Lazy and Unoriginal

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/7944745/

Big City Acronyms

SCR (Streetcar Rape): What I long to do to an average of 2.8 people per day whilst aboard public transportation. I'm sitting across from one now. His mouth is saying "no," but his eyes are saying, "I can't even be bothered to look up from my iPhone to acknowledge that you exist." My kinda lovah.

AW (the Asian Weave): Needing to veer around my oriental friends who, despite their ability to do an invisible hem stitch in under 8 seconds, cannot appear to move their legs quicker than half a mile per hour. Nor their cars.

SH (Singing Hobo): Fine, I don't really have a definition for this one. I just put two words together and thought it was funny. K, let me come up with one now. Argh. Thinking. So hard. Oh got it! Most of my opera friends by the time they're 35! Ouch. That's mean. Funny though and what is our motto over here at Fleekiin Floygn? Funny Before Friends. Suck it, friends.

HSL (Homicidal Subway Lady): I wanna know what the HR department over at the Toronto Transit Committee was smoking when they hired their voice actor that does the automaton voice for all the subway stops. She sounds like Kathy Bates in Fear. When she announces "Keele" stop, I think that the voices in my head are acting up ago. When she announces "Old Mill" I get the most horrific Die Schone Mullerin daymares (holy shit, that's actually a word!). Bitch be crazy.

GWBWTFA (George W. Bush Without the Fun Alcoholism): Our new mayor. Oh wait…

My streetcar rape victim is getting off the now. It's fine though, since I already did.

On seasonal temptation

McStoony is an internet cum real life friend from the prairies who has a pretty face, amazing hair, disproportionately large eyebrows and an ass to match them. It's a good thing he does not live here, as that would inevitably wind up in a predictably unrequited love situation. As it exists, however, he does not and is therefore a lovely friend that I enjoy from afar, primarily on Facebook chat.

Illustrious D: There is something fundamentally unsatisfying about going into a Starbucks around Christmas and ordering a tea.

McStoony: that's because you're supposed to get a eggnog chai latte

ID:I know

But I'm also supposed to not have a fat ass.

Although, let's be real, by the end of this month that fact is just inevitable.

MS: do jews even drink eggnog?

ID: yep

eggnog and manischwewitz

never heard of it?

Divine.

MS: i'm on my second helping of chinese food... for lunch. fuck my fat life.

ID: fmfl

MS: haha. thanks. fmfl

ID: it's funny cause everybody knows that m is the fattest letter in the alphabet

MS: :'(

it's so true

She does not think I'm cool

Having not spoken to my parents in a week, I just finished a phone conversation with my mom with: "Ok, have a good one."

Now that is family intimacy.

I'm a teachah, mufukas

Ok, not quite. I’m a teacher candidate. But close enough. Incidentally, for those not in the know, the Jew thing just started to be way too much work, so I’ve peaced out on that and have decided that, rather than date 17 year olds, I should just teach them.

Teach them ‘bout my wang.

Sorry. That was inappropriate and probably pretty illegal.

We take several courses in our teachable subjects (drama + music = whatafag), psychology, electives and our education seminar, where we actually learn how to be teachers. Our instructor in this class is like our den mother and also Greek, leading me to call her My Big Fat Greek Mamma. In my head. And in my dreams…

Sadly, her own BFGM passes away a short while ago and she had to leave us for two weeks in order to fly back to Greece for the funeral. She probably did some sun-bathing, too. But mostly the funeral thing. Probably.

Before our first post-Hellenic class, I was a wreck. I don’t do well with those that are grieving, let alone a woman that I had known less than a month yet still desired to rest my head on her bosom. I’m not really sure why but I kind of worship her. It might be that she can’t pronounce ‘sheet’ and it always comes out as ‘shit’. She is my world.

I thought for days beforehand what I would say upon entering the classroom, but nothing short of flinging myself at her feet seemed appropriate. On the day of Her return, I walked into the class and OF COURSE BITCH WAS ALL IN BLACK. Fan-fucking-tastic. As if I wasn’t nervous enough, diva was practically wearing a veil of grief.

The legs and liver were shaking as I approached her, still undecided as to how I should convey my Big Fat Jewy Sympathy. Then tumbling out of my mouth came:

“Hi. You good?”

…

Ok.

Conjure, if you will, the myriad of things I could have said. Make a top 5 list. I dare ya. Now, is “Hi. You good?” anywhere on that list? No, it is not because it is the single douchiest thing a person could say to his mentor/new mother in her hour of need. It is also further evidence that I am never ever cool. Upon hearing the words escape my lips, I was filled with instant shame and regret. I wanted to get a poison arrow to the heel or feed myself to a hydra or choke on a moussaka sandwich. Anything to remove the sting of being the single awkwardest boy this side of the Aegean Sea. I prayed for the Olympian gods to rein down fiery ambrosia on my balding-at-an-even-quicker-pace-if-that's-even-possible head, to inflect such Promethean measures that my callow, stupid-headed poopy-facedness would ne'er rear its ugly 7-headed face again.

Then she turned and looked at me, closed her eyes, gave her head a little nod and said, "Yes, my beautiful angel darling. Is okay."

Tableau Un

I am waiting at Main Street subway station for a streetcar home. My yoke/load is easy/heavy, having just gone grocery shopping at the 24 Sobey's and local green-grocer. I do not like being weighed down by melons at the best of times, and this is no exception. I have opted to purchase my goods about 10 minutes from our house because the roommate is out of town and I have hobbitted myself up, with only the senile, colloquy cat for company. To trek the half hour by streetcar down to Kensington Market would have simply been too much.

Two people on the bench next to me, a man and a woman, are talking. I have my earphones in and so can't hear the content of their conversations but the occasional head nodding in my periphery is enough to alert me. After a while, the man stands up and leaves. The woman turns and mouths something to me. I take out one of my earphones and turn to her, noticing the overabundance of bags at her feet.

"Do you or anyone you know like candles?"

We gots a crazy. And I do not accept candles from crazies.

"Um, my friends and I are more incense people."

*Mental high five to self*

The streetcar mercifully pulls up and I wish the generous bag lady a good day. I get on and the car quickly pulls away. The lady has stayed on the bench. It would seem that her location is more of a social outlet than a mid-journey repose. A young man sits down on the bench next to her. They talk for a moment and then she starts fishing around in her bag with a huge smile on her face.

I wish I had taken a candle.

Tableau Deux

I am flouncing down the stairs humming to myself. I have just arrived home for the weekend, home being 1,500 km from where I live. Being in my old house, my old room, my old role brings up massive, ecstatic waves of nostalgia. I am remembering sitting by my tape deck, blank tape inside, with my finger on the record button, waiting to push it as soon as I hear a song I like. (By my 12th birthday, I would have about 20 of these tapes.)

I stroll into the kitchen, humming the bass line from Whigfield's universally-recognized record, "Saturday Night," and I hear from the other room, in a rich, husky, Hungarian baritone:

"DEEDEE-DAH-DAH-DAH!"

My stomach sinks as my father pokes his head into the kitchen.

"You didn't think I knew that song did you? Well it's one of my favourites. It's on the swirly purple and blue cover CD."

I start the bass line again, and again on cue my father comes in with "Deedee-dah-dah-dah." Twice.

"Dad, that only happens once, right at the beginni-"

"No! It happens twice! I know this!"

Later in the weekend, I will walk into the family to the busting 90's beats of Saturday Night and my father will shamefacedly admit that it does, in fact, only happen once. He's checked. Three times.