These are the text messages I sent my wife Rachelle on Monday:

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Me: Yep.

Me: Dropped Jones off at daycare and am now at the polling station getting ready to cast my vote for mayor!

Me: No.

Me: Mayor McCheese is not on the ballot.

Me: It is a shame. Not only is he VERY experienced, but he’s also delicious.

Me: I agree, we do underestimate taste when it comes to appraising our candidates.

Me: I think Doug Ford would have been a buttery mayor, like wagyu beef.

Me: John Tory? The current mayor? Beef jerky.

Me: He looks creepy. Desiccated and plastic, like if you bred a dry roasted peanut with a Ken doll. Looks like somebody from Blue Rodeo who suddenly got really, really old!

Me: No.

Me: No, that’s not a “dig” at Jim Cuddy.

Me: All I’m saying is that his opponent, Jennifer Keesmaat, has aged pretty well.

Me: What?

Me: Look, all I mean is that she looks as good now as she did 15 years ago. Let’s smash the patriarchy and vote for her!!

Me: Oh.

Me: Well, when you put it like that I guess it does sound a bit like I’m going to smash the patriarchy by voting for a woman I think has aged well.

Me: And you think that’s wrong?

Me: Okay.

Me: Well, in my defence I knew JK back in the day.

Me: Didn’t I tell you?

Me: But look, I also like her transit plan. Very smart. And let me assure you, she’s more than just another pretty face! You should vote for The Keezer!

Me: A nickname I had for her.

Me: Oh, that was so long ago.

Me: Lava Life, I think.

Me: We only went out on one date.

Me: Went to Maine for a long weekend.

Me: Yeah, I guess it was a three day date.

Me: What did we do?

Me: Well, she’s a HUGE Stephen King fan so we went on a tour of his house in Bangor.

Otherwise, we just drank some wine, walked the beaches, talked policy. Stuff like that.

Me: Hunh!

Me: Hadn’t thought about that, but yeah, Stephen King’s house is my screen saver.

Me: Look, I hadn’t even met you yet!

Me: Rest assured, if you were running for mayor I would vote for you!

Me: You would organize the hell out of this city!

Me: You really would.

Me: And I LOVE the idea of making Toronto a Sanctuary City for all the lost animals of the world.

Me: You would be a way better mayor than JK.

Me: I would be a Russian bot for you.

Me: I would lie to congress for you.

Me: You wouldn’t believe how many laws I would break for you political ambition!!

Me: People would be screaming at me every  goddamn time I tried to eat out. You can bet your bottom dollar on that.

Me: It’s true. You are the fire with which I burn. You have all of me, my love, you always have and always will.

Me: Yes.

Me: Absolutely. You have my word.

Me: I will change my screen saver.

Whenever I’m in one I think of some punitive elementary school. There’s an entire galaxy of largely symbolic rules, and everything associated with us is measured, weighed and timed. And as you stand in line you find yourself worrying about whether you remembered to bring your phone charger. Or your cool sneakers. Or your medicine. And so it goes, and never for a second do you forget that what you are about to do may be the last thing you ever do in your life.

Flying is something of a miracle, and we’re all, at least partially, expecting it to fail. And who can blame us for this suppressed expectation? Any time a plane crashes it’s international news. When the story breaks, people all over the world, those doing dishes or clicking “like,” are wondering just how they would have behaved in their last terrified moments as fire, cloud and sky sped by.

And please don’t forget the terrorists.

They might materialize at any moment. If you forget this, there is a terror alert, like a goal-thermometer on a fundraising marathon, warning you that today, the day you’re to give your first professional speech, the terror alert is ORANGE.

So air transit, even in a best case scenario, is a tense thing.

I imagine that Dr. Dao, the man who was dragged bleeding off a United flight earlier this week, was feeling some of this tension and uncertainty as he waited for his plane to fly him home to Kentucky.

Now we’ve all seen the video, and everybody knows that what took place was wrong.

However, the corporate face of United used the word “re-accommodation” to describe what happened. This is the kind of soft evil that creeps into our lives each day, and then stays there, existing beneath our skin like some sort of bacteria. We know all about over-booking now, and it all reduces to the airline valuing profit over people. This is the corporate way upon which our society functions. What seems to have shocked the microsystem in this case was that nobody would take a material inducement to give up their seat.

And what’s the corporate ethos in such a situation?

And so they dragged him screaming and bleeding from his seat. The law, of course, is behind United. Trapped in this culture where being busy is seen as a sign of status, we’re all so desperate to escape the heaviness of our lives and get to the beach in Veradaro,

that we accept that we might be “re-accommodated” when we buy our tickets. We sign-off on the fact that although we’ve bought a ticket and made all sorts of arrangements contingent on the timing of that flight, we might still lose our seat.

It’s kind of insane. The law allows a corporation to hedge on their services in order for them to maximize profits, even if it’s a ruinous policy for individual consumers. That the law favours corporate growth over human security is nothing new, but this is a particularly vivid example of the amoral structure that pins over our lives.

In the aftermath, Dr. Dao’s was vilified– a tactic minority communities know all too intimately—and the saga, now diffused through late night talk shows, social media and PR flak, is about to replaced by the next meme-worthy event. And still, the corporations will preside over us like gods, and because we believe we need what they offer, we will ignore our own intuition and continue to be subordinate to them, regardless the cost to human dignity and instinct.

This year, in an effort to be a little more sensitive to those who might be upset by the images, Sports Illustrated hired me to write Trigger Warnings to precede each photograph:

Trigger Warning:

Viewing of the following image of totally inaccessible supermodel Tanya Mituyshin may trigger traumatic memories of the time you saw high school goddess Marie-Therese Vitzhum in a bikini at a pool party when you were in grade 10. You might recall how out of your league she was and how she seemed like she might have been from Europe, or some angel galaxy that was as far from Ottawa as anything could possible be. You might recall feeling bony, insufficient and pale, watching as she sat piggyback on the shoulders of the muscular Randy Rafter, her breasts pressing against the back of his head as she leaned forward laughing. This image of Tanya Mituyshin could trigger such memories, creating a constant, deeply haunting reminder that you never mustered the courage to speak to MT– as she was known to her friends– and how regardless of the status and success you might achieve, you will always feel like that overlooked and scared 14 year-old boy.

Trigger Warning:

Viewing of the following image of supermodel Hannah Davies may trigger traumatic memories for people who have had difficult relationships with fishing nets in their past. This photograph could spark a deeply repressed memory of the time your friend, as a “prank,” threw a fishing net over you down by the boathouse while attending a cottage party, and instead of fighting to escape from the net, you lay in a fetal position and quietly wept for your mother, certain that you were about to be murdered, as you had always had premonitions of death by fish net.

Trigger Warning:

Viewing the following image of supermodel Gigi Hadid may trigger feelings of profound resentment and homicidal rage in people with a history of despising life in a society where Gigi Hadid, a glittering, young celebrity, is considered an achievable model of feminine beauty. Recollections of unreasonable and cruel demands may flood over you as you navigate the aisles of Shopper’s Drug Mart, your mind flashing red to every cultural message that has ever helped make you feel that you were somehow just not enough. You’re just trying to get some shit done after a long, grinding day behind your desk at the Ministry of Transportation, and then there’s Gigi, smoulder-glowing out at you from the pages of a stupid magazine, and suddenly, before you know it, you’ve kicked the hell out of an entire display stand of kale-and-beet-infused shampoo and punched-out a pharmacist, Club Optima points be damned.

1. It’s late at night and I’m at my laptop playing WordCrack on Facebook.

I’m killing it. Words are just coming to me as if by magic. I’m easily the best WordCrack player who has ever existed. I am happy and at peace, surging through my life with the confidence and brilliance of an elite athlete. And then, amidst all the letters in the scramble, I see the name Jones popping up. I know it means something important and that it’s my duty to highlight and score the letters in order to keep my son safe, but when I try to do this, his name vanishes and appears somewhere else. I’m desperate, frantic in my attempts, but his name keeps eluding me, and then suddenly my time is up and I’ve failed. My score is zero. With a sense of dread I walk toward the nursery to check on Jones, but I know he won’t be there, that he’s gone, and that it’s my fault because I wasn’t a good enough WordCrack player.

2. Laetitia Casta and I are on a beach.

“Do you want me to climb up that tree and get you a coconut, mon cherie?” I ask her.

She says that she does and I shimmy up the tree with the greatest of ease. As I start to shake the tree, Laetitia does a cute, little dance for me down on the beach, “You are such a nimble, little monkey!” she says.

I can feel the sun on my face and the salt water breeze wafting through my hair. I am young and invincible. I shake the tree trunk a little bit harder, hollering like Tarzan, and this makes Laetitia laugh, and a coconut breaks free and begins to fall toward the beach, but instantly, it turns into Jones. I scream and throw myself after him, and I am falling for an eternity through a kind of darkness, never catching up to him, and then I wake up in a cold, poisonous sweat.

3. Rachelle, Jones and I are playing Risk.

I have amassed all my troops in Quebec and have assured myself victory, but Rachelle and Jones make a pact and gang-up on me. I try to be good natured about this, but inside I am burning with anger and jealousy. In short order they eliminate all my troops and knock me out of the game, laughing together as they do so. I start to scream at Jones, “You’ve always loved your mother more than me, always!!” And then I wake up feeling like an asshole, trailing this weight of shame behind me all day long.

Q. What is your idea of perfect happiness?

A. To live a life free of false reports about Syria, and the constant threat of US propaganda and weaponry insulting and destroying our lives!

Q. What is your greatest fear?

A. Bombs.

Q. Which living person do you most admire?

A. I admire my brothers in the Syrian Electronic Army.

Q. What is your favourite journey?

A. It is when I journey online to hack American systems. I feel like I am visiting the nation myself and that I fight for truth and freedom. Of course, I also look forward to the Haj once I am older, have more money and less threats hanging over my head, and as strange as it may sound, I would also like to see Disneyland.

Q. What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

A. Physical strength. It is more important to be strong in the heart and mind. It amazes me that girls– Amira in particular– never seem to see this truth.

Q. On what occasion do you lie?

A. To protect the secrecy of the Syrian Electronic Army.

Q. Which living person do you most despise?

A. I hate Barack Obama very much, as I do Bush 1 and Bush 2, but I truly despise Harout. He is dishonest with the girls that I know, particularly sweet Amira, and he does not care about them, only himself and wrestling. He will know the wrath of the Syrian Electronic Army!

Q. What do you dislike most about your appearance?

A. I would like to be physically bigger and stronger so that I might punch Harout and win Amira from him. I would hit him in the throat so hard he would no longer be able to eat.

Q. What is your greatest regret?

A. It is personal, but it has to do with Amira.

Q. What or who is the greatest love of your life?

A. Next question, please.

Q. What is the trait you deplore most in yourself?

A. Ha! That one is as easy to hack as The Huffington Post! I am terribly messy and you can ask any of my brothers if this is the truth! Also, I do not spend enough time with my pet.

Q. What is the trait you most deplore in others?

A. It is the hypocritical bombing of a free people.

Q. What is your greatest extravagance?

A. Sneakers. I have many pairs, perhaps 20.

Q. When and where were you happiest?

A. It was on the beach at Ras Al Bassit. Amira and I laughed and played in the waves as it rained one early evening. We were dolphins.

The airport felt like a miniature, a Fisher-Price toy but with real adults walking around inside. Everything had a quirky, taped-together quality to it, as if created by precocious children for a school project rather than sober-minded adults focused on industry. Women in short-skirted uniforms projected an aggressive, practically florid boredom and mangy dogs with character wandered about the parking lot.

I wondered what their names might be.

El Capatain.

One-Eye.

Fanta.

Rachelle and I were in the city of Matanzas until morning. It was a Friday night and locals, girls with big asses jammed into hot pants and Jersey Shore boys bleeding cologne, streamed by. Scavenging dogs rooted through garbage and cats flicked into the darkness of parks from which idling men hissed  at Rachelle as we walked down the street. Occasionally, a person would stare from their front steps– hands on hips as if in challenge– and then suddenly, the moment broken by a parrot speaking language from the unseen foliage above.

We passed by a pizza place and an older man called to us from the patio.

“It is no accident!” he shouted. “No, the Lord makes no mistakes and for sure has placed us in one another’s paths!”

We couldn’t have been more curious and sat down with this man. He was 70 and had been educated as a boy in Virginia. He’d spent his life an inveterate gambler, alcoholic and adulterer, but he had been rescued by Jesus and believing that Rachelle and I were missionaries– so out of place, innocent and happy did we look—that he wanted to share his story and faith.

We ate pizza and drank wine while behind us the indifferent, possibly angry waitress watched music videos from the 1980s on the TV.

Blondie.

Phil Collins.

Lionel Richie.

Big Audio Dynamite.

“What did you gamble on?” I wanted to know.

“All of it, cock fighting, dice, poker. The devil had me in his grip.”

“Were you good at poker?”

With a little bit of pride the man leaned back, “Yes, I think that I was.”

“I am not. Tell me how to improve my game, even if it includes cheating. Especially if it includes cheating.”

“No, gambling is wrong and I can see you are not a cheater. This beautiful woman beside you is your watchtower.”

“She’s my lighthouse.”

“You are a lucky man, God has smiled upon you. He who loves with a pure heart and whose speech is gracious will have the king for his friend. Proverbs 22:11.”

And then he reached out and held my hands.

“The Lord brought you here to me so that I might caution you of Havana. It is a sinful place. Many are desperate and you will appear as a walking dollar sign to them. Alone without language you are vulnerable to their tricks. Be careful and trust in the Lord, trust in the salvation of all, for even I was saved.”