A true family leader.
As such, I often find it necessary to call family meetings so that my wife Rachelle, and our nearly three year-old son, Jones, can discuss important issues as they arise. These are the minutes from a recent meeting:
*************************************************************************
Michael: Okay, Meeting #36 is now in order. On Friday we’ve been invited to Claire’s for dinner. However, it’s not a simple matter. There are options, so please listen carefully. We can go in the afternoon, with Jones, and have a swim then an early dinner, getting back in time for Jones’ bedtime, or we can go over later, without Jones, and have an adult meal. Concerns? Preferences? Please speak freely, this is a safe space.
Rachelle: Do you know where the corkscrew is?
Michael: Since when did we start buying wine that needed a corkscrew?
Jones: I WANT TO WATCH THE SCARY SKULLS!!
Michael: Jones, we are having a family meeting right now. You can watch a video later.
Jones: NO!!!
Rachelle: Found it! It was in your desk drawer. Amidst several corks.
Michael: Well, that’s odd.
Rachelle: Not if you’re a secret drinker, it’s not.
Michael: That’s a pretty big glass you’re pouring yourself.
Jones: SCARY SKULLS!! SCARY SKULLS! SCARY SKULLS!!
Michael: No Jones! We’re having a meeting here, and there will be no videos until we’ve come to a decision about dinner on Friday! Also, you get stigmata from watching too many videos. It’s very bad for your eyes, and you want to be able to see everything, just like the Falcon that soars in the sky above, right?
Jones: WANT TO SEE SCARY SKULLS!!
Michael: Sweet Jesus child, okay, okay, okay.
Rachelle: The optometrist said that by feeding him an excessive diet of videos in order to avoid responsible parenting and gain his approval you were putting him at risk for astigmatism, not stigmata. Stigmata is the spontaneous manifestation of marks on the body that correspond to Jesus’ crucifixion wounds,
while astigmatism is an eye problem.
Michael: Are you sure?
Rachelle: Yes.
Michael: Patricia Arquette. She was in a movie called Stigmata, wasn’t she? Now I remember! She was a hot hair dresser in that one.
Rachelle: Yes.
Michael: Remember the bath scene? She was having a bath and then some invisible demon seizes her and she’s trashing about like mad, kicking and flailing her arms, yet somehow, somehow you still don’t see anything? So unrealistic.
Rachelle: Yes, I thought the exact same thing. Stigmata, a movie about a sex bomb with demonic possession, was unrealistic because you never got to see the lead actress entirely naked.
Michael: Okay, let’s get back on track here. We have to figure out how we’re going to approach Friday.
Jones: Can I have strawberries, mommy? I want strawberries.
Rachelle: After dinner, sweetie.
Michael: What is for dinner anyway?
Rachelle: It was your turn to get it.
Michael: Oh. Right. Yeah, I was going to make a special rice and carrot thing in the Instant Pot.
Rachelle: We will all look forward to it, and by the way, I spoke with Claire and we’re going to go over around three, have a swim and a light snack, and then return home in time for Jones’ bedtime at 7:30.
Michael: Oh.
Michael: All in favour?
Michael: Okay, motion passes.
Michael: I think I read somewhere that the Instant Pot was dangerous, like a bomb, so maybe we can have Swiss Chalet instead. They’re offering crispy chicken as a featured item now. The Family Pak comes with pickles and dinner rolls. It’s a pretty solid deal.
]]>The event first came to my attention back in 2006 when Stephen Colbert delivered a lacerating, satiric monologue to George W. Bush and his dubious assembly. I was astonished and exhilarated by the performance. It struck me as incredibly brave, a truly patriotic display of dissent that deserved all the awards. It was the sort of thing I could imagine being taught in university classes.
Of course, this was during the era of Jon Stewart and The Daily Show, and I was already a huge fan of all things Colbert. The emergence of their shows changed the way that I, and a lot of people, digested their news. Network News Hours were no longer the sole, or even primary means of disseminating “the news.” The dull, superficial theatre of traditional networks was giving way to the faster, more entertaining curation of the Comedy Network. News was changing, becoming something like sketch comedy, and each night we got to choose what sort of news we wanted. Colbert and Stewart were the new Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw.
Stewart and Colbert’s were always very persuasive and funny, and it was easy enough to forget that they were in no way balanced or objective, but as Stewart was always at pains to point out, he was performing comedy, not providing a comprehensive analysis of American politics. Nevertheless, it was around this point that we all started to migrate into separate news camps, existing happily amidst our tribe without ever having to intersect with an idea outside of our chosen position.
And now, about a dozen years later, Donald Trump is President.
It’s my theory that the age of Trump has put a kind of freeze on comedy. You simply cannot satirize the man, as everything he does is so far beyond the range of expectation that he completely obliterates the idea of expectation, and without that there can be no satire. I mean, not a single person on the planet would be surprised if one day he removed his human face on TV.
To make matters worse, we’re so polarized in our beliefs that we no longer have a shared understanding of what is true or what should be funny. People aren’t even certain where power lies right now– just that they have enemies, so, so many enemies! And one of the shadows cast by living this way is that comedy has become little more than simply mocking your enemies.
At any rate, this brings me to the White House Correspondents Dinner that just took place, the one that featured Michelle Wolf from the Daily Show taking the piss out of Sarah Huckabee.
I didn’t watch all of it, and only saw snatches of her performance as it repeated throughout my social media feeds. I guess what I really saw was a meme, and my response was instinctive rather than analytic, and in this peripheral reading what I saw was not justice triumphing, but a person in a moment of power hurting someone else. Huckabee didn’t look like she was acting hurt, she looked like she was hurt, and it made me feel badly to see that.
I’m not sure why this is. Huckabee doesn’t align with my politics, so shouldn’t I take pleasure in seeing her receive her just comeuppance in front of the entire world, all dressed up as she was in her finest dress? Well, I don’t know. I have been furious in my life, wounded so deeply that all I wanted to do was verbally destroy a person, and I’ve followed through on that and let me assure you, there is no pleasure to be had in making somebody cry. It felt horrible to see the consequence of my words made manifest in the face of another human being. I don’t know, maybe now that I’m old and mortal, and a father to a young son, I’ve started to value mercy over justice. Maybe I just can’t find anything funny in this absurd mess we’re all in.
I honestly have no idea.
What is clear is that The White House Correspondent’s Dinner is a ridiculous anachronism, a kind of entertainment award’s show, that should just be cancelled. It was obviously designed as an insider event, an acknowledgment that although the media and the political class they covered had to sometime assume adversarial positions, they were still both privileged, with much more in common than not. And for one night they would all admit they were actually in the business of entertainment and just relax, but now they’re not so much on the same team. Now there are many teams, each one feeding on whatever it is that’s bubbled up from our collective unconscious and now lives in the swampland of social media. Its’ a war now, one with too many fronts to count, and humour is hard to find.
]]>If you don’t know who he is, he was one of the stars of the hit 90’s sitcom Friends.
Don’t be impressed by that. There were too many “stars” to count on that stupid show. Even a monkey was a star on that show. A monkey. Not Curious George. Not the Ikea Monkey. Just a regular, annoying monkey, so Matthew’s “star status” is really no big deal at all.
Just like in high school.
Matthew may have had famous parents and a cheap California tan, but I was the real star at Lisgar Collegiate Institute in Ottawa. Not only was I president of the UFO club, but I was also a great athlete, and I used to crush Perry mercilessly at tennis.
All.
Day.
Long.
It used to infuriate him! He would throw his expensive tennis racquets all over the place, complain that I was “foot faulting” or not wearing proper whites. Bullshit stuff like that. Anyway, the bottom line is that I destroyed him and made the tennis team while he did not. This final humiliation seemed to break Matthew, and after that he was my subordinate, little yes-man.
Matthew has been pretty unemployable since Friends, and thirsty for a little bit of publicity, he recently went on Jimmy Kimmel and announced that he and another kid, “Chris Murray,” once beat up Canadian Prime Minister and sex symbol Justin Trudeau back in school.
http://www.womansday.co.nz/celebrity/matthew-perry-admits-he-once-beat-up-justin-trudeau-7383
This is not true.
As Matthew still respects and fears me, he wouldn’t dare use my real name in public, but I was the “Chris Murray” mentioned.
To make a long story short, I was giving a presentation– in the hopes of recruiting future members to my high school UFO club–to Justin’s fifth grade class. After my talk I opened the floor up for questions:
Justin: Je ne peux m’empêcher de remarquer que les filles semblent être sous-représentées dans le club UFO. Pourriez-vous nous expliquer pourquoi?
Me: What?
Justin: Oh, I see you don’t speak French. What a shame. What I was asking was why aren’t there any girls in the UFO club. Are they not allowed?
Me: Girls??
Justin: Yes, girls. They comprise over half the population. ( Class, including teacher, roar with laughter)
Me: No girl has ever tried to join the UFO club. Would any want to?? Do you think you could get us one!?
Justin: That’s not my job. Your job is to create a safe and inclusive environment so they’ll want to join. Girls, would you like to join this creepy, unilingual, UFO club for boys, or would you rather form your own right here?! ( Class, including teacher, roar with approval)
Some other things happened, but in short, I delegated Matthew to beat up Justin after school, however Matthew failed, as I should have known he would fail, and I had to step in to do the job properly. At this time in my life I got nose bleeds very easily, and my bleed had nothing to do with Justin, who mistakenly thought the fight was over and was walking away like a coward. I tackled him and was just about to apply the finishing gotchy when some little girl kicked me in the back of the neck.
I had to wear a brace for six weeks after that.
And sadly, Matthew and I then drifted apart and the UFO Club just sort of faded away.
I didn’t have much of an appetite for the Oscar’s this year.
Normally I’d be all in, enjoying the glittering and flimsy spectacle as much anybody, but this year felt different, and whatever spirit or anticipation I’d typically bring to the affair was just not there. In fact, I was dreading it, imaging it another long– really long– continuation of all the sneering, bitter arguments that were ceaselessly looping through my media feeds.
Social media has begun to feel like tuning in to some late-night AM radio call-in show. The voices, disembodied and angry, fire from the dark, each one inveighing some furious certainty. There is no complaint too small or too large, and each one comes obsessively detailed by the over-confident sender. There’s an urgency to all these declarations, too, as if impulse more than thought, and the momentum always moves forward– retreat or rumination, let alone a kind of sympathy, utterly unthinkable.
To willingly step into this each day, as I do, is an act of madness. To me, it feels like being closed in a room with a hundred growling dogs while the unmediated grievances of the world strobe in front of you. It colours your mood, this, so even before something of “actuality” happens in your physical life, you’re already tense and combat ready– you’ve already become somebody you don’t want to be. And I swear, if we could somehow tap into the cataract of doomed energy that feeds this monster, we would be masters of the universe.
Initially I had imagined the Internet as something almost utopian. It would be democratizing and unifying, kind of like The Force, and united by the millions we would be able to destroy evil Death Stars. Instead, it’s proven to be infinitely divisive, revealing that the Internet itself might be a horrible Death Star.
The limitless options presented by technology have moved us away from what had been commonly shared. Whatever our interests may be, however perverse, remote or idiosyncratic, we can find a subculture dedicated to that passion or hatred online. We are never alone, but our channels never seem to be open, either. Living in gluttonous echo chambers of our own devising, we now customize our experiences, changing them to suit our needs rather than adopting to the mean. In this way, popular culture is being eradicated, with each person becoming a hermetically sealed culture unto themselves.
Naturally, the idea of compassion or empathy withers in this climate of radical tribalization. It’s now completely normal for people to proudly boast of de-Friending somebody who disagrees with their politics or to happily live within the paradox of being tolerant of everything but intolerance. If you step into Twitter, far from finding a marketplace for the free exchange of ideas, you find a war zone. Every once in a while you pop up from your trench, fire off a few salvos at the enemy, and then duck down again—kind of like a shooter game.
The Internet in the age of Trump ( who I believe saw and exploited this rather than created it), is a grim landscape lacking in kindness.
Full of hall monitors ready to pounce on anybody not adhering to the common orthodoxy, it’s a place you go to confirm your certainties and your enemy’s idiocies. It is a place where fighting, where aggression is the entertainment, and it is perhaps the loneliest place on the planet.
I continued to watch her, and just a little further up the street she joined a small group of 20-something women waiting for her on the sidewalk. They were beautiful and happy, these women. Smiles were their default setting, and as they stood there in a semi-circle chatting with one another and comparing the signs they’d made for the Women’s March, they seemed so full of light as to very nearly be glowing. They were going off to do something important, they were going to try to influence the world rather than merely survive in it, and knowing that made me hopeful and proud.
I didn’t actually attend the Women’s March. I was a little bit uncertain if it was my place to be there or not, and so I stayed home and watched from the sidelines. But I should have known just from looking at these women, from the way they genially accepted my clumsy thumbs up from the window, that I would have been entirely welcome.
Millions of people, it turned out, rose to this occasion, millions were welcome.
All through the day my social media streams were flooded with images from the marches. As I was following via Facebook and Twitter, I was seeing the feeds of people I knew and loved, so they were not strangers to me, but real people– warm, intelligent and kind people with complicated and sometimes difficult lives. It was their faces, and those of their daughters and sons and partners that were looking back at me from my computer monitor, and regardless of how heavy or congested their lives might have become, there they were, all so beautiful and strong and joyous.
And in spite of the sneering rhetoric that’s been the baseline of our daily lives for so long now, the marches had a celebratory, almost parade-like quality. They were happy places, and they opened up a new space, one that allowed us the opportunity to pause and breathe deeply for a moment.
It was incredibly moving to watch this, cathartic even, and I am not overstating things when I say that I felt like something essential had just changed in the world.
For one day our concerns and anxieties were blown away like bad weather and we felt safe and protected, encircled by a good that was spreading out in concentric circles. And everywhere you looked, you saw one of your better angels smiling back at you, there they were, thousands and thousands and thousands of them, building that shining city on the hill.
**********************************
The other day President-elect Donald Trump gathered his cabinet together for a round of golf and some frank talk about America.
A transcript of their conversation in the locker room of Trump National Golf Course in Westchester, NY was leaked to the press:
*******************************
Wilbur Ross, Commerce Secretary:
Hey, you bitches know Florida, right?
General James “Mad Dog” Mattis, Defense Secretary:
Total smoke show.
Jeff Sessions, Attorney General:
That baby got back!
Mike Pence, Vice President-elect:
Testify!
Donald Trump, President-elect:
I love her coasts. Superb coasts. The best coasties in all of America. I love to get right in there, stick my face in the them and just splash them all around.
Reince Priebus, White House Chief of Staff:
It is no Russian propaganda that you sir, are the the greatest man on the planet!
Jeff Sessions, Attorney General:
You da man! Big dog always huntin’!
Ben Carson, Housing and Urban Development Secretary:
She ever let you into her Everglades?
Donald Trump, President-elect:
Let me tell you, her Everglades are very exclusive, like so, so super exclusive that you wouldn’t even believe, and let me tell you, I have been to her Everglades many, many, many times. She can’t get enough. When I’m with her, I make it rain.
Reince Priebus, White House Chief of Staff:
You’re the RainMaker, sir!
General James “Mad Dog” Mattis, Defense Secretary:
I once had a layover in Delaware. Did some real drilling there, let me tell you, yeah, some real drilling.
Donald Trump, President-elect:
Delaware?! She’s a village bicycle. Disease infested. Strictly bottom-rung. Not even a 6 out of 10.
Jeff Sessions, Attorney General:
Yo, you better get yourself checked by your doctor, could have the crabs.
Donald Trump, President-elect:
“Brain Surgeon!” Give The General here an examination, tell us if Delaware gave him the clap.
Ben Carson, Housing and Urban Development Secretary:
I can tell from here he’s got SDD, Small Dick Disease, and that it’s terminal!
Mike Pence, Vice President-elect:
That sick burn pleases the Lord!!
( High-fives and laughter from all)
Reince Priebus, White House Chief of Staff:
Anyone playing Call of Duty: Infinite Warfare?
Wilbur Ross, Commerce Secretary:
Fucking rules. Took three Ativan and played it for eight straight hours last night.
Reince Priebus, White House Chief of Staff:
Zombie mode is the tits!
Donald Trump, President-elect:
Okay, okay, girls, let’s focus. Listen up. Okay. There’s a black guy and a Mexican in a car. Who is driving?
(The cabinet is silent)
Donald Trump, President-elect:
The cop!!
(The cabinet howls with laughter!)
Jeff Sessions, Attorney General:
You got to Tweet that one, President-elect!
Donald Trump, President-elect:
Okay, who lost that round of golf? Was it Ross the Loss? No? “Brain Surgeon”? Was it you? Bad Hombre Priebus? No, okay we’ll make it Sloppy Second Pence. Pence you’re today’s loser and have to buy us all dinner. Has to be an exceptional meal, super exceptional, the very best, and if it is, I’ll bring out those Sarah Palin hot tub pics I was telling you about.
As fate would have it, actress Chloe Sevigny was sitting at the table directly beside us.
Subtly, like a panther at night, I went back to the patio, had a look around, came back to the bar, stretched a few times, and then discreetly took a photograph of Sevigny as she ate lunch.
This is what happened after I returned to my seat and sat down:
Chloe Sevigny: I know what you did.
Me: Sorry?
Chloe Sevigny: I know what you did.
Me: Last summer?
Chloe Sevigny: (Dripping with sarcasm) Oh, you’re so clever! You should write for Hollywood! Look, I know that you just took a picture of me without permission. I saw you, asshole.
Me: Lady, I don’t even have a clue who you are.
Chloe Sevigny: Don’t give me that bullshit, you know damn well who I am!
Me: Are you a homely 16 year-old boy dressed up like he’s in some metal hair band for Halloween?
Rachelle: (Urgent whispering) Pickle, just apologize and the shut-up so we can move on, okay?
Me: (To Rachelle) I didn’t do anything wrong! I just went to the patio to see if they had better looking servers out there! I’m not apologizing for that!
Chloe Sevigny: (To Rachelle) I feel sorry for you. Your life must be a real challenge.
Rachelle: Oh, I know, it is, it is. He did the same thing when we saw some actress from Law & Order at the airport. He said he was taking photographs of the luggage for a gallery show, but of course…
Me: It wasn’t some actress, damn it, it was Angie Harmon!
Rachelle: And then her football player husband came over and asked what was going on, and my husband’s nose began to bleed!
Chloe Sevigny: (As if this was the most hilarious thing she has ever heard in her life, Sevingy does a spit-take the way you would expect from a bad, over-rated actress.)
Me: It was the dry air from the plane trip.
Rachelle: We were getting on a flight, not off.
Me: No we weren’t.
Chloe Sevigny: (To her friend) I think it’s time for us to leave.
Me: You know what? A real fashion icon would want her photo taken, she’s be flattered, and you know what else? Hilary Swank carried you in Boys Don’t Cry, she carried you! Your careers have really gone in different directions since then, haven’t they?
01 Jan 1999 — FILM ‘BOYS DON’T CRY’ DIRECTED BY KIMBERLY PEIRCE — Image by © CORBIS SYGMA
Chloe Sevingy: (Gives me the finger, drops a bunch of cash on the table and leaves without finishing her meal)
( I have saved Chloe Sevigny’s unfinished burger and am in the process of selling a photograph of it to the fetish site, Unfinished Celebrity Burgers. However, I will be putting the real leftover, which is in a ziplock bag in my fridge, on Ebay, but am happy to take offers from anybody reading now. )
]]>
The Leafs are on TV, but they’re losing again and nobody much seems to care, instead, they focus on the consoles in front of them, concentrating on the trivia game unfolding on the monitors above the bar.
“Which film features a man living the same day over and over again?”
The guy to my right, who is still in his FedEx uniform, is startled to attentiveness by this question, “Groundhog Day, Groundhog Day!” he shouts as if sounding an alarm.
The other men, slowly and silently, reluctantly even, nod—tell them something they didn’t know.
To my left is a man who smells like cigarette smoke and is wearing the sort of sweater that invites fascination and curiosity. How old is that sweater? Was it a gift? If not, what was it that attracted him to it? He’s the most animated person in the bar, giggling nervously and speaking quickly, his eyes always darting. He and the bartender, an efficient but world-weary bald guy, have a rapport, a banter, and they’re trying to stump one another with arcane Simpson’s trivia and forgotten players from the OJ trial.
Mark Furhman!
Nicole Simpson’s dog was a white Akita!
Can I borrow a feeling by Kirk Van Houten!
All night the conversation jumps about in this way. They’re no longer the people that they became, but are now floating free, inhabiting a nostalgic landscape where they remain limitless and ascending. O, there are just so many details to untangle and isolate, to cherish… Episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation, what country was the best to build your base from when playing Risk, and later, the naming of all the Replicants from Blade Runner, each one uttered with tenderness and respect, as if each one a kind of miracle, like a love from the past who was never to be seen again.
It’s a complicated and unresolved situation at this point, but in short, Ghomeshi, a popular radio personality in Canada, was fired from his job because his BDSM sexual proclivities– and the serious allegations stemming from them– were brought to the attention of his employers who decided, upon careful reflection, that they could no longer work with him as he damaged the brand. It is more intricate and terrible than just that, of course, and crisis management teams, wounded parties and insane lawsuits are now a part of the sex storm, but one thing that has happened with absolute certainty is that I now know way more about BDSM and the laws governing it than I ever imagined I would.
As I am a very adventurous and sensual person, I have suggested to my wife that we experiment with some BDSM in our life and she readily agreed. This is the BDSM Journal that I have been keeping.
Day 1
Submissive role: Rachelle
Dominant role: Me
Me: I DON’T WANT TO WATCH NASHVILLE TONIGHT!!
Rachelle: Pickle, I don’t think you’re supposed to yell, I think it’s more a tone thing.
Me: Oh.
Rachelle: Don’t worry. This is new for both of us, just try again.
Me: Okay.
Me: (Clears throat and delivers line sounding like Clint Eastwood) I don’t want to watch that damn Nashville tonight.
Rachelle: No honey, you sound like an old man
Me: Is that good? Does it turn you on?
Rachelle: No, not really. Let’s just watch Nashville, okay?
Grade of experience: 6 out of 10
Day 2
Dominant role: Rachelle
Submissive role: Me
Rachelle: We’re going to Ikea today to find some storage solutions and maybe a runner for the dining room table!
Me: I’m not feeling well.
Rachelle: OBEY ME, SLAVE!!
Me: Coldplay! Coldplay! Coldplay!
Rachelle: Honey, that’s not the safe word.
Me: I forgot it. What is it?
Rachelle: I’m not allowed to tell you. GET IN THE CAR, WE’RE GOING TO IKEA, MAGGOT FACE!
Me: Cold sore! Cold sore! Cold sore!
Rachelle; No, slave, that’s not it either! Put on your leash and get in the car, I COMMAND THEE!!
Me: Are we taking the dog with us?
Rachelle: YES!!
Grade of experience: 0 out of 10
Day 3
Dominant role: Me
Submissive role: Rachelle
Me: Please pass me the salad!
Rachelle: Yes, master.
Grade of experience: 9 out of 10
Day 4
Sadistic role: Rachelle
Masochistic role: Me
Rachelle: I have made bulgur for dinner tonight! It is an excellent source of fiber! Eat it now, worm!!
Me: I have been feeling a little clogged up lately. I deserve to be punished, master.
Rachelle: (Takes my glass of wine away)
Me: Hey! What the fuck???
Rachelle: You are forbidden from having any more wine this week! You drink too much and it’s bad for you, my cockroach!
Me: Cold war! Cold war! Cold war!
Rachelle: Pitiful fool, you’re not even close with the safe word! Teaches you for not listening to your master, now eat your bulgur!!
Me: Is there any Sriracha, at least?
Rachelle: NO! YOU FORGOT TO PICK UP AT THE GROCERY STORY! NOW, SILENCE! (puts on the soundtrack to Dirty Dancing)
Grade of experience: 0 out of 10
It’s long been a dream of mine to play professional hockey, and this is a goal I’ve worked very hard to achieve. Unfortunately, I’ve never been quite good enough to make the grade, and as the years pass by my chances of making the NHL are rapidly diminishing. In an effort to remind the NHL GM’s and coaches who might still be looking for a character guy in the locker room, of just how committed I am to this dream, I am providing a short list of some of the things I’m willing to do to fulfill my dream of playing in the NHL.
I am perfectly willing to serve as a shutdown, 4th line centre, instead of the natural, 1st line scorer I am, if it gets me into the NHL faster.
I will continue with my figure skating lessons, trying to improve my balance and explosiveness on the ice in order to make me a better team player.
I would not hesitate to drop the gloves.
I will cut back on my shifts at David’s Tea in order to train more.
I would consent to wearing a suit and tie to and from the rink for every game.
I would kill a bird with a rock.
I would be willing to relocate.
If necessary, I would subordinate my natural leadership skills in order to better serve the team.
I will say no to hanging out with friends and going out to parties because I know I have to be up early the next morning to train.
I would have sex with Tom Hardy– even though I’m not gay or even remotely curious about what being gay might feel like– in order to prove how serious I am about playing in the NHL.
I would also have sex with Tom Hardy and Daniel Craig– even though I’m not gay or even remotely curious to know what it might feel like to be gay with two other stunning and sexy men– in order to prove how serious I am about playing in the NHL.
I would give up my participation in fantasy hockey in order to protect the integrity of the NHL and the great game of hockey.
I would take up hunting in order to better fit in with my peers.
I would consider giving up gluten.
I would also consider giving up Choir! Choir! Choir! in order to more fully dedicate myself to my dream of playing in the NHL.
