian, which would fail to make her unjustifiably rich and famous.

“My little Madison has dared to dream,” said Tony. “She doesn’t want to be just like any other girl. She wants to be a role model to millions of pre-teens, just as Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson have been a role model to her.”

Tony and Agnes Carruthers reported that they intend to start a trust fund, which will help to prepare Madison for her chosen career.

“While she’s trying to break into the industry, Madison will need a lot of financial support for things like weekly hairstyle changes, skimpy clothes, shoes, make-up, pornography videos (so she can learn and simulate sex acts) and the real biggie: breast implants,” said delighted mother, Agnes.

In six years, the Carruthers plan to “leak” some nude pictures of Madison onto the internet. Given that Madison will only be 17 at this point, they are confident that the resulting cyber-gossip will spread like wildfire and help give Madison the taint of tawdry scandal that is essential to any serious run at stardom. Madison will also work with a talent agent, who will focus primarily on Madison’s communications skills – ensuring that Madison never utters a word of more than two syllables, never says a sentence without the word “like” in it, and never talks about anything except a) clothes b) her career c) other celebrities and d) the man she is seeing at the time.

“The goal is that when I speak, I will communicate absolutely nothing,” said Madison. “For this, I find Paris Hilton a real inspiration. She has done nothing except giggle for her entire career and look what she’s accomplished!”

Madison will produce a record when she turns 18, which will be over-produced and without any artistic merit. The Carruthers hope that it will be a big hit among girls aged 5 to 15. Madison plans to then immediately capitalize on her fame and start a new clothing line. After changing her name from Madison Carruthers to Maddie K, she will sign an exclusive contract with K-Mart, and her advertising slogan will be “Mad 4 K!”

Madison will also appear as a guest star in rap videos. She will be featured wearing lingerie, writhing on a bed. She will date a rap star. She hopes that the rap star is shot by another rap star at a nightclub, but not fatally.

“Sex and violence really help make a career,” said Madison, beaming. “But I wouldn’t want it to, like, cost anyone his life!”

Madison will also start a celebrity feud with an as-yet unknown rival female star.

“It will be a lot of fun, hating somebody.”

If questioned by the media about her sluttish image and over-sexualized presence in music videos, Madison has a well-rehearsed line saved up.

“I will say I am EXPRESSING myself,” Madison retorted calmly. “It works for every other female celebrity.”

Madison plans to retire from the “biz” at 25 and then proceed to age gracelessly, developing several drug addictions. From 35 to 45 she will concentrate on having tabloid-worthy affairs with younger men and from 45 until death, her career will focus on eating disorders, fad diets and failed plastic surgery operations.

“In my final few years, I will probably resemble a partially deflated blow-up doll, and the public will look upon me with pity and revulsion,” Madison concluded with a smile.

Lazy Edmonton Sun Columnist Returns With Another Column About the Weather

2006-08-06T20:36:00.001-07:00

I.M.A. Hack

Help! Seriously! It’s been so hot! Yesterday it was 32.1 degrees. And the day before, it was 32.9 degrees. I don’t know about you, but that .8 degree drop in temperature made no difference in my life. None at all! Nor in the life of my dog! He was so hot, he didn’t even want to go walkies!

Laugh!

Chortle!

I want to mention something else really obvious. I am sad that Chris Pronger left the Oilers. I am actually more than sad. I am mad! This hurt almost as much as when Wayne Gretzky left. At least Wayne stuck around to win four Stanley Cups. Chris Pronger didn’t even win Tallest Hockey Player Award. Ha!

This is Hack (that’s me) to Pronger: What’s your problem with Edmonton? Don’t you like Calgary Trail? Ten months of winter too much for you, overgrown sissy! Heh!

My daughter had a crush on Chris Pronger. Now she’s trying to find someone else she can have a crush on. I suggested ME, but she said, “No way, Get lost, you pervert!”

Speaking of perverts, I really like this time of year, because my beloved and brilliant newspaper, the Sun (hey boss, do I get a raise for saying that?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) prints pictures of sixteen year old girls in bikinis at the park, or in the legislature wading pool. And I love it! It’s better than the interwebnet! I love my newspaper!

So yeah, let’s hear it for sixteen year old girls! Unless they are my daughter, in which case, HANDS OFF, or I’ll break your teeth!

By the way, I am super addicted to the TV show, Lost. I can’t wait to find out what happens next! Investigative journalism in my case means watching TV! That rules! Often, I’m drinking beer at the same time, and it’s still RESEARCH!

Like my co-workers, I have no ambition whatsoever!!!!!

You know those insightful comments that follow the letters to the editor in the Sun? It’s my buddy’s job to think those up. But sometimes he asks me for help! Here’s an example of one that we might run tomorrow. It’s in response to a letter about how mandatory minimum sentences are long overdue when it comes to sex offenders and murderers. My comment is:

“Hanging’s too good for ‘em!”

Pretty stern words, eh? I don’t mess around! And people say I’m just a lardy, lazy shit-for-brains! Even my own wife!

NOT TRUE!

The End.

PS: The Sun just sent a memo. They say I’ve exhausted their daily supply of exclamation marks! Where on earth am I going to cut?!!!

Forget the Oilers, I am a Champion

2006-08-06T20:36:00.000-07:00

By George Gims, #1 Oiler Fan

This morning, despite the usual pain from my distended liver, I looked in the mirror and I said, “George Gims, you are a Champion. Capital-C champion.”

How many beers have I drunk? How many potato chips have I eaten? How many glass bottles have I smashed? How many girls fifteen years my junior have I screamed at with the heroic words, “Pull out your tits?” How many alleys have I pissed in? How many dumpsters have I puked in? How many pounds have I added to my already considerable girth? How many hours of work have I missed? How many cardiac arrests have I risked? How many hemorrhoids have I had? How many times has my wife threatened to divorce me? That’s a trick question because she divorced me when the Oilers crashed out against Dallas in 2000. But my ex-wife is not the issue here.

My point is: I sacrificed absolutely everything for a noble cause. I gave it my all. As they say in hockey, I didn’t leave anything out on the ice. I am the true definition a modern day sporting hero.

I am even more of a sporting hero than any of the Edmonton Oilers. When they woke up this morning, despite their sense of loss, they were still strong, virile, and athletic men with beautiful wives and mistresses and gargantuan pay-cheques. Whereas I woke up in a puddle of piss. Clutched in my hand was a porno mag. I tried to jerk off but I couldn’t. My bed sagged underneath me. Then I realized I was already an hour later for work at Leon’s. I have to make another $1,900 in commission this month or else I’m toast. I tried to get up but collapsed to the floor from vertigo. When I breathed it hurt. When I finally made it to the front door of my apartment I found an eviction notice from the landlord.

Can any of the Oilers say they sacrificed as much as me? No, not even Ryan Smyth – who had three teeth knocked out. Thanks to eight straight weeks of passing out in a beer-induced stupor and forgetting to brush my teeth, I have aggravated two previous cavities and require two separate root canals. And I only had seven real teeth left to start with! Beat that, Smitty! What is more, the last time I saw the doctor, he said to me, “George Gims, if you don’t stop poisoning yourself with liquor, you won’t live past fifty.”

I am now thirty-five. In theory, I may have sacrificed approximately 33 percent of my life for the Oilers. Beat that, Mike Peca! What do you have to show for your efforts? A black eye? Black eye, my ass. I’m nearly dead!

In recognition of all I’ve done for them, I think the Oilers should make me, George Gims, their official mascot. Just like a mascot, I am soft and spongy. Just like a mascot, I make children laugh and/or cry. Just like a mascot, my movements are ungainly. I fall down easily. I sweat non-stop above fifteen degrees. People want to throw stuff at me. The nicer ones feel sorry for me. But their pity is wasted on a hero like me. They see a pathetic loser. But I look in the mirror and I see the biggest fan in the history of Edmonton sporting history.

So what if I don’t have a Stanley Cup to show for my efforts? I have cirrhosis of the liver – a prize that no one can take from me.

Soccer is a game for little girls and homosexuals

2006-08-06T20:35:00.000-07:00

By Vern Victor of Throbbing Muscle Sports

I have one word for any red-blooded American that is watching the World Cup of Soccer. Are you an American, or are you gay and/or a little girl? It’s totally beyond me how anyone could watch those miserable sad Eurotrash fairies tumble over each other and shriek girlishly if anyone breathes on them.

They say soccer, or football, as some fools call it (everyone knows that real football is played with your hands), is the World’s Game. It’s the favourite sport of people from Germany to Argentina to the darkest corners of Africa. I have one word for those billions of people. Have you ever heard of baseball? Or basketball? Or NASCAR racing? You are wrong about soccer the same way you were wrong about Iraq.

Here in America, rather than let homosexuals and little girls play an aimless sport consisting of kicking a ball around and diving like a prima-donna every minute, we prefer to deny them marriage rights and/or take away their right to choose an abortion, even if Uncle Biff rapes them. That is as it should be, according to God. People who choose to be gay or dress provocatively around Uncle Biff get what’s coming to them.

And another thing. What I’ve noticed in the two hours I spent researching your so-called “sport,” you surrender monkeys, is that it is borderline socialist in its refusal to give virile capitalism it’s due during the game. Let me explain what I mean. During a typical Monday Night Real Football Game here in the U.S. of A, I can expect to watch 12 seconds of bone-crushing excitement, followed by nymphs flashing their bums in the camera, followed by five minutes of car and beer commercials. Then I can expect to see 30 seconds of the coach pacing up and down, strategizing (it’s a thinking man’s sport), followed by five minutes of Viagra and McDonald’s commercials. Some of you might conclude from all this that Americans

a) enjoy crushing bones
b) enjoy watching their daughters perform like strippers
c) enjoy driving
d) are alcoholics
e) are impotent
f) are obese

However, only a to c are true and the rest is lies. That’s what I hate about non-Americans – you fill the world with lies about us.

Anyway, my point was, where are the commercials, you soccer-scum? I had to wait over 45 minutes for the first commercial break, and then another 45 minutes for the next commercial break. Frankly, that’s outrageous! How will you ever get your economies healthy enough to buy an SUV for everyone man, woman and child when you hate capitalism so much? It’s like you hate life itself.

So my advice to non-Americans is this. Start playing real sports like football, basketball, baseball, and NASCAR racing. Then come over to the U.S. of A. and we’ll kick your ass at those sports. Whose the top dog now, hey, Gunter?

As for so-called American STILL watching soccer after reading my genius article – if you love being a socialist little girl and/or butt-pirate so much, why don’t you go live with your kind? We don’t need you here in America.

Oh wait, you don’t have a passport. Now that I can respect.

A World Cup Victory Would Be Nice for Africa

2006-08-06T20:34:00.000-07:00

By Bono Vox

Billions of you might have noticed recently that I’ve been borderline saintly in my charitable efforts for Africa. I’ve pressed hands with Tony Blair and George “His-Heart’s-in-the-Right-Place” Bush, as well as traded jokes with the Pope! As if my music weren’t enough to bring tears to your eyes, now I’m helping the likes of Gikjdwo and Mioihfew in Timbuktu. Why do I do this, you ask. Well, that’s a rhetorical question. The question is, why aren’t YOU doing this? I mean, the average person really has no excuse for doing nothing. It’s not as if beautiful women are throwing panties at you as they are at me. Between the glory of saving the entire dark continent from itself and your mundane desk job, which are you going to choose?

Let’s not think only about ourselves, whities! Spare a thought for the poor little blighters of Ethiopia, Tad, Borneo, and Zululand. While you have been growing fat, they’ve eaten nothing but grubs since last week! If guerrillas weren’t decapitating them, that is.

In any event, I’ve just thought of something that might boost morale for Africa almost as much as all the things I’ve done for that outpost of civilization. I think it would be really nice if we could all cheer for Team Africa in the 2006 World Cup.

…Wait a minute, a stenographer has just provided me with a moment of epiphany which has truly humbled me. It turns out that Africa is not, in fact, playing as one team. They are playing as three teams: Ghana, Ivory Coast, and plucky little Togo! I’ve done the math and calculated that this has TRIPLED Africa’s chance of success. Now that’s smart of them! Let that be a lesson for those bigots who say that Africans are not, in fact, as clever as we are.

As I write this, the brave footballers of Ghana are taking on the powerhouse of Italy. We all know that the Ghananians don’t have the sexy hair or the rock star looks of the Italians, but by Lord, you have to admire their courage. They are running at those Italians with everything they’ve got and showing no fear. They don’t care that Italy’s economy is approximately 9,437,890,432 times bigger than theirs and that the average Italian spends as much on a slice of bologna as Ghana does on healthcare. No. The football field is the great leveller, and gives Africans 90 minutes during which the black man is equal to the white man. Imagine how heartening that must be for them.

Now, I know this will be hard, but set aside your nationalism for a few weeks and CHEER ON THE SPUNKY AFRICANS! I know it will be hard. You Englanders, forget a second about Beckham’s hairdo and shout something encouraging at a darkie! And you Dutch, put down your Heineken, Edam cheese and legal prostitute for just one moment and cheer in your strange tongue, “Tally-ho, Togo!” As for you Germans, enough of your Teutonic infallibility. Yell something nice at our impoverished brothers – but try not to scare them!

It’s only one World Cup after all. Let’s let the plucky Africans have it. We can go back to being better than just as soon as it’s over.

Tory hopeful announces bastard tax

2006-08-06T20:32:00.000-07:00

June 2, 2006 -- The Minister of Misinformation has announced that he is running to replace Ralph Klein as leader of the Conservative Party. He has also unveiled the “total bastard tax,” the first plank in his policy platform. This new tax will help wean Alberta off of oil money and at the same time combat the steadily rising tide of idiocy, thuggishness and general nastiness that is gripping this province by the scruff of the neck.

“The Progressive Conservative Party of Alberta has become soft and limp-wristed,” said the Minister. “It is time it became hard and tight-fisted. Under my regime, this government will be as tough as a bullet-proof vest.”

The total bastard tax works like this. If you are behaving like a total bastard, your taxes will go up by either 10%, 20%, 30% or 9,070%. The sliding tax level corresponds to the level of bastardly behaviour exhibited by the bastard in question.

“For example, if you are cutting someone off in traffic, your taxes go up 10%,” said the Minister. “But if you are drowning a kitten in kerosene, your taxes go up 9,070%.”

The Minister added, smiling wistfully, “Kittens are cute, aren’t they?”

When asked by a journalist at the hastily-scheduled news conference what tax level would apply to someone who was, for example, beating his own grandmother with a sycamore branch, the Minister didn’t hesitate to reply.

“10,0480-39325u932ex per cent,” he said. “I know that’s a new tax level that I just made up, and I don’t even know how to say that number, but beating your own grandmother is bastardly on a level that I cannot describe without, basically, puking.”

The Minister suggested that his bastard tax will “work wonders” on the attitudes of the thugs who like to trash Whyte Avenue and the surrounding area after the Edmonton Oilers’ playoff wins.

“Oh yeah, my taxes are going to hit those bastards in the face and leave them with broken teeth lodged in the backs of their skulls, which is no less than they deserve, because they make me edgy when I’m trying to sleep at night. They fully deserve to live in incessant pain, much like a patient in a cancer ward who spends his days vomiting blood."

When asked on specifics as to how exactly one goes about tracking down hooligans and hiking their taxes and whether that creates excessive new administration costs, the Minister wasted no time in retorting, “I am an ideas man, not a bureaucrat.”

The Minister said that the effect of his new tax regime will be to transform Albertans from “nasty, selfish, childish, vulgar, rude and mean-spirited rednecks” into “perfect little high tax-paying angels.”

“It’s going to be like heaven on earth, like Scandinavia – minus the dorky foreign accents,” he conclud

Smack Party Storms Ballots and Overturns Tory Win

2006-01-24T19:47:00.000-08:00

In a stunning new political development, the upstart Smack Party has demanded a recount of the election results and has been rewarded with an overwhelming majority government. The results of every single riding were reversed, with all ballots cast in favour of the Conservatives, Liberals, NDP and Bloc ruled as “spoilt.”

“I’m ecstatic,” said the Smack Party’s leader, the Minister of Misinformation. “Ever since I was a wee lad mucking about with my marbles on the streets of London, I have dreamed of taking over another country. I always thought that the country in question would be somewhere sort of small and primitive – the kind of place inhabited by savages with bones through their noses. Only in my wildest dreams did I dream of becoming Canada’s next emper—I mean Prime Minister.”

The Smack Party was founded by the Minister shortly after he became the representative for Goat Piddle, Scotland, in the UK general election of 2005. (Refer to previous articles.) Then, as now, the Smack Party stands for “the administering of routine smacks to small children so that they grow up to be well-behaved and nice as opposed to loutish, violent and rude.” The Smack Party proved to be colossally popular among the residents of Goat Piddle, a small island west of the Hebrides in the North Atlantic. It was so popular, indeed, that unbeknownst to most Canadians, the Minister decided to enter his party into this country’s federal race last Friday.

“Getting a full slate of candidates was tough,” the Minister admitted. “But offering modest bribes helped. Most Canadians will work hard if you give them bon-bons as well as those weird vodka coolers that come in those bottles that are shaped like sperm, with smiley faces.”

Many critics credit the Smack Party with offering Canadians a brief yet concise policy platform, which is what Canadians have truly yearned for all these years. This is the whole thing:

Stern Smacks
[Law and Order Policy]
The administering of routine smacks to small children so that they grow up to be well-behaved and nice as opposed to loutish, violent and rude. As for those that have already grown up to be loutish, violent and rude, we will bring in even sterner smacks – the kind that leave nasty red marks on the buttocks and make it painful to sit down.

Sultry Smacks
[Health and Wellness Policy]
Canadian lovers (ie. man and wife) will receive tax credits for adhering to a policy of gently smacking each other in a seductive way that will lead to fornication. As everyone knows, fornication is a good cardiovascular exercise and an excellent stress relief. Estimated cost savings to Canada: $198 billion.

Space Smacks
[Defence Policy]
It’s no longer enough to rely on the Americans to protect all of North America. Canada must step up to the plate too. We recommend a defense shield in outer space consisting of a giant hand that will swat Cruise missiles aside like pesky flies.

Strong policy aside, the Smack Party also leans heavily on the charisma of its leader, the Minister of Misinformation. At today’s victory rally in Nisku, Alberta, the Minister admitted that “this party wouldn’t be where it is today without the strong support of my own efforts.”

The Minister, however, comes with a spicy soupcon of scandal in his past. Goat Piddle’s very own Millie McLegspreader says that the Minister “faithered me illegitimah kiddie-wink.”

Fortunately, most Canadians won’t understand the thick Scottish brogue that pollutes the speech of McLegspreader and her ilk, and so most of the vile stories circulating about the Minister will fall on deaf ears.

Harper: “We will hold back on the evil for at least six months”

2006-01-19T18:29:00.000-08:00

Conservative Leader Stephen Harper has again sought to reassure nervous Canadians that if elected his party will adhere to a strict policy of appearing to be middle-of-the-road, for at least the short-term. It won’t be until the six-month mark that his Cabinet will get “seriously medieval” on everyone’s ass.

“Let’s call it a honeymoon of sorts,” said Harper. “February to July is when Canadians can expect a lot of seductive tax restructuring, a lot of sultry whispering about the Senate, and hot Parliamentary sessions about the need for discipline, punishment and handcuffs if you’ve been bad.”

The true desires of Harper’s Conservatives will be unleashed on the country in August, which is when many Canadians are on holiday – either physically, or mentally. So Harper has cunningly calculated that most people won’t figure out what his government is up to until, maybe, late 2007.

Among Harper’s evil plans are:

1. “National Beat-Up Grubbies Day”
This is a follow-up to the already-announced plan to repeal the Liberal tax cuts on low-income earners. National Beat-Up Grubbies Day is pretty much exactly what it sounds like. On February 28th, when Canadians are at their surliest (having suffered most of winter and on the verge of filing their tax returns) all of the homeless shelters will be obliged to open their doors so that ordinary citizens can unleash their pent-up frustrations on the poor. Canadians will be allowed to use crowbars and baseball bats but not firearms. All the same, Harper is convinced that many people, especially Albertans, will get a real kick out of kicking people when they’re down.

“There’s nothing like the feel of a grubby man’s face under your boot,” said Harper. “Take it from me.”

Harper said that Alberta Premier Ralph Klein is the inspiration behind most of his particularly fun ideas.

“He is leagues ahead of anyone in this country in his calculated mistreatment of the downtrodden,” said Harper, flashing his boyish grin. “Just look at the way he thumbed his nose at his own laws in denying AISH recipients the benefits they were entitled to. And the admirable way he managed to hide his nefariousness from Albertans during an election. And the cunning way he settled the lawsuit out of court at a cost of only $100 million. That takes balls! I bet he really enjoyed it, especially when one of those grubby losers had to eat porcupine roadkill!”

2. “Dismember Kittens Day”
Harper said his advisors have not yet decided on the best day for this. Then he shrugged and flashed his winning smile again.

“Hell,” he said. “Any day is a good day for dismembering a kitten!”

3. Establishing the “Office of Friendliness to Neighbours”
This is perhaps the most ambitious of Harper’s plans. The “Office of Friendliness to Neighbours” has been criticized by Harper’s detractors for being a euphemistic title. They say Harper is trying to hide the full extent of his plan from Canadians, who are likely find it less palatable than any of his other ideas. The newly-created Office of Friendliness to Neighbours will explore ways of proving to our American neighbours that we really admire them – revere them, really. It will recommend to government ways of proving to Americans how much we want to please them. It might suggest, for example, yet another national holiday to add to all the others, called “Bend Over for Our Big Brothers Day." On this day, Canadians will line up on the American border and bend over. Live media will carry pictures of Canadians in this non-aggressive posture. This footage will be shared with FOX, ABC, NBC, and CBS. Meanwhile, Harper will make a speech about this important “symbolic gesture” and will express the hope that Americans will forget all the horrible things Canadians did to Americans under the regime of Chrétien and Martin.

The “Office of Friendliness to Neighbours” will also focus on more practical day-to-day policies that will help convince Americans that we will do anything to keep them satisfied. For example, it will provide tax incentives to Canadians who sell any natural resource, such as a lake, to an American, for less than its actual value. It will also offer American CEOs of successful companies such as Enron invaluable tax shelters. Harper thinks this is a vital move because the American government can sometimes get “a little over-zealous with its regulations and whatnot.”

“We’ve got lots of places where we can hide the profits of successful American entrepreneurs,” said Harper. “Provided their profits are in cash, we can simply dig giant holes and bury it like pirates do with their treasure. Once the heat is off, the Americans can retrieve it – no questions asked. I can think of many vast, desolate expanses in this country which can easily be transformed into giant cash-burying pits. Nunavut, for example. No one important lives there.”

Religious Round-up!

2006-01-14T13:36:00.000-08:00

The Ministry of Misinformation has searched the globe for the latest and most exciting religious stories. We’ve nailed them to this webpost for you to look at, jeer at, and marvel at!

God Finds Stampeding Humans Amusing
This week’s entertaining events at Mecca are sure to give God a good chuckle. It is estimated that 345 Muslim pilgrims died when they stampeded toward the stone walls of the al-Jamarat – one of Islam’s holiest shrines. This year’s total surpasses last year’s of 245.

The Ministry’s man in Mecca – veteran, grizzled and hard-bitten reporter Bill Sykes –brought us an exclusive interview with one of the trampled pilgrims mere seconds before he died.

“This is the crowning moment of my life,” said Akhbar Al-Jared Fayed Dodi, of Cairo, Egypt. “Whenever a man of faith can die in the service of God, it brings honour on him and his family. For me, death is the goal of life!”

It is widely believed among religious people that God gets a real kick out of people sacrificing themselves to Him. Some believe he does loud handclaps and fist-pumps whenever another Islamic fundamentalist detonates himself in a busy market square in Jerusalem, or when an Orthodox Evangelical Christian blows up another abortion clinic in Georgia. The handclaps and fist-pumps are what create our weather: thunder and hurricanes and the like! Praise Be to God for the weather!

Ariel Sharon: He’ll soon be dead, but according to Pat Robertson and God, he had it coming

Israel’s Prime Minister, Ariel Sharon, has suffered a massive stroke and might even be dead by the time you read this. It’s hard for the Ministry to be as current and topical as CNN or FOX because we don’t have their resources. (If you want to help build a new media empire, please make a pledge to us. We’ll give you a piece of collectible swag, such as a vintage Ministry of Misinformation propeller hat.)

Anyway, back to the dying Israeli prime minister story. Television evangelist Pat Robertson says Sharon’s stroke is “divine retribution” for withdrawing from the Gaza Strip last year. It seems that despite his endearing sense of humour (see above) God has a darker, edgier side, and will smite people who do things that he doesn’t agree with. Pat Robertson, who is privy to the workings of God’s brain, says that God objects to the Israelis having parted with some of His land. You see, now that the Palestinians own the land, it no longer belongs to God – it belongs instead to God’s chief rival, Allah. So that’s why God is trying to even the score by attempting to kill Ariel Sharon, a Jew. God is unconvinced that what is Allah’s is also His. Pat Robertson is convinced that a Jewish politician should suffer the fall-out of this confusion. Perfectly clear? We thought so.

And last but not least: Scientology is really silly!

Edmonton to Pioneer Use of Hover Cars

2006-01-02T12:28:00.000-08:00

The mayor of Edmonton, Stephen Mandel, has announced that the River City is going to be the first in North America to pioneer the use of hover cars.

“I think it’s a good idea,” said Mandel, his eyes glittering like those of a child on Christmas morning. “My fellow councilors do not agree with me, but they are a bunch of small-minded stick-in-the-muds.”

Mandel’s draft proposal, entitled “Why Hover Cars Would Make a Great City Even Greater” was circulated among the assembled journalists at the mayor’s hastily-scheduled news conference. There was only one copy of the proposal, scrawled on a napkin, which meant the news conference took over an hour. The napkin illustrates a futuristic Edmonton, looking much like the Los Angeles in Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner, with huge buildings belching fire, and nifty hover cars jetting around in the air, driven by stickmen and women who all wear uniformly exuberant smiles on their faces. A speech bubble depicts one of the stickmen saying, “Wheeeee!”

“Are you for real?” asked a reporter for the Edmonton Journal.

“I’m more for real than you are,” Mandel retorted, displaying a rare moment of irritation. “Let’s imagine for a second what this city of the future will be like. I did some calculations and figured out that when you allow traffic circulation in the air as well as the ground, you increase the amount of commutable space by approximately 11,756,999 per cent. Provided you don’t go into the atmosphere, where even a hover car will burn up and perish, you are set. I mean, Edmontonians are set.”

Mayor Mandel also wants Edmonton to pioneer the use of military bunkers. This is a contingency plan in case Calgary becomes so jealous of our hover cars that they use their superior size and strength to invade us. Mandel has costed out the plan of buying enough bunkers for Edmonton as being approximately $904 billion dollars, with each bunker costing $76,000, not including the cost of shipping the bunkers from the plant in Florida – which at current gas prices is over $3 US per mile.

A reporter asked why, given the huge expense of importing bunkers, Mandel doesn’t simply start a bunker-manufacturing company here in Edmonton? That would be a potential boon to the local economy, and ensure full employment.

Mandel paused for a moment and pondered. He eventually smiled. “That’s a great idea,” he replied. “I like your line of thinking. I will implement that idea ASAP.”

Mandel continued to elaborate on his bunker concept. He explained that he had conducted thorough research on bunkers via the “Interwebnet.” The most prestigious bunker manufacturer, American Bunkers, makes a model called “The Guardian.” The Guardian can withstand floods, hurricanes, tornadoes, and terrorist attacks.

“It occurs to me that The Guardian could even withstand a hover car crashing into it by accident,” said Mandel.

“What we’ll do is obtain the blueprint for the Guardian, and licensing rights to build several hundred thousand right here in Edmonton. I think it’s a swell idea.”

Mandel then fired his current advisor on the spot, and hired instead the anonymous reporter who had suggested a bunker plant for Edmonton.

“You are a think-out-of-the-box kind of guy,” said Mandel. “In that respect, you are much like me.”

The reporter’s new salary will be $76,000 per annum. Your humble correspondent from the Ministry of Misinformation is not jealous. Not at all. He is not scheming of ways to make the reporter “disappear” and then take his place. Not even for a second.

Twelve Fearless New Year’s Predictions for the City of Edmonton

2005-12-30T09:37:00.000-08:00

Bringing you as many predictions as there are months in the year! The Ministry of Misinformation isn’t Scrooging you for 2006. The gift of cynicism is the gift that goes on taking.

1. Edmonton will make some bold steps forwards in urban sprawl, particularly in the south west. The nouveau riche, fancying themselves as aristocrats, will demand 3000 square feet homes to accommodate a family of four or even three. These ostentatious mini-mansions will lack regular mail delivery, nor will they be proximal to the transit system. They will, however, have wonderful views of empty fields of dirt that have been denuded of trees.

2. City council will keep up its relentless search for a municipal identity. Slogans will be bandied about; maybe a new festival will be established. Does anyone know the slogan for Paris, London or Tokyo? That these cities’ slogans (if they even exist) are not widely known is a fact that will elude our clever councilors who believe that a rose by any other name will smell sweeter.

3. There will be much hand-wringing about violent crime. A rash of stabbings and senseless killings by teenagers will further convince Edmontonians that the city is going to hell in a hand basket. Visitors from such countries as Columbia or Brazil will be marvel at how scared we all are of each other. They will wonder why, given our crime rate is approximately 99.9 per cent lower than in their homelands, hardly anyone is brave enough to actually take a walk on our tranquil streets.

4. The news media will laud the “spirit” of Edmontonians in the face of a shared “crisis.” For example, in the event of another flood, breathless reporters will coo over the fortitude of homeowners who resolutely and defiantly mop the water up in their own basements!

5. It will become very cold for about a week and people will grumble incessantly. “Cold enough for ya” will be repeated so often that you will want to dropkick the next person you hear say it. City council might be so generous as to open up an LRT station so that rather than dying, homeless people will have the privilege of sleeping on a hard floor in temperatures of roughly one degree above zero.

6. Sophisticated Albertans from Edmonton and the surrounding countryside will make their enchanting presence known on Whyte Avenue. They will drink until they can barely stand and then urinate on the historic buildings of Old Strathcona. Some will be courageous enough to beat up bums; some will pick fights with each other; some will stay the night in Emergency at the University Hospital. City council will debate whether there should be fewer drinking establishments on Whyte Avenue, and then resolve to debate the issue further.

7. City council will pat itself on the back for opening a new LRT station, the first in over a decade. Few people will think to ask why Calgary is approximately 10,389 per cent further ahead in developing rapid transit than Edmonton is.

8. Mayor Mandel will continue championing the arts. Mediocre talents will be lauded to ridiculous heights in the name of celebrating culture. Bad poems will continue to appear in buses and trains. Visitors will wonder why a city of half a million seeks to compete with cities such as Montreal and Toronto and doesn’t focus its efforts instead on avoiding such catastrophes as South Edmonton Common, which is a bigger affront to culture than anything.

9. The summer won’t be as warm or as long as anyone had hoped.

10. Many local newspaper columnists will continue to avoid writing about issues and will instead write about a) their boyfriends/girlfriends/wives/husbands/kids b) their pet peeves c) the cool people that they know or have met d) bothersome things about living in a suburban mini-mansion, such as lawnmowers that don’t work e) various opinions that they hold that, while not backed up by much fact, are backed up by a whole lot of vehement conviction.

11. There will be at least one picture of a cuddly pet in both the Edmonton Journal or the Edmonton Sun. This picture will make you feel soft and warm inside. You might even put it up in your cubicle.

12. A sports victory – no matter how small – will reassure all Edmontonians that in spite of everything, this city truly is the City of Champions!

Media Maverick ruthlessly hunts down entertainment stories, kills them, and drags them to your door

2005-12-19T22:40:00.000-08:00

In keeping with the synergetic times we live in, the Ministry of Misinformation has conducted a hostile takeover of the rival Internet Empire, Media Maverick, and now brings you cutting analysis of what’s hot and mildly tepid in the world of entertainment.

Oprah Salutes Shallow Bitches
Oprah is unveiling her “Shallow Bitch of the Year” Award. This award will honour the woman who has made the most significant contribution in 2005 to mindless consumption, needless sentimentality and Kleenex usage. Celine Dion is a front-runner for this award. Celine Dion has had a baby and if you don’t know that you are a heartless bastard. Celine Dion has collaborated with Anne Geddes on a series of photographs depicting her in various states of undress with her baby. Geddes has entitled this collection, “Miracle,” because Dion was impregnated by God Himself. The fact that procreation has been going on for several million years among the human species alone is something Geddes is unaware of. In her view, sperm + ovum = zygote is a miracle. It’s even more miraculous that babies are still born in the affluent west, even with the intervention of modern medical practices!

Shouting is the New Talking
The new trend in communication is VOICING OPINIONS AS IF THEY ARE FACT AND SHOUTING THEM INTO A MICROPHONE SO THAT YOU DEAFEN PEOPLE. Try this at home. Your child doesn’t believe that potato chips are in fact a healthier food choice than apples. What you do is gain 50 pounds, dress in a suit, get hired by a news show, and start shouting at your child over the TV.

“NOW ANOTHER THING THAT REALLY TICKS ME OFF! DOCTORS – WHO INCIDENTALLY SUCK AT THE TEAT OF YOUR TAX DOLLARS – THINK APPLES ARE HEALTHIER THAN POTATO CHIPS. LITTLE BILLY, IF YOU’RE LISTENING AT HOME, JOIN ME IN A CONDESCENDING LAUGH AT THESE SO-CALLED ‘EXPERTS’! HUH! IF GOD MEANT US TO EAT APPLES, DON’T YOU THINK HE WOULD HAVE PUT THEM IN A 100-GRAM BAG THAT IS AVAILABLE 24-7 FROM YOUR LOCAL 7-11? AND DON’T YOU THINK HE, IN ALL OF HIS INFINITE WISDOM, WOULD HAVE MADE APPLES SALTY AND CRISPY AND YUMMY IF HE WANTED US TO EAT THEM? STOP EATING APPLES, BILLY! COMMON SENSE TELLS YOU THEY’RE THE DEVIL’S FOOD.”

George Clooney can do whatever the hell he wants
Don’t try this at home! George Clooney ate lard and drank beer for a month straight, gained 30 pounds, refrained from shaving and became a sweaty, fat slob. But ladies love him. Try emulating his act and you’ll be sleeping on the couch.

That’s it for this week! Next time we promise to be even more shallow.

Election Choice is Clear: Talking Animals vs Jackbooted Thugs

2005-12-15T06:17:00.000-08:00

Prime Minister Paul Martin wanted to make it absolutely clear to Canadians today that they face a clear choice on January 23rd. They can vote for the Liberals and enter a kingdom reminiscent of the magical world of Narnia (after the fall of the White Witch) wherein beavers will serve them delicious, hot buttered toast and they will ride on the backs of lions… or they can vote for the Conservatives and usher in a grim era of oppression, misery, public floggings and jackbooted thugs stomping on children’s faces for pleasure.

“Fundamentally, Canadians know that Canada without Liberals is like a public hospital suddenly becoming a private torture chamber where they will force you to pay to have rats eat your spleen,” said Martin. “It’s unfathomable that any true Canadian would even think for a second of voting for Mr. Harper, or as I like to call him, Mr. Hitler!”

The PM’s wan smile drew a weak response from the assembled journalists, even those who have already been promised jobs by the Liberal government. But the PM struggled on regardless.

“Real Canadians know in their hearts that Mr. Harper is fundamentally opposed to human life as we know it. For example, he likes guns. Guns kills people. Basically he’s saying that he enjoys killing people. Let me be quite frank, in this regard Mr. Harper is not unlike a member of the Gestapo who would be unable to function without the stench of rotting corpses coursing through his nostrils.”

One plucky journalist who evidently has no aspiration of working as a Liberal communications staffer asked whether Martin’s proposal to ban handguns is another absurd boondoggle in the making, similar to the gun registry.

Martin raised an eyebrow.

“The gun registry is not a boondoggle. It’s a boon. But not a doggle. Let me make it quite clear, in the magical kingdom we are creating the day after January 23rd, people will not need guns. Have you ever seen a unicorn with a gun? And why would anyone feel any hostility to anyone else when all reasons for conflict have been eliminated by a LIBERAL MAJORITY GOVERNMENT? This needs to be seriously considered. Repeat those three words. LIBERAL MAJORITY GOVERNMENT. Say it again. LIBERAL MAJORITY GOVERNMENT. Isn’t this a calming, refreshing thought? Who on earth would want to kill anyone in such a paradisiacal scenario?”

“My job is to fuck up. Your job is to love me unconditionally” – Klein

2005-12-09T18:06:00.000-08:00

In an incoherent and boozy interview with the Ministry of Misinformation, Premier Klein has denied that his political act is reminiscent of a pissed-to-the-gills bum who is stumbling and bumbling in a back alley after dark. This follows yet another policy U-turn from his government wherein on Wednesday it was perfectly acceptable to permit smoking in the legislature even though it is banned everywhere else in Edmonton but by Thursday the idea seemed stupid because, as noted by Lyle Oberg, “I heard it from a friend who said… ‘You guys are a bunch of hypocrites’” [Edmonton Sun, today]

“It’s important to float hypocritical policies in the court of public opinion,” said Oberg to the Ministry of Misinformation. “Likewise with bullshit policies, greedy policies, as well as policies designed to destroy the environment. Those that the public don’t notice get the go-ahead.”

“Thassright,” Klein agreed, smoking in his office – in fact, smoking up a small storm if truth be known – given that this will no longer be allowed as of January 1, 2006.

Klein then turned his attention to the issue of his resumption of drinking alcohol.

“I see no problem here. Lookit. Am I the premier or am I the premier? Or has someone else become the premier without me realizing it? Ha! As if! No one else could possibly manage Alberta’s billions of dollars in resource revenue and still be incapable of sticking to a budget! That’s why I’m special. And lookit… Yes, I did verbally abuse some homeless people in a shelter several years ago, and throw cash in their faces and tell them to get a job, even though many of them already had a job, but afterwards, you know, I made a tearful apology in front of the media and I admitted I had a problem, and I promised to reform myself, and so everything is A-OK. In fact, my popularity even soared. So what’s the problem? So yeah, I still like to drink. You know what? I’m the premier, and people expect me to drink and get belligerent. People don’t want me to behave like an angel! They expect me to behave like their boozed-addled, smoke-sucking, slots-playing Uncle Herman. What’s more, people like it when I give interviews to the Edmonton Journal and admit nonchalantly that I drank so much at a function this October that I gave myself a hangover. Severely normal Albertans see no problem with that. It’s only leftist Trotskyists who see any whiff of hypocrisy in my behavior. And you know what I say to those people? Fuck you all!

“Lookit. I’m King Ralph. I told you all in 2001 and I’ll tell you again. I’m King Ralph. Did you hear me properly? Thassright! I’m King Ralph. So if I appear to act as if I am above the law, Good Christ, that’s because I am above the law. Where do you think you are? Canada? This is ALBERTA. The peasants know their place here. Do you even understand Albertanese? No? You talk some fancy dialect called English that they talk down east. Thass treasonous. You know what? I don’t like your face. I should have you arrested. You fucker! Blah blah blah with your questions. I’m King Ralph, bitch!”

THONK.

The premier’s head hit the desk at this point because he had passed out, and the short interview was concluded.

Jack Layton likes trees, but dislikes tree spiders

2005-12-06T11:00:00.000-08:00

In the first of the Ministry of Misinformation’s profiles of the four federal party leaders, we’re getting to know Jack Layton. This fresh-faced man was born, smiling at the world, in 1950 in Hudson, Quebec. Life for the Layton family was utterly changed.

“The first words out of his mouth were, ‘Universal and equal access to breast milk,’” recalls a proud Mrs. Layton. “Access to breast milk should depend on your appetite for breast milk, not on your appetite for capitalism.”

In his formative years, Layton liked to shed tears over the tragic inequality of life. For example, in the sandpit he realized that some children had monster Tonka trucks with loading hoists and removable cabs while some children had little more than a solitary marble – and a puny one at that – and he was visibly moved.

“This cannot be permitted in a country as rich as Canada,” he said, shaking his little fists.

Jack Layton has grown up to be a man who is passionate about everything. When he was in university, his best friend was a one-legged, one-armed, one-eyed, black, lesbian Jew with post-traumatic stress disorder called Yufkuptikluksuk. Jack defended her like a pit bull from her often cruel compatriots in late-twentieth century academia.

“A professor once talked to Yufkuptikluksuk very harshly indeed, asking why her essay on sentient plants was late, and my Lord – the inequity! The essay was late because Yufkuptikluksuk and I had been up late crying about the plight of the seals, and because of her post-traumatic stress disorder, Yufkuptikluksuk couldn’t stop crying once she started, so in my view, it was utterly discriminatory to punish her because of an intrinsic trait of her identity. I delivered that professor a lecture he’ll never forget.”

“Yufkuptikluksuk is the kind of Canadian the NDP represents,” says Layton. “If somebody doesn’t defend minorities, we won’t have any minorities left, and everyone will be like the majority, and the beautiful diversity of life will be lost.”

Jack Layton likes to frequently remind Canadians that he has written two books, both of which he is very passionate about. The first is called Homelessness: The Making and Unmaking of Crises. The second book is called Speaking Out: Ideas that Work for Canadians. One of the ideas that Layton says will work for Canadians is, “Trying to love and understand each other every minute of every day of every year.”

As Layton helpfully points out, if we love each other and demonstrate our love through collectivization and redistributive social programs, all our worries will be over.

“It can be done,” he says with a rather dreamy expression on his face that makes many an NDP womyn weak in the knees.

Jack Layton is married. He honeymooned in Australia. There he fell in love with the Inkabunka tree and now collects pictures, statues and any other form of representation of said tree. However, while in Inkabunka, a giant tree spider fell on his head and jammed its stinger through his skull and into the fleshy mass of his cerebral cortex. That is where Layton developed his dislike of tree spiders, which he admits is discriminatory, and with help from readings from the Dalai Lama, he is struggling to overcome it.

Ever since his encounter with the venomous tree spider, Layton has believed that he will one day become prime minister.

“Some people have said that maybe I’m getting too big for my britches,” says Layton combatively. “But as I remind them, it’s not how big you are, but how you wear your britches that counts.”

With this said he tucked his britches into his socks, jumped onto his bicycle, and pedaled away on another busy day of campaigning, wherein he will implore Canadians not to be greedy and instead, hug each other frequently.

A guest columnist from the Edmonton Sun writes a special column about how cold it is

2005-12-03T14:54:00.000-08:00

I. M. A. Hack

Brrr! How cold it is. When I looked out of the window this morning and saw all the snow, I told my wife, “It sure looks cold outside. Better wear gloves and mitts today!”

Are you cold? Of course you are, but nobody cares about that because unlike ME, you do not have a column in the Edmonton Sun.

Sometimes a sentence is so good that it deserves a paragraph all to itself!

Anyway, as I was saying, I am cold. My car is cold. My dog is cold. Let me tell you something hilarious about my dog that will appeal to your mediocre sense of humour. My dog was so cold today that he refused to go outside! I opened the door for him to go walkies and he just turned right around and walked back inside. He gave me this look that said, “You must be crazy!”

That was funny!

I am, by the way, still virile, even though I am a 49 year-old Edmonton Sun columnist. And my children, even though they occasionally pretend to make fun of me, consider me a god. Remember the anecdotes about little Bobbie (August 10th, July 5th, January 3rd, September 7 – October 15, 2004) and charming but mischievous Stacey (November 15th, 17th, 19th, and February to May 2003.)

When I was growing up, you didn’t need fancy books to teach you about a) politics b) what is right and wrong or c) how to do your job.

About thirty percent of the time, I like to write columns about how challenging it is to write columns. Admit it, YOU couldn’t do it because you are borderline retarded. Sorry, did I say retarded? I meant to say mentally-challenged. Isn’t that what the politically correct people say nowadays?

In my day, you called a spade a spade, a retard a retard, and a cripple a cripple.

HA! I’m making fun at the expense of minorities and the political left who are a bunch of sissies!

As you read this in the sweaty lunchroom at Pipeco or wherever you are, remember that I am probably paid more than you are to write stuff like this.

That was a joke!

Anyway, why not go drive to WalMart and buy a jumbo packet of corn dogs? That is, if you can start your car in this weather!

Thin people are not to be trusted. As are people who use words with more than three syllables.

I like to call snow “white stuff” as opposed to snow. Cold enough for ya? If you were next to me on the bus right now, I’d be the one yakking at the bus driver and you’d be sorely tempted to punch me in the liver.

Speaking of liver, it’s time for me to get back to the difficult work of slowly pickling mine! See you tomorrow for another reassuringly predictable column!

OHMYGOD! “Reassuringly” has more than three syllables. Does my computer have a virus????

Speaking of viruses, LOOK OUT! DANGER! DANGER! The culture of mediocrity is dangerously infectious!

I’m going to win this election with my smile – Harper

2005-11-30T09:33:00.000-08:00

Stephen Harper staged a news conference today to unveil what his Conservative Party considers to be its biggest weapon in the war to win the hearts and minds of Canadians: Stephen Harper’s smile.

“When people see me smile, they forget – albeit temporarily – that I am an alien sent from another planet to harvest your organs,” said Harper.

Harper admitted that learning to smile has been a slow and difficult process for him. The leader first used his levator labii (a mouth muscle used for raising the upper lip) in 2003, upon being elected to chief of the Conservative party. This was after a crack team of smile experts conducted an intensive psychological technique on him known as “imprinting.” Harper was first subjected to a torturous process intended to break him down and reduce him to a blubbering infant. In this beleaguered state, Harper watched 100 hours of choice Ronald Reagan clips, wherein the star of “Bedtime for Bozo” brandished his endearing smile, and Harper, with an expression of joy on his face, emulated it.

Sadly, however, while imprinting creates lifelong instincts in lower-level organisms such as mallards, grebes and other ducks, its effects are only fleeting when it comes to the inhabitants of the planet Argon (Harper’s birthplace) who are so much more advanced than humans that they make our species race like greyhounds for the amusement of the Argonian overlords.

“Yes, the effects of imprinting lasted only two days,” admitted Harper. “However, more rigorous visualization exercises have helped to revive my smile’s potency.”

To achieve the stunning smile that Canadians have come to expert from Harper on a monthly basis, the night before public appearances the arch-Conservative prepares with visualization exercises. These consist of imagining scenarios that make him happy and put a big, fat smile on his otherwise sinister face.

Some of Harper’s most successful visualizations include:

… Tax breaks for the rich; tax hikes for people he likes to call “grubbies”
…Kittens eating big juicy tuna steaks that someone has cunningly stuffed full of broken glass!
…The ghost of Ronald Reagan eating Paul Martin’s pancreas
…The clear, pristine mountains of Argon
…Sex with Ann Coulter

At this point, Harper burst into song. He was singing, “These are just a few of my favourite things,” from the Sound of Music, but had cleverly changed the lyrics to reflect his own preferences. The assembled journalists were scared and wanted to leave, but Harper threatened them with an Argonian Human-Liquefying Ray-Gun ™.

“Nobody moves until I’m done singing,” he screamed.

Pundits are predicting that Harper will not be able to maintain his breakneck pace of campaigning and smiling and will collapse from exhaustion at least a week prior to election day on January 23rd, at which point, his skin will melt away to reveal his reptilian scales.

This week’s election score:

Liberals 10
Conservatives Nil

Who is the World's Ugliest Human?

2005-11-23T08:44:00.000-08:00

In honour of the passing away yesterday of the world’s ugliest dog – Sam, a Chinese crested hairless – the Ministry of Misinformation is pleased to announce a commemorative event that is sure to become an occasion. The search is on for the World’s Ugliest Human.

Will it be a freak from the Mogwai tribe in Borneo, freshly plucked from a swamp with a frog still hanging out of his mouth? Will it be mutant from the Gilli-Gilli clan in Swaziland, complete with a bone through his nose and live caterpillars in his hair? Or will it be a slothful Alabaman, stupefied and dull-witted from fried chicken and Big Bear? Whoever it is will assuredly be overjoyed to receive a cash prize of $500,000 and a trip to the surgeon to give them some likeness of a human being.

Millionaire Canadian tycoon, Vincent Brown, who was recently released from jail on fraud charges, is organizing the exciting contest. The Ministry reached him at his luxury home in Victoria, BC.

“The true star of this show is the worldwide TV audience,” said Brown. “They have the power and privilege of catapulting an anonymous and ashamed individual into the harsh spotlight of global ridicule.”

The Ministry went on assignment to a sign-up booth on Easter Island, notorious for its hideous and misshapen inhabitants. The line-up to enter the contest numbered 112 islanders.

“I hope one of us wins, even if it isn’t me,” said Jizkowa through his deformed and seemingly inflated lips. “It will erase the bad memories of our civilization having destroyed itself two centuries ago. It will bring new commerce and trade to our homeland, as tourists flock to see us cavort in our ugly splendour.”

“No one should be ashamed of being loathsome in appearance,” concluded Brown. “If it means worldwide fame, plus cold hard cash, where’s the harm in losing your dignity? Everyone else on TV is doing it – fat people, gays, former celebrities. Why not the uglies?”

… Do YOU know an ugly human? Enter his or her name into our exciting contest.

Opposition Announces Plan to Ruin Your Christmas

2005-11-14T08:11:00.000-08:00

Scarcely able to restrain their glee, the three federal Opposition parties today convened in Ottawa to announce their plan to ruin your Christmas. The leaders of the Conservative Party (aka, the Dour No-Parties Party), the NDP (aka, the Giggling Surrealists) and the Bloc Quebecois (aka, the Canada = Merde Party) were in uniformly buoyant spirits.

“I haven’t had this much fun since devising a new capital gains tax cut policy,” said Stephen Harper, attempting his improved customer-friendly smile. “I think of all the Canadians who like to drink rum and eggnog and eat butter tarts at this time of year – clouding their judgment with booze and sugar – and I think to myself there is no better time for them to make an important decision regarding our country’s future.”

At this point, Jack Layton from the Giggling Surrealists interrupted, because he had remained silent for forty-five seconds, which makes it difficult for him to breathe.

“Gilli gilli gilli!” he exclaimed euphorically. Then, upon realizing that his inner-child is not yet widely understood by the media, switched to his second tongue, ENGLISH! “Healthcare, children, say no to clubbing seals, hug yourself, hug your grandma, don’t eat meat with steroids. Cycle to work. Cycle to Florida. We will build a bicycle that goes to the moon in our first ninety days.”

The assembled journalists chuckled. But then blue-eyed Gilles Duceppe gave them a good talking to and scolded them as they deserved.

“Vile oppressors,” he bellowed. “The English are fascists. Remember all the obscure times in Canadian history when they did nasty things to us? We will have nothing to do with the fascist English. We are French and the French are our heroes. Look how marvelously they’ve run their country. It’s paradise on earth, as we all know.”

The assembled journalists wondered briefly why Duceppe was out of touch with reality, but then remembered that he was a separatist, and thought nothing further of it.

Jack Layton had remained silent for thirty seconds here, and was turning red.

“Each snowflake is unique, like every Canadian is unique,” he said, helpfully.

“When I become Prime Minister, I’m going to outlaw fey and effeminate observations like that,” concluded Mr. Harper.

The French are Revolting

2005-11-07T15:57:00.000-08:00

Pierrefitte-Sur-Seine, FRANCE: According to the Interior Minister of France, Nicolas Sarkozy, the only way to deal with the immigrants who are setting fire to vast swathes of Paris and many other French cities is to treat them even tougher than any of your predecessors treated them.

“If I learnt anything in politics school, it’s that immigrants, much like animals, are best locked up in cages and poked with sticks. Funny things happen if you do that. For example, once I was poking this rabid dog, whose name incidentally was Domenic, and he bared his teeth ferociously at me, and tried to chew off my fingers. But I laugh at him because he was so silly! Who does this dog think I am? He should know I am too quick for him.... Like a bolt of lightning, I maced him. And then I hosed down his cage until he almost drowned. That settled him down for at least three hours.”

“You see,” Sarkoazy continued, relishing his fourth glass of 1999 Chateau du Camarsac, “My opponents are such softies that they couldn’t even drown an earthworm, let alone an Algerian… That is why I am the strongest candidate to be the next French president, because I am the strongest, and everyone knows it.”

Sarkozy reacted strongly to the suggestion that his police crackdown on the riots were only further fanning the flames of discontent and anger.

“As everyone knows, I am a strong admirer of Anglo-Saxon solutions to French problems, and there is a uniquely Anglo-Saxon expression that I apply to this context. ‘If it ain’t broke, then break it.’ That applies to the heads of rioters everywhere. They won’t be rioting anymore if the police crack the skulls of every last one of them. It’s only logic, non?”

Martha and Henry Announce Investment Plan for $400 Prosperity Bonus

2005-09-22T10:52:00.000-07:00

CAMROSE, Alberta – Martha and Henry, who are scientifically proven to be Alberta’s most average and therefore most representative couple – despite Henry having a gay cousin twice removed – have announced their investment plan for the Alberta Government’s $400 prosperity bonus.

At today’s hastily-scheduled news conference, Martha spoke on behalf of the couple. Henry was heard grumbling “she wears the pants around here anyway.”

“Like all Albertans, we couldn’t imagine the government spending a billion dollars sensibly, so we’re happy to spend the money for them,” said Martha.

Martha and Henry’s business plan for the fiscal year 2005-2006 proposes a two-prong approach for investing the money. The first prong consists of INFRASTRUCTURE PROGRAMS. Martha explained that this is money directed toward infrastructure programs that the Alberta Government cannot be trusted to manage itself. She expressed the hope that if all other Albertans similarly divert their money to much-needed infrastructure improvement, some of Alberta’s infrastructure might be improved.

PRONG A – INFRASTRUCTURE PROGRAMS

Exhibit 1: Roads
Removal of unsightly garbage in fence on entrance to farm… $40
($10/hour labour, four hours work)

Exhibit 2: Railways
Dozen rivets for proposed high-speed Calgary-Edmonton high-speed train… $10

Exhibit 3: Hospitals
Stethoscope… $40
Bed pan… $30
Diapers… $30

Exhibit 4: Schools
A chair… $50

Sub Total: $200

Martha also proposed an ambitious array of programs under the second prong of the 2005-2006 business plan. This prong is called FUCKIN’ GIVEN’ER. These programs consist of activities that help Albertans maximize their sense of fulfillment from being the richest citizens in all of confederation.

“You know,” said Martha, “When you’ve worked as long and hard as Albertans have to make sure that creepy easterners don’t get their hands on the carbonized remains of dinosaurs that collapsed here from exhaustion back in the days of Adam and Eve, you deserve a big old hoe-down.”

PRONG B – FUCKIN’ GIVEN’ER

Exhibit 1: Liquor
Five bottles of Jack Daniels…$100

Exhibit 2: Tobacco
12 packs of Export A’s…$100

Sub Total: $200

GRAND TOAL: $400
“To wrap her up then,” said Martha, “I believe this is a perfect mix of responsibility and recklessness, which balances itself out in the end to sheer inertia, which is, after all, about as much you can expect from the most mediocre Albertans.”

Employers Want Workers With Lying Skills

2005-08-27T12:05:00.000-07:00

According to a recent study, one of the most important skills in today's workplace is the ability to lie, obfuscate, distort facts, and camouflage your true nature behind a veneer of pretence, enthusiasm and feigned loyalty.

The study's head researcher, Moe B. Stevens, says the ability to lie is particularly crucial to the 21st century professional environment, and that employers seek these skills from the very first interview with a potential job candidate.

"A classic technique employers will use," explains Mr. Stevens, "is posing the question, 'Why do you want to work at Company X?' For example, one of the job candidates we talked to in the study had been asked why he wanted to work in an E-Bay call centre. Now obviously, that is a question that employers know cannot be answered truthfully. The truthful answer would be 'Because I'm desperate for work and at this point, I'll accept even the drudgery and degradation of a call centre job just as long as I can pocket my paltry twelve dollars an hour.' But no, employers don't want that kind of answer. They want to hear something like 'Oh, I believe Company X is a good c0mpany and it's going places, and I want to work for Company X because I think I can grow in this position and that my skills can contribute to Company X's ongoing success.'

"This answer, needless to say, is pure horse shit."

Chimps Outperforming Mediocre Canadians

2005-06-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

EDMONTON – The news today that Congo the chimpanzee has sold three paintings for the equivalent of $30,000 US confirms what many Canadians had feared for years. Most modern Canadians are no better than chimps. Scratch that. Most modern Canadians fall far short of modern chimps. Artists are especially feeling the fallout.

Said local mediocre writer, Nan Bred, “I haven’t sold anything creative since 2001, when a local mediocre arts magazine, incest, gave me a coupon to be redeemed for a latte at the Sugarbowl in exchange for my mediocre story about a homosexual transvestite shoe-fetishist trapped in the body of a trans-gendered lesbian awaiting a corrective clitoral surgical procedure. I would be jealous of Congo, except I think he’s a sell-out. I dismissively breath a plume of cigarette smoke in his simian face.”

Congo the chimp is now richer than any artist living west of Toronto. Some artists, out of angst, are responding with drastic measures.

“I’m going to the operating room tomorrow to become a bonobo,” said Portia Poinsettia of Nelson, BC. “It’s my last hope. Then hopefully I can slap a price tag of over two figures on one of my abstract masterpieces.”

Said art expert, Dillon Villain, “Animal art has a cachet that human art doesn’t. When a human makes a mess on a canvas, the general public says, ‘My three year-old could have done that.’ But when an animal does the same, it actually quite impresses people. They’re just happy to see an animal do anything besides hump trees, defecate, and attack small infants.”

Villain concluded that the lesson to be learned by humans is that “raising the bar” for our own achievements has backfired for the vast masses of mediocre and talentless shits that masquerade as artists today. “Look, who wants to be constantly compared to Da Vinci?” he said. “It’s time to recognize the merit in, say, an artist who eats ten bowls of Captain Crunch and then drools onto a canvas. That way, we can all feel good about ourselves.”

MP’s Defection to Smack Party Shocks Goat Piddlers

2005-05-18T11:50:00.000-07:00

GOAT PIDDLE: The MP for Goat Piddle, who has withstood numerous calls for his resignation since being elected only two weeks ago, announced today that he has defected from the Independent Party that he founded last month. He will now join the ranks of the Smack Party that he founded last night and of which he is the only current member.

“I had to take a long look in the mirror,” said the Goat Piddle MP, the Minister of Misinformation. “And then I had to comb my hair. And then I had to brush my teeth. And then I knew in my heart that I could no longer face the crisis of leadership that I saw in the Independent Party.”

At this point, Jimmie the Hand interrupted the Minister’s hastily-scheduled news conference with a cry of, “You waire ti leader o’ ti Independent Party, ye daft radge!”

“Pipe down, Jimmie,” said the Minister. “You’re just a sore loser.”

This overt reference to the Minister’s defeat of Mr. Hand in the May 5 election caused a palpable gasp of outrage in the audience. Mrs. Tothbit shook her head so vigorously in disapproval that her dentures flew out. Reporters then asked the Minister to explain the platform of the newly-founded Smack Party.

“I conceived of the Smack Party early this morning – at about four a.m. – to be precise,” reported the Minister. “The Smack Party stands for law and order. We’re going to get tough on the rash of crime that has afflicted Goat Piddle in the last week.”

The crime wave in Goat Piddle has generated three phone calls to the police resulting in at least one official report but no visits, to date, from the mainland constabulary. The first incident involved Timmy Thistle, aged 9, who set fire to a copy of the Goat Piddle Herald, provoking outrage from the paper’s editor, Gordon Gumless. The second incident implicates Drillich the Drunk in an unspeakable act with one of Mrs. Tothbit’s sheep. The last incident involves a complaint of excessive noise coming from the barn adjacent to the Goat Piddle Arms, where Millie McLegspreader was last seen entering at midnight with an unidentified male.

“Tha’ waire you making Millie make aw tha’ noise!” cried Jimmie to the Minister.

The Minister did not respond to this interruption and instead concluded his explanation of the Smack Party’s platform to the assembled Goat Piddlers.

“It’s well known that children who aren’t disciplined properly become dangerous delinquents,” observed the Minister. “Just think of Timmy Thistle’s act of pyromania, to cite but one example. To fight this crime wave we need to give children like Timmy a good, stern smack. The Smack Party stands for regular and routine smacks to be delivered to all naughty children. Smack by smack, we’ll get our beloved Goat Piddle back.”

The assembled residents erupted in cheers and then charged out of the hall looking for children to administer smacks to. According to a poll conducted five minutes ago, the Minister’s approval rating has skyrocketed up to 85 percent in the wake of his news conference. This is up from a paltry 2 percent only yesterday.

Harper: “I Will Rage and Pout Until I Get my Way”

2005-05-12T15:54:00.000-07:00

The following statement was released by Stephen Harper’s subconscious today:

“I like little boys… Wait a minute. I’m preoccupied with power, not sex. But wait another minute… Sex is power, isn’t it? And isn’t power sexy? For example, if I become PM, I will be sexy. Those that say I look like a Sunday school teacher will have to shut the hell up. I will not only get to screw my poor wife, I will get to screw the whole country. The only thing standing in my way is Canadians.

Hmmm… Canadians. I would love this country if it were not for Canadians. They make me go limp, frankly. What my id really lusts for is the hardness of Republicanism. I may never wield a bigger weapon than my friend Bush, but at least if I get chummy with him, he will let me play with his weapon from time to time. Maybe?

So anyways, had fun today. I got paid for refusing to go to work. That’s right. I’m so riled up at Paul Martin that I told my team “Don’t go to work, boys. Boycott Parliament.” Man, did we show those girlie-men Libs and NDPers who’s boss. While they fussed away over their little bits of paper (they like to call them bills), us big boys from out West retired to Arby’s to plot the take-over of the country. My advice to you lefties is: don’t stand in our way. I’m quite prepared to rage and pout until I get my way. I WILL have an election. OK? I MUST/WILL /HAVE-TO-BE/ AT ANY COST THE PRIME MINISTER

People ask how long I can keep this indignant and angry pout on my face. Well, ask my wife how long I can keep it up when she calls me Mr. Prime Minister in bed. Just ask her. Helluva long time, she’ll say. That’s how long. So get ready. As I tell her, you’re in for a rough ride.”

Goat Piddle MP Asked to Resign

2005-05-10T15:15:00.000-07:00

GOAT PIDDLE: The angry residents of Goat Piddle Harbour, Scotland, have demanded the resignation of their newly-elected MP. In a hastily-scheduled news conference at the Goat Piddle Arms, spokesman Millie McLegspreader read from a prepared address. She accused the Minister of Misinformation of leading her on with the promise of buying her new knitting needles.

“Ah haivn’t seed nah hide nah hair o’ tha bastaird,” said McLegspreader. “He’s braiken his promise.”

There was an interjection from Drillich (the Drunk.) “Ahm pairsonally giving a boot to ti’ chops o’ tha cunt if ah sees him. Ah ne’er goh tha dram ah were promised.”

Jimmie the Hand was on hand with an allegation that the Goat Piddle MP, elected a mere five days ago, had offended the honour of his sister, Millie.

“I seed tha two of thems in the bairn up over Mrs. Tothbit’s,” reported Jimmie. “Afters, I seed them leaving, looking guilty-like – but oan accoont o’ tha Minister’s victory – I decided tah shaik his hand. But his faingers were aw sticky-like.”

Millie proceeded to vehemently deny this report but did look sheepish and blushed. All assembled Goat Piddle residents, however, were in firm agreement that they would ask for the MP to step down. At this point, Drillich’s dog, Tosser, woofed exuberantly, appearing to endorse the collective call to action.

UK Election Special: Minister Victorious in Tight Battle at Goat Piddle Harbour

2005-05-05T11:12:00.000-07:00

GOAT PIDDLE: The Minister of Misinformation has eeked out a narrow victory in the Scottish constituency of Goat Piddle Harbour. The British election has produced few surprises as big as this one.

“I’m not only happy with the result – I’m fucking happy with the result,” said an ebullient, jubilant and intoxicated Minister.

The Minister ran as an independent to represent the 48 residents of Goat Piddle Harbour. His one opponent was Jimmie the Hand, who aside from masturbation, counts being the mascot for Goat Piddle Goaders FC among his accomplishments. Hand came close to victory, surging early in the polls but climaxing, perhaps, too early. He finished with 17 votes, compared to 18 for the Minister.

“Ah was royally cunted bah me sister Millie,” observed Hand. “I seh, ‘Millie – can ye vote for me?’ An than she goes wi’ tis otha eejit. Ach well… Tha’s life…”

The unusually small constituency of Goat Piddle Harbour is nestled on a rocky outcrop of a Hebridean island so obscure that no one has thought to name it. Goat Piddle’s residents include Morag (the Miserable), who will warn anyone that cares to listen about the dangers of earwigs crawling into your ear; and Drillich (the Drunk), who will steal your wellies to pawn for a dram of whisky.

“I met over half of the eligible voters,” said the Minister. “I listened very clearly to their concerns. Some say that I didn’t understand those concerns. But I did catch about one word in ten. I know that Goat Piddlers want to see their MP do something about gout, the rain, and the shite in general.”

The Minister’s election manifesto made the following pledges:

1. To personally remove Drillich from Mrs. Tothbit’s sheep pen every night.

2. To lobby to have Goat Piddle made the European Union’s capital of culture for the year 2012 in light of Mr. Leek’s stamp collection and Morag’s singing.

3. To personally ensure, in cooperation with local stakeholders, such as Millie at the Goat Piddle Arms, that Goat Piddle's population decline is reversed.

4. To live at Goat Piddle at least eight days of the calendar year in order to accurately ascertain the local mood and convey that mood to Parliament at least two times a year.

5. To prove I'm not a “cheap bastard” and ensure that Drillich gets his dram on election night.

For more world news exclusives, check back at the Ministry of Misinformation sporadically.

Did You Know?

2005-04-28T08:37:00.000-07:00

Alberta's legislature was the first in Canada or Britain to which women were elected to serve as members. In the 1917 provincial election, Louse McKinney and Roberta MacAdams won seats in the house.

Yes, I know that's not satirical or even faintly humourous.

Did you also know that in all of the events to transpire since 1917, the Minister can't think of a single instance where Alberta again demonstrated a progressive tendency?

PM: “Let’s Make a Deal!”

2005-04-27T15:25:00.000-07:00

OTTAWA: The following statement was released today by the office of Prime Minister Paul Martin :

"Come on down to Parliament Hill, where the only thing hotter than the deals we’re offering is the air coming out of Stephen Harper’s mouth! Bring in your empty pop cans and we’ll give you a whole seat with your name on it in our historical and beautiful parliament chamber. Bring in your sister and heck, we’ll make you speaker! Or that funny-looking dude that carries the mace! Just sign up to support us in any and all confidence votes and you could find your pet project the beneficiary of the fat of the land. Look it, I just gave out – what was it again – $4.6 billion to old smilin’ Jack Layton from the NDP and all his personal peccadilloes. So there’s no saying what I won’t do for you. Yes, I mean YOU! $50,000 for the installation of a deluxe hot tub in Calgary, Alberta in the name of – shall we say – a community physical health and wellness program! No problem! How about a cool million to fund the booze and snacks budget at your town’s next cow-branding party? That’s a cultural investment – don’t you know it?! We’ll do whatever it takes to make a deal. Don’t be shy. Come on down today to Moneybags Martin’s Government Surplussssss Sale and Cash Giveaway, where we’ll pay any price for your support!"

Ministry of Misinformation to Support Non-Confidence Vote

2005-04-22T09:26:00.000-07:00

EDMONTON: The Ministry of Misinformation has responded to mounting public pressure to clarify its position on a possible vote of non-confidence that could topple the ruling Liberal government. Ministry spokesperson, Derek Mob, announced at a news-conference from the ministry headquarters in Swan Hills, northwest of Edmonton, that in the event of such a vote, the ministry would side with the Conservative Party of Canada and the Bloc Québecois. Mob said that this support would come with some very strict conditions.

1. Peter MacKay is to terminate his affair with Belinda Stronach immediately. MacKay is to write a legally-binding court order requiring that Stronach become an employee of the Ministry of Misinformation, wearing a daily uniform of a nurse’s outfit, knee-high stockings and garter belt.

2. MacKay must then commit to kiss Conservative leader Stephen Harper on the lips in front of a national television audience. The kiss will be filmed at Niagara Falls to the background music of “Union of the Snake” by Duran Duran.

3. The Conservatives’ policy of cooperation with the United States’ National Missile Defence system must be modified. Conservatives must agree to install the ministry’s patented SexRay® in space. When North America is under attack, the SexRay® will beam electromagnetic beams of liquefied libido at the earth. The psychological effects of the SexRay® include dizziness, loss of concentration, and inexplicable attractions to everything. In the words of its inventor, the SexRay® will transform all the inhabitants of everywhere – even Kansas – into “copulating rabbits.” How does this protect the homeland? Frankly, we haven’t figured that out yet. It will, however, enhance the experience of nuclear Armageddon.

4. As for you Bloc Québecois people – ha! You thought the ministry had forgotten about you, didn’t you? Well listen, you must now change your name to the Flesh-Eating Disease Party. You must pass a policy resolution at your next convention that requires all party members to have only one leg. (You can bring Lucien Bouchard out of retirement if you want.) The one-legged leader requirement is to symbolize the crippling effects on Canada of your dogmatic devotion to separation.

There – did both parties catch all that? Each of the leaders is to sign the appropriate box below, which is legally binding, of course, and which will indicate complete compliance with the above conditions.

□ I, Stephen Harper, leader of the Conservative Party of Canada, do hereby agree to abide by the ministry’s stipulations of making a complete ass of myself with Peter MacKay. I also commit to getting a decent haircut.

□ Moi, Gilles Duceppe, je suis d’accord avec tout ça, et de plus, à partir de maintenant, je promets de parler français comme un lycéen de seize ans de Vulcan, Alberta. Et chaque matin, je vais manger une grenouille vivant devant tous les spectateurs de Radio Canada.

KAISERPOWER Unveils Latest Revolution in Engineering: the Spare Car

2005-04-20T08:49:00.000-07:00

In today’s busy world, you cannot afford to lose a minute to misfortune or mishap. That’s why KAISERPOWER brings you the MiniAuto® – the first ever spare car. The MiniAuto® can fit into the trunk of most modern cars or be stowed with ease in the box of your truck. If you break down, don’t sweat about finding a repair shop or calling the CAA or the AMA or your dad/boyfriend/uncle. Simply take the MiniAuto® out of its harness, stand it upright on the street, inflate the wheels, get in and drive.

You will notice that the MiniAuto® comes equipped with a collapsible tricycle – the MiniCycle® – in the unlikely event that the car itself should break down. And just in case you thought KAISERPOWER hadn’t thought of everything, you will also find that the tricycle comes equipped with a skateboard – the MiniBoard® – in the extraordinarily remote chance that the MiniCycle® becomes inoperable.

A new dawn of utterly worry-free driving has arrived. Tell your friends and family!

Politics of Fear Fizzle

2005-04-19T10:29:00.000-07:00

Apologies to all while I turn serious for a while. Many on the left have wondered whether the resurgent right-wing has the monopoly on political spin and framing political issues in such a way as to win over the “hearts and minds” of voters. Republicans’ ongoing success in the US suggests this to be true. But sometimes, a glimmer of hope appears.

The UK is in the midst of an election campaign in which the right-wing Conservatives have run on one of the most racist and reactionary platforms in recent history. They seek to impose a limit on the number of asylum seekers allowed into the UK, regardless of whether these people’s human rights claims are legitimate or not. Moreover, they have overtly targeted gypsies, and are promising to be even tougher on crime than the Labour party. This is the politics of fear. Their slogan, characterized by some as a “nudge-nudge, wink-wink” appeal to the worst in human nature, is “Are you thinking what we’re thinking?” Coupled with posters that say, “It’s not racist to control immigration” it is clear what’s going on here. The Tories want the white middle-class and working-class majority going to the polling stations trembling with fear of the “other.” The Tories will be the benevolent but stern patriarch that offers the promise of safety and protection to these scared voters.

The great news is this doesn’t seem to be working. The latest polls show the Tories, who started neck-and-neck with Labour, slipping badly. They are now five to ten percentage points behind. Some forecasters see Labour winning another majority, perhaps by 130 seats or more. Moreover, the Tory campaign appears to be frightening Tories themselves. Insiders report that high-ranking party officials have asked the leader, Michael Howard, to tone down the rhetoric.

What the Tories tried to do is shape a campaign so that they could talk exclusively on a limited number of issues that they felt had the most popular appeal. Problematically for them, they tried to fan the flames of fears that for the majority of people were smouldering at best. Frankly, voters don’t seem to be as afraid of the “other” as Tories themselves. Now the party leadership is left with egg on its face. They seem like children that can’t sleep because of in monsters in the closet. The real monsters are them. They have targeted society’s underdogs in a way that I, as a former UK resident, would never have expected.

Sadly, these diversionary tactics do often work. Many US voters saw moral issues, such as gay marriage, as the only ones that mattered in the 2004 presidential election. Doubtless, here in Canada, the right will attempt the same thing. What a gift to them that a gang of crooks in Quebec have created the biggest diversion witnessed in Canadian politics in years. I’m talking, of course, about Adscam. Will there be any room in the inevitably imminent election campaign for talk of those things that touch the lives of all of us – ie. infrastructure, schools and hospitals? It is seeming increasingly unlikely. However, I would like to believe that at least one party will rise above gutter politics and practice the politics of hope rather than the politics of fear. Maybe that party will be the NDP.

NewsBrief: Man Burns In-Box

2005-04-18T14:05:00.000-07:00

POXWOOD, Nebraska: Returning to his office after an absence of several days, Joey Smalls of Poxwood, Nebraska, found his in-box full to overflowing and decided to set it on fire. He reduced three letters, seven corporate newsletters, five memos, two addenda, six action sheets, and one tax form to a smouldering pile of ashes.

His work has not suffered as a result, nor has the productivity of his organization declined. Smalls reported that his actions have resulted in a significant reduction in his anxiety.

"A flick of a Bic gets you out of a snit," he concluded.

Rapid Descent of Canada into Banana Republic Status Shocks Allies

2005-04-12T14:05:00.000-07:00

NEW YORK: A hastily-scheduled emergency session of the United Nations opened in New York today as world leaders struggled to respond to Canada’s descent into banana republic status.

“When Edmonton MP, David Kilgour, sounded the alarm bell about Canada, we knew we had to do something,” said British Prime Minister, Tony Blair. “It’s frightening to see a once-proud nation fallen so low. When Kilgour asked how many countries are more corrupt than Canada, the answer, 198, unnerved me and indeed, the world.”

Leaders listened with palpable shock as the UN’s special envoys to Canada reported on the latest developments in that country. The picture they painted was one of chaos and confusion, as the so-called Adscam scandal that has rocked the ruling Martin regime spreads shockwaves of instability from coast to coast.

“Just this morning there were reports of a Ford Windstar rear-ending a school bus on the traffic circle at 142 Street in Edmonton,” reported Jimmy Kovathz, a UN envoy. “It was quite clear that the driver had been listening to news about Adscam on 630 CHED radio and in his unsettled state, was rendered incapable of obeying standard road rules. Fortunately, no children were killed, but one child did complain of whiplash.”

French president, Jacques Chirac responded to this account by saying, “We must do something for Canada, if only to save the children.”

In a sign of the social unrest triggered by Canada's widening crisis, Bruce Stibble, aged 34, from Toronto, was turned down for Employment Insurance benefits, having allegedly failed to meet the requirement for a minimum term of employment. According to reports, and his own observation, this was “undoubtedly” a result of the Martin regime being “too busy spending money on corruption instead of on social programs.” Now Stibble says he will have to sell his mountain bike to pay next month’s rent.

“What’s next?” asked a visibly-stunned Gerard Schroeder, from Germany. “Cannibalism?”

Meanwhile, in Quebec, the epicentre of the crisis, a huge crowd of 40 people gathered outside a branch of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce, demanding that the manager come out and exchange all of their Canadian dollars for US dollars. “We know very well that our currency has become worthless,” said Réjean Baptise. “American dollars are the only way to go now. And this is why we are so angry. We are ashamed of our country. Unless the government can start up another sponsorship program that funnels the wealth of every other province into ours, we are going to threaten to separate in a way you have only seen several hundred times before.”

Ministry Reluctantly Observes First National Day of Dullness

2005-04-11T11:16:00.000-07:00

EDMONTON: The Ministry of Misinformation has designated April 11 as Canada’s National Day of Dullness. This is a day to grudgingly honour the tedious, boring and onerous activities that all citizens engage in for a substantial portion of their lives.

“Let this day stand as a drab tribute to the stale, the stodgy, and the wearisome,” said Ministry spokesman, Hum Drum. “It’s a day for lining up to buy stamps; cleaning the week’s worth of dishes; a workday of entering data into an Excel spreadsheet; or sitting in traffic for hours. That kind of drudgery unites us all. Today we raise a mug of lukewarm tea in honour of the commonplace.”

Drum also noted with a sigh that some people might find it relatively interesting that there are 46 synonyms for the word boring but only 45 for the word exciting.

To mark the first annual Day of Dullness, the Ministry has unwillingly organized a series of tiresome and rather pointless events:

1. A screening at the Metro Cinema of “Nearly Dead” – a retrospective of three decades’ worth of life insurance commercials. According to a reviewer who attended the Calgary screening: “I would rather have spent the afternoon at a geriatric ward.”

2. A monotonous and lifeless hike up Calgary Trail, starting at 23rd Avenue and ending at the strip mall on 79th Avenue, just prior to where the walk might have become interesting. According to an anonymous individual who completed the walk just yesterday: “The hour-long ordeal rewarded me with a mouthful of grit.”

3. A free open-air lunch at an unused lot of South Edmonton Common. Appetizers and entrees will consist of tofu, diet crackers and boiled lima beans. Tepid water will also be served. Sample meals previewed by seniors elicited such comments as: “At least the food didn’t exacerbate my ulcer”; “That might have been drywall” and “Why don’t they send the rest to the starving children of Africa?”

“The entire day promises to be entirely forgettable,” concluded Drum.

Number of Shags Catching Up with Number of Wanks

2005-04-08T15:26:00.000-07:00

BELGRAVIA, Edmonton: According to a communiqué released today by Paul Mall, 26, an Edmonton native, the total number of shags he has engaged in currently stands at 129, which is only 1,700 short of his total number of wanks.

“I just finished tabulating the data and I am pleasantly surprised at the results,” said Mall. “I think it’s testimony to my growing maturity and life experience.”

Mall, who is a fourth year mathematics student at the University of Alberta, has used his computing and statistical skills to conduct some long-range projections. His number of shags stands to equal his number of wanks by the time he reaches 56 years of age, if he follows the pace of the last calendar year.

“After 2035, the shag line diverges in a dramatic fashion from the wank line,” Mall explained. “The shag line, to put it bluntly, goes through the roof. I’ve just got to keep up my recent performance.”

Mall reports that the improvement in the trajectory of his shag-to-wank ratio is due to having secured a long-term girlfriend last year. He credits her with introducing shags to his life at a rate of three shags “at a minimum” per week.

“Prior to that, the shag-to-wank ratio was pretty abysmal,” Mall admits. “2000 to 2003 were very lean years and it seemed unlikely that my shag rate would ever match my wank rate – let alone surpass it.”

Mall is taking his girlfriend out for dinner tonight to celebrate his success and, with a knowing wink, told reporters that afterwards, “we’re going back to my place to improve my statistical prowess!”

And the Next Pope is...

2005-04-05T13:21:00.000-07:00

Bill Cosby! In a ministry-exclusive, the mysterious Cardinal X reveals all.

Ministry: Your choice of new pope is really going surprise some people. Explain.

X: There was what we call a schism forming in the Church. I had to slug Cardinal Innisrectum with a holy scroll. There’s the old guard versus the even older guard, and it’s a battle for the soul of the church… It was ugly. Jesus. I sustained an upper cut to the chops from somebody, but I don’t know who…

Ministry: Clash of the cardinals, indeed.

X: You might even call it the brawl in the basilica.

Ministry: Were there any fatalities?

X: Sadly no.

Ministry: And after all that… Bill Cosby? Pope Cosby the First? It’s an incredible moment.

X: You’re telling me. He wasn’t my idea. But the alternative… My God.

Ministry: Who was the alternative?

X: Some lunatic Nigerian who thought homos should have their winkles removed.

Ministry: Christ almighty…

X: Son, the Lord’s name…

Ministry: I’m sorry.

X: I mean… most of us think those things, but only some crazy African is going to actually say it.

Ministry: About removing winkles?

X: Yes.

Ministry: And what does Bill Cosby think on the winkle issue?

X: At least Cosby’s one black entertainer that keeps his hands on his own winkle, if you follow my drift.

Ministry: Loud and clear…

X: The last thing we need in the Church is another child-chaser…

Ministry: Amen to that, brother.

X: See, Bill Cosby still embodies family values to the world. That’s what we want. A lovable pope. A huggable pope. And, to be frank, a doper pope.

Ministry: Dope? The cardinals thought Cosby was dope?

X: Some of the younger ones watched his show in their youth.

Ministry: Maybe the show is hipper in Latin.

X: Come on, he’s a funny man this Mr. Cosby. And everyone likes to laugh… Listen, we figured it all out. This is how the Roman Catholic Church is going to get the remaining 5 billion of the 6 billion souls that aren’t ours yet. Hear me out. We did a Venn diagram. Over in this circle are all the non-converts. You know: the Jews, the Muslims, the Jansenists, the insect-avoiders and the other wingnuts. And over in this circle is everyone that likes to laugh. The incredible thing is, thanks to computer imaging, you can project how these two circles will intersect. And remarkably, they intersect perfectly. With longitudinal imaging, you can see how in as little as five years, every non-Catholic that likes to laugh has been converted to Catholicism. And that includes everyone… I mean everyone… With the sole exception of Laura Bush.

Ministry: Laura Bush doesn’t like to laugh?

X: What the hell does she have to laugh about?

Ministry: Good point. So anyway… You were saying?

X: Well I was pretty much finished, actually. You see now how Catholicism will finally prevail.

Ministry: Remarkable. All thanks to Cosby’s gift of the gags…

X: Believe it.

Ministry Offers its Condolences to the Pope

2005-04-04T12:40:00.000-07:00

The following statement was issued by the Ministry today:

“We have just been informed that you have deceased. This was rather a shock. As you are undoubtedly aware, we were under the impression that you weren’t sick at all. We were convinced you were having us on and playing a bit of a prank. Imagine then the looks on our faces when we saw a picture of you ‘lying in state.’ Evidently you really did snuff it after all. We’re well sorry for ever suggesting otherwise. Although we applaud your enthusiasm for dog racing and the love of your life, Giertruda, we should not have implied you would fake your own death in order to pursue those interests. That said, it would’ve been sort of cool if you had, like, faked your own death. Don’t you think? What a laugh it would be if that inert body on the covers of newspapers worldwide were actually a body double with a really top-notch make-up job. Come to think of it, who – besides us of course – would even doubt for a second the identity of that corpse? Have you been fingerprinted? Did you leave a blood or urine sample or something just so we could check? What about a stool sample? Come on, you didn’t even arrange for a stool sample? Well anyways, I suppose that’s your call. You were, after all, the bossman of the big Church. You call the shots. And now you are no longer with us. Well, your body is with us, but the rest of you – that bit with the soul and all that – that bit is elsewhere. So, sorry about that. Unless of course you wanted to go. In which case, should we really be grieving? For all we know, you’re partying with the Lord and his posse and the tears of one billion Catholics are in vain. Isn't celebrating a better response than grieving? Maybe that’s a stupid question. What do we at the Ministry know about appropriate conduct during an interregnum? Well anyways. Whoever the next pope is will have some plenty big shoes to fill. That’s the general word amongst the Bible folk. So you must feel right proud of yourself. Good job on your papacy. We hope you’ve cashed in some major brownie points with the management upstairs. All our condolences. Please put in a good word for us.”

Pope “Faking it” – Sources

2005-04-01T08:36:00.000-08:00

VATICAN CITY: An exhaustive twenty minute investigation has uncovered the shocking truth: the Pope’s ongoing medical complications are nothing more than an elaborate charade. Top-level papal experts interviewed for this Ministry-exclusive story even went so far as to say that Pope John Paul II is “faking it.”

“You should see the Pope as I’ve seen him,” said one source, on the condition of anonymity. “When he’s not shaking like some fragile leaf for the benefit of the public, he’s pogoing on his pogo stick in the Papal Pogoing Park.”

This news will undoubtedly shock the 1.02 billion Roman Catholics around the world who are currently in emotional turmoil and devoting most of their free time to praying, fiddling with rosaries, crying, and other ritualistic mumbo jumbo.

“I have two words for all those people,” said the source. “Get a new hobby!”

The expert sources reported that the Pope has becoming “fed up” with the whole “suffering for the Lord schtick” and is going to fake his own death in the very near future. This will free him up to pursue his true passion, betting on sports.

“Oh yes, the Pope loves to bet on the horses,” said one of the sources. “And he’s particularly partial to the dogs. Don’t be surprised if after his death, an old man with white hair and a Polish accent starts appearing down at the track routinely. He’s even raised his own greyhound, Chip, from a puppy. Chip will be entering the racing scene just as soon as the Pope is quote-unquote, dead.”

The sources also said that the Pope would like to be free to marry his long-time secret girlfriend, Giertruda, who was the “girl-next-door” in the Pope’s native town of Wadowice. Giertruda is now 83 years old and has been waiting approximately 60 years to “get it on” with the Pope.

“I am excited,” said Gietruda through a translator. “I even have pace-maker put in so the thrill it doesn’t make my heart go kaput.”

PM to Aggressively Adopt Non-Dithering Policy

2005-03-23T09:15:00.000-08:00

WACO, Texas: The Government of Canada is pleased to announce that at today’s tripartite meeting between Paul Martin, Vicente Fox and George W. Bush, our prime minister is going to be defiantly undithery.

“The PM is planning on giving President Bush the firmest handshake of his life,” said government spokesman, Dick Stamp. “He’s been in training for this. His thumb ligaments have had ample time to recover since his last handshake with Jean Chrétien, and now, thanks to a steady regimen of palm crunches, he’s more than equal to the challenge of not getting injured again.”

In keeping with the new tone that he is taking to American-Canadian relations, the Prime Minister is expected to brace himself with three shots of Crown Royal whisky before the meeting. He has even indicated that after fornicating with his wife Sheila this morning, he will skip his usual shower, exfoliation and face cleanser in order to retain the smell of sex on his body.

“Let me be quite clear,” said Prime Minister Martin. “When I step into the meeting room, it will be abundantly apparent that I am not only virile, but also intoxicated, and I think that in all probability, the potency of my masculine odour will send a strong signal to Bush and that Mexican fellow that they had better not even think about trying any funny businesses, such as making off with the rights to, say, all the fresh water in Lake Ontario. At the very least, they will have to ask nicely, and say please and thank you, otherwise I am categorically making almost no sweeping concessions whatsoever.”

Martin also announced that on the issue of BSE, he will be “bullish” in defending Canada’s interests.

“Let me be quite clear, when I say bullish, I don’t mean that I will gore anyone, of course, but I might, metaphorically-speaking (obviously) stamp my feet a few times, and emit some fairly noisy – even angry – snorts, and I wouldn’t be surprised if, over the sound of their yammering in Spanish, Bush and Fox might even get a sense that something quite defiantly undithery is going on down my end of the table. Maybe they’ll even talk to the Economist about it.”

Technology Update

2005-03-22T08:53:00.000-08:00

THERIESENSTADT, Germany: According to the latest reports, technology is now capable of replicating everything in life, only less successfully, and is on schedule to replace reality some time in the next 20 years.

Head researcher at the East German School of Gadgetry, Seymore B Probing, responded to the news with excitement. “We certainly are very much thrilled,” he said. “This is to finally mean that decade shut away in laboratory is not for nothing, indeed, we are standing to inheritance the earth – that is, professionals who eschew fornication, intoxication, socialization and regular showers and choose instead of more better cerebral activity – and we will be becoming like gods to you, especially when humans cannot reboot your brain’s CPU unassisted.”

Probing pointed to the vast array of experiences that technology has made possible, which earlier generations were denied.

“For example, the Internet is wonderful thing,” he said. “There is such diversity things on Internet – things I never would see or hear of before – such, such remarkable things, and in real life, things are far more boring. For example, no woman attempts to insert with herself a giant zucchini in real life.”

The Internet has been cited by authors of the latest report, “The Planned Obsolescence of Homo Sapiens,” as the driving force behind exponential increases in scientific and technological progress, having enabled lightning fast exchanges of intellectual and technical information. The Internet has also played a crucial role in providing a source of virtual community to people that would have been marginalized in society. For example, Jeff Weise, 17, from the Red Lake Indian Reserve in Minnesota, was able to finally find support for his empathy with German national socialism through the website of the Libertarian National Socialist Green Party, hosted out of the United States.

“This is wonderful thing,” said Probing. “Before website, Weise might be just misunderstood outcast because no one share his hobby, and he cry on his pillow at night. But now, look – he have friends – even though he is primitive Indian – technology bring him knowledge and friends from coast to coast. His secret passion meet not with scorn, but with sympathy, and he is sign of how technology, it is bring to people together.”

At the time of the interview, Probing was unaware that Weise had armed himself with a stolen shotgun and handgun and killed his grandparents and then proceeded to Red Lake high school and shot a security guard, a teacher, and five students. When this news was relayed to him, Probing was nonplussed.

“So much more exciting than real life, you see now?” he said. “People sleepy and yawning all the time when nothing happen. But with technology, and such things as XBox, you can shoot and have a pounding heartbeat, like this, bu-bump, bu-bump – very exciting – and even sweat on the knuckles – and life is better than a discotheque. Wonderbar. It is like some people say why have to be so violent, but this is better than starving to death like in the primitive time. In fact, with the thanks to technology, violence it is now very sexy. It is again like on Internet. I see little blond girl abused in the rectum with giant dildo – and this I cannot do in reality – so it is good and safe and I like it. I like it very much so.”

Project Don Quixote takes centre stage over Project Stanley

2005-03-18T09:14:00.000-08:00

EDMONTON: The Alberta government has committed to spending, if necessary, millions of dollars on a challenge of the Supreme Court’s ruling on same-sex couples’ right to marry. Dubbed “Project Don Quixote,” the Alberta government’s quest to use a legal weapon that, on this issue, it constitutionally does not possess (the notwithstanding clause) to protect a power not in its jurisdiction (the definition marriage) is being lauded as brave and noble by many Albertans.

The spokesman for the coalition group, Families Against Gays, Homosexuality And Transgendered Equivocators from Righteousness (FAGHATER) publicly stated his group’s support for the government. Speaking from his home in Camrose, joined by his wife and eight children, Lester Wholesome said, “As an Albertan, I am proud to have a government that stands against the erosion of the family. Just the thought of gay marriage causes me to lose my erection and threatens the conception of Lester Jr. IV.”

Government supporters are particularly heartened that finally, a genuine issue that they can do nothing about has emerged to draw Albertans’ attention away from such distractions as Project Stanley.

“Once we all get behind Project Don Quixote, everyone will forget about that Project Stanley nonsense,” said Wholesome.

Project Stanley was the name given to an alleged conspiracy among electrical companies, including Enron, to manipulate energy markets and amass illegal profits at the expense of Albertans. An email from the general counsel for Enron to the director of Enron Canada Corporation, dated September 2000 with the subject line, “Re: Project Stanley – Recent Meetings with Alberta Government and Transalta,” had threatened to further implicate the government in perpetrating fraud against its own citizens. However, according to government insiders, Don Quixote will have the desired effect of diverting attention away from Project Stanley, as well as from the overall failure of electricity deregulation, and from the government’s assistance to auto insurance companies in racking up another year of record profits, not to mention the government’s inaction on a) climate change; b) dependency on resource revenue; c) suburban sprawl; d) Alberta’s high school graduation rate continuing to be the lowest in Canada.

“Albertans astutely realize that oppressing the rights of one percent of the population is far more important than making progress on issues that affect everyone,” said Paul C. Wonk, political analyst at Athabasca University.

Wonk expressed particular admiration for Premier Klein’s deftness in denying any responsibility for Project Don Quixote. He observed that while Klein has single-handedly resisted a workplace smoking ban due to his own fondness for smoking in casinos, he claimed to have been outvoted by the rest of the Conservative caucus on the same-sex marriage issue.

“I’m sure all Albertans are glad to have a premier who refrains from interfering in his government’s desire to squander taxpayers’ money on an exercise in futility,” said Wonk. “That is the highest expression of democracy, is it not? A leader who won’t take the lead in protecting the public purse but permits his personal habits to dictate province-wide policy…Truly, Alberta’s democracy has evolved gloriously out of the outmoded traditions of impartiality and accountability.”

Ministry’s Message to Alberta: “Get a little drunker than usual today”

2005-03-17T14:49:00.000-08:00

In keeping with St Patrick’s Day, the Ministry is urging Albertans to consume more alcohol than usual at the bar this evening. The Ministry is also requesting that all Albertans – no matter how tenuous their links to the Emerald Isle – spend most of the night shouting obscenities in an obnoxiously inaccurate Irish accent.

Ministry Spokesman, Vince Grim, reminded the public that St Patrick’s Day is one of the easiest holidays to celebrate.

“It’s not as if this is Christmas, where you have to grudgingly think of other people,” said Grim “Nor is it like Remembrance Day, where you have to stop yakking about yourself for an entire minute and look solemn. All you need to do to honour the occasion of St. Patrick’s Day is blow about hundred dollars at the bar, wear something silly, get trashed, and throw up on the sidewalk at about three in the morning.”

Grim also emphasized that St. Patrick’s Day is also one of the most profound ways that Albertans can demonstrate their legendary tolerance of other cultures.

“Every Guinness you purchase shows your deep appreciation for Irish culture,” said Grim. “And every French fry you eat with your wings meal shows your empathy for the suffering of the Irish throughout history, such as in the potato famine, for example.”

For the public’s convenience, the government has introduced an online calculator onto its website that will help Albertans calculate to five decimal places how Irish they are. For example, if you:

1) feel more passionate than most about the music of U2; 2) have an aunt twice removed who stayed in Dublin once, and; 3) have plans to visit Ireland after finishing your BA in economics

you are exactly 0.28494 percent Irish. You may thump your chest and say like in the Commitments “I’m black and I’m proud.” [Hold on – you’ve actually seen that film? Automatically add 5.73931 percentage points to your Irish quotient.]

The Ministry expects liquor revenue to spike by approximately 156 percent this evening.

More on Employment. And Lions, and Democracy, and Rodent Parents

2005-03-16T15:27:00.000-08:00

I’ve only seen a typical office worker put in a full day’s work about four times in my life. I mean, truly all-out, no-holds-barred, pedal-to-the-metal WORK for eight hours straight. That includes me. In an average eight-hour work day, most people only work five or so. So I think the time has come to switch to a 30-hour work week. I’ll give the Man about ten hours a day, Monday to Wednesday. Then the rest of the time I will walk around having random adventures. If everyone else does likewise, think of all the excitement there could be going on. Why, I might well be walking down Whyte Avenue one day, and bump into someone who is working on injecting mice with human brain cells. Now, that is excitement. That beats writing news releases or updating Excel databases. Moreover, this person might have discovered how to inject a mouse with human stem cells, leading possibly to the spread of human genetic material to EVERY SINGLE ORGAN IN A MOUSE’S BODY, which, if replicated in a mouse of the opposite sex, would in turn lead to the capability of TWO MICE CONCEIVING A VIABLE HUMAN LIFEFORM. The human embryo could be injected into a human female’s womb and CARRIED TO TERM. Thus the world would bear witness to the first human being born to RODENT PARENTS.

See the infinite opportunities that are denied us because we are cooped up in offices as opposed to roaming the streets seeking entertainment?

In ancient cultures where the 40-hour work week hadn’t been invented, citizens enjoyed far more leisure time than we do today. Among the Mayans, it was quite common to enjoy a pleasant afternoon game of what I will call HEADBALL. That is, sports enthusiasts would congregate in the centre of town with the severed heads of their defeated enemies, and proceed to kick them around, much like in soccer.

As for the Romans, they had 10-day bacchanals where they were treated to hourly re-enactments of Ridley Scott’s “Gladiator,” as well as the spectacle of an obscure cult of individuals, (called Christians) being fed to lions!

And don’t get me started on the Greeks. Shit! In their spare time they hung around on the steps of the Parthenon and invented a little thing called DEMOCRACY! Not to mention FACISM! And the concept of having a chick-friend who you, like, don’t even THINK of banging (Platonic something or another.)

And what the hell do we stressed-out sad-sacks have to show for ourselves? Websites devoted to the study of entropy? Or Vampirism???

Give me a break!

Elimination of employment next challenge in human rights struggle

2005-03-15T16:13:00.000-08:00

142 STREET, EDMONTION: An extensive research project funded by the Centre for the Advancement of Human Rights was concluded today. A 29 year-old white human male of average height and build was exposed to eight hours of what is called “employment.” The research concluded that:

1. Employment is deleterious to humans’ ability to pursue other interests such as watching ants chew through wood; watching film matinees, and exploring the dating scene in bars on early Tuesday afternoons
2. Employment also leads to fatigue
3. High doses of particularly strenuous employment can provoke fits of alcohol consumption in some humans.

Lead research scientist, Viktor Krachmarxko publicly stated that, “Employment, and especially full-time employment, is clearly rather a primitive instinct in humans and it is hoped, for the sake of progress, that in due course, suitable substitutes for employment can be found. We have found in some particularly disturbing cases that a full day’s work can interfere with an individual’s capacity to write coherent updates to his or her online blog. That’s an abuse of human rights if ever I saw one.”

Edmontonians: Helpless in the Face of Overwhelming Prosperity

2005-03-14T13:09:00.000-08:00

This is an urgent appeal from the Minister to anyone that cares. Who will come and save Edmontonians from themselves? Last week at a public school board meeting, it was decided that four schools in the city’s centre should be closed down. Enrolments were on a relentless decline and the board, thanks to a draconian utilization formula imposed by the province, had to somehow free up some money in order to build new schools in our ever-sprawling suburbs. The Edmonton Journal reported that in face of the constraints, the school board took the most sensible course of action.

It is indeed the best of times and the worst of times.

What are we going to do about our unparalleled prosperity? What a nightmare! Our economy is growing; the city is eating up the prairie, parents are flocking to the city’s periphery to live in mini-mansions; to get anywhere people feel obliged to drive an SUV that retails for $40,000 or more; and now these damn school closures? What does it all mean? The city core, despite small attempts to revitalize it, continues to fall into decline. Central neighbourhoods are increasingly places only for seniors, natives, single mothers and others who can’t afford to live elsewhere. And these are the only neighbourhoods in Edmonton with any character! The only places that actually have trees – not weeds – but trees, and brick buildings, and a proximity to our green and shady river valley. These are the only places not yet raped by developers with their multiplexes and malls and box stores.

Who will save Edmontonians from giving in entirely to barbarity? Soon we will all be worshipping at the temple of Wal-Mart. Meanwhile, the faintly-flickering heart of this city will fade to silence. What on earth is city council doing? Why are they sitting on their hands while historic schools are shutting their doors? If these neighbourhoods are seen as undesirable now, just wait until there is nowhere for your kids to get a decent education. What was city council doing for the last three decades as families flocked to the suburbs and abandoned Strathearn and Beverly and Norwood? Oh right, council was selling off land cheap to development companies, that’s what.

The city is inevitably going to become what they call a “donut”: just a sprawling fatty mess with a gaping hole on the inside. It’s nauseating that we can see this fate coming but are still stampeding towards it like bison going over the brink of Head-Smashed-in-Buffalo Jump.

This toxic city is killing itself. Will anyone intervene? Or must those of us that want to stay sane simply flee the cesspool while we still can?

In other news:

The Minister indulged his fondness for new music this weekend and bought the album “Funeral” by Arcade Fire. The album soothed a sometimes conflicted soul, and the Minister enjoyed brief moments of perfect bliss. This Montreal band must surely have a glittering future ahead of them. Read the review by clicking on the Media Barn link.

In other developments, the Minister is also shocked to find that he has started referring to himself in the third person. This wasn’t supposed to happen. From now on, unless otherwise noted, I will be speaking in the first person.

Ministry Requests 10% Increase in Grief

2005-03-11T08:28:00.000-08:00

EDMONTON: In conjunction with CanWest Global and Bell Media, the Ministry is requesting that Albertans exhibit an immediate 10 percent increase in misplaced and gratuitous displays of grief. This is considered the only acceptable response to the murders of four RCMP officers last week.

“Albertans have certainly performed satisfactorily according to the latest emotional ratings,” said Ministry spokesman, Iva Handkerchief. “However, there is still so much more hand-wringing that can be done.”

Handkerchief, in today’s hastily-scheduled media conference at the Alberta Legislature, unexpectedly pulled out a copy of today’s Edmonton Journal.

“See those officers on the front cover and how hopeless they look?” she said. “That’s how all Albertans should aim to look right now.”

Ministry pamphlets will be distributed today with helpful hints on how to emote appropriately and, more importantly, how to free up time in our otherwise busy lives in order to have more hours for inconsolable sadness. The Ministry’s “How to Grieve” pamphlet includes the following useful pointers:

1. Try not to put things in perspective. It is important to deliberately overlook that police work is dangerous work, much like joining the military.

2. Try only to think of yourself and how you feel. Even Albertans who have no connection to the officers or their families can nevertheless “take ownership” of this tragedy and make it their own.

3. Make an effort seek to understand, in vain, how such a thing could happen. Convince yourself that this is the first senseless, violent and tragic act to ever occur in history.

4. Divert your attention from the reality of your own life. If you feel that for the most part, your life is uninteresting and headed nowhere, misplaced emotions will empower you to forget these grim facts.

5. Remember that the news stories that are most useful to an informed citizenry don’t dwell on policy decisions such as smoking bans, education funding, health care, or pocketbook issues such as taxation structure or auto insurance rates. Citizens are best served by stories that indulge people’s need to emote. Looking to make a real difference? Overlook entirely so-called “hard” news stories. This will allow government officials and their corporate cohorts to continue re-writing legislation that will improve the profits of electrical companies, for example, at the expense of the public.

Iva Handkerchief reiterated that, “all Albertans have the potential to reduce themselves to a quivering bundle of nerves, unable to accomplish anything except consoling themselves with random acts of material consumption. Just unleash that inner cry-baby!”

RCMP: Ralph Capitalizes on Murdered Police

2005-03-10T12:25:00.000-08:00

EDMONTON: Alberta Premier Ralph Klein today expressed hope that in light of the slaying of four RCMP officers by a madman with a gun, the federal government will consider scrapping the gun registry. Klein astutely observed that the gun registry did nothing to prevent James Roszko from gunning down the officers at his farm at Rochfort Bridge last week.

If the RCMP officers were still alive today, they would no doubt have been gladdened by the premier’s comments. Ever the statesman, Klein has found hope where others saw only senseless tragedy. It is to be hoped that Prime Minister Paul Martin heeds the words of Alberta’s wise leader and issues an immediate apology to the families of the slain RCMP officers. He should express supreme regret for having been part of a government that introduced a registry that failed to save the officers’ lives. He should also say sorry to the hundreds of other families who have lost loved ones because the registry failed to save their lives. While he is at it, he should express profound remorse to the families of all motorists who have died because vehicle registrations fail to prevent car accidents. He should then proceed to eliminate the gun registry, all other federal registries, and to demand that the provinces scrap their respective registries. This is in line with the growing consensus that registries are of no use to anyone. It should be noted that despite increasing numbers of marriage registrations, a large number of marriages still end in divorce!

All in all, it is obvious that a major reason for murders, car accidents, divorces and all other ills in our society is an overabundance of paperwork.

According to the latest reports, in previous civilisations, such as Imperial Rome, where the equivalent of a federal gun registry did not exist, citizens were more peaceable, and deaths by firearms were unknown. Citizens had to resort to more cumbersome techniques such as crucifixion or poking people with spears. Could James Roszko have killed four police officers in seconds with only a spear? No. It is therefore quite evident that Klein’s point is as clear as mud.

Lastly, nobody should misconstrue Klein’s comments as a political stunt. How could it be a political stunt when everyone knows that Klein himself mourns the deaths of those officers more than anyone? He feels those families’ pain. That is the kind of sensitivity he has been famous for over the course of his 13-year regime. If a homeless man had drunk himself into an early grave, Klein would display similar sensitivity and surely pay his respects to the deceased’s friends at the Herb Jamieson Shelter. Moreover, he would certainly offer an astute and timely observation on the failure of the welfare system to prevent that death.

Klein knows that what people truly yearn for in times of tragedy is a politician recommending the elimination of a government program.

Moreover, given Klein’s particular sensitivity to Albertans’ feelings, he knows that when their emotions are raw, the mention of a multi-billion dollar federal program is a salve that sooths and heals all.

Let us hope that Premier Klein will continue his proud tradition of finding the right words for every occasion.

Creation of the Ministry of Misinformation

2005-03-09T14:27:00.000-08:00

The Ministry of Misinformation was created today with the following mandate:
"The Ministry will be in no way responsible to anyone for anything at any time and will commit unequivocally to failing to accomplish any of its goals -- which are still indeterminate."