Jones and I are standing on the sidewalk and I am asking him about his dream from the previous night.

What was it about, Jones? 
Santa.
What was he doing?
He was bringing presents.
Did you get to open any?
Yes! There were chocolate eggs, and inside of them was apple juice!

I am an excellent father and husband.

A true family leader.

As such, I often find it necessary to call Family Councils so that my wife Rachelle, and our three year-old son, Jones,

can discuss important issues as they arise. These are the minutes from a recent Council:

*************************************************************************

Michael: Okay, Council #37 is now in order. I know that Jones has a matter that’s been troubling him. Jones, would you like to take Thor’s Hammer from daddy so that you might air your grievances?

Jones: NO!!! I WANT CAPTAIN AMERICA’S SHIELD!!

Michael: We’ve talked about this Jones, you wave Captain America’s shield when you want to be acknowledged by the Daddy Moderator, and you hold Thor’s Hammer when you have the floor. It’s sometimes hard to keep straight in your head, but it’s very important.

Rachelle: Why? Why is it important?

Michael: You see Jones, Mommy just forgot to wave Captain America’s shield to signal that she wished to speak, so the Daddy Moderator has no choice but to OWWW! Jesus Christ Rachelle! That thing hurts! You do know I’m on blood thinners, right? You know that’s going to bruise. It’s not just against protocol to throw the shield, it’s medically unsafe!

Jones: NO TALK DADDY!! JONES TALK!!

Michael: I cede Thor’s Hammer to Jones.

Rachelle: Jonesy, what’s the matter?

Jones: I want to break a chair.

Rachelle: Because of something daddy did?

Jones: Yes. Daddy did it.

Rachelle: What did daddy do?

Jones: I’M GREEN HULK!

Michael: (Waving Captain America’s shield ) Jones? Jones? Can daddy please have Thor’s Hammer so he can speak?

Jones: NO! YOU LIZARD MAN NOW, DADDY!

Michael: Ha, see?! He wants to break a chair because he’s green Hulk, not because I did anything wrong!

Rachelle: Oh, really? Jones, is green Hulk mad because daddy is always finishing Jones’ dinosaur puzzles?

Jones: Yes!

Michael: You know, I put our Family Council protocols in place for a reason. Without strict adherence to shield/hammer regulation the chain of evidence falls apart! And Rachelle, you should know better than to ask leading questions of a child!!

Jones: GREEN HULK SMASH DADDY WITH CHAIR!

Michael: No! Put that down! I’m not kidding, Jones. Put. It. Down.

Jones: You Lizard Man, daddy, green Hulk smash you face!!

Rachelle: Oh my, green Hulk is so strong, I think Lizard Man had best do exactly what you say and let Jones work on his puzzles on his own, and at his own pace!

Michael: Lizard Man is sorry to have finished your puzzle.

Rachelle: Lizard Man has OCD. He has it bad.

Michael: No. Lizard Man does not. He just thinks that if you start something, it is your obligation to finish it.

Rachelle: Lizard Man thinks no such thing. Lizard Man has seen about five minutes of every show on Netflix, before abandoning them. Lizard Man started driving lessons, but never took a driver’s test, and he’s been on page 36 of The Angel Effect for what? Four months now? Six months? Years, maybe? Lizard man is a liar! It’s his evil super power, green Hulk! You must smash the lies!!

Michael: This Family Council is now adjourned!!

It was a hit.

A really big hit.

It became pretty hard to keep up, and then, after one reader misinterpreted my thoughts regarding the use of fire while giving a reading, I decided to step back to spend more time with my family. Regardless, the letters kept coming, and so I feel I owe it to my loyal fans to resurrect the column, which is what I’m doing right now.

*****************************************************

Dear Bitter Writer:

You’re likely aware of the Twitter Challenge in which women were asked to, “Describe yourself like a male author would.” The point of this, of course, was to illustrate how men objectified women, but what I would find really interesting with you– as an impossibly mediocre white man in possession of a level of confidence that outstrips your very modest competencies by an incalculable magnitude– is to have you describe yourself. I have included a photograph in case you should need a reference point.

Lynn from Montreal

Dear Lynn:

In Havana he was known as “ La muerte incómoda.”

It was a term of respect, of great respect, in fact, and more than a little fear. What had Michael Murray done to earn such a nickname from the gentle people of Cuba?

Well, that’s a long and complicated story that will reveal itself in time, but for now we should just imagine the man as he sat there, commandingly, in the barber’s chair. His face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, and his most striking feature was his opaline green eyes, which could be both alluring or intimidating, as the situation required. A part of his barber’s apron fell open from the cooling breeze of the fan and revealed the shirt he was wearing. There were little baseball players on it. He looked up, his eyes clear and even as he wiped some sweat off his upper lip, “ ¿Cómo está mi calva haciendo allí?” he asked the trembling barber. And in that moment Murray’s beauty was revealed the edge of a very sharp knife.

Dear Bitter Writer:

It recently came to my attention that an author at a major publishing house threatened to slap a reviewer who didn’t like his moronic, insulting book, and I was wondering if the publishing house was going to punish him for it, or if white male authors can do literally anything?

Karen in Toronto

Dear Karen:

Have you seen White Male Author: Infinity War, yet?

Easily the best of the franchise. Just fantastic.

At any rate, this movie goes a long way to answer your question. In it, Thanos

attempts to destroy Planet Earth, and after incapacitating both The Avengers and The X-Men it seemed that victory was certain. Right at this despairing point in the movie, White Male Author showed up and blasted him with his laser pulses.

He then flew around Thanos so quickly that the wind currents kept him pinned to the ground while the other superheroes freed themselves from the Polaris Fog that Thanos had used to trap them, and then all together were able to cast Thanos back into the Canyons of Zorg. So it’s clear that although White Male Author is VERY powerful, certainly superior to Spiderman, he might not be as invincible as The Hulk or The Thing.

At any rate, even though White Male Author is very, very powerful, I don’t think he can do literally anything.

************************************************

Short track speed skating is easily the greatest of all the sports the winter Olympics have to offer.

However, the first thing that we have to address are the catsuits worn by the athletes. It’s the elephant in the room, the resonant fact that simply cannot be ignored. Whenever we’re talking about speed skating—the strategy, the danger, the speed, the sheer ridiculousness of it– we’re also talking about how goddamn sexy the competitors are in those outfits. And yes, it is true, I’m not at all against sexually objectifying beautiful athletes I’ll never encounter. In fact, it’s pretty much the main reason I watch the Olympics these days. The human form– full of potential and ambition– performing stunning feats in it’s most perfect earthly manifestation? Yes, I’ll take two helpings please!

Make no mistake, this is the subtext to every speed skating viewing experience you have.

Beyond that there is the fact that the speed skaters, with their helmets and visors, armed with a razor sharp foot knife that’s about as long as a forearm, look like superheroes come to skate for truth and justice.

These people are weaponized, and the fact that it’s short track speed skating ( to say nothing of the positively insane short track speed skating relay) means that they’re CONSTANTLY wiping out.

It’s so unpredictable that luck is almost as important as skill. It’s a last-person-standing kind of sport, one that’s so cruelly constructed you’d think it was invented by a sadistic gym teacher.

No matter, the fact that a wipeout is almost a certainty, and that a wipeout is usually a tangle of kicking razor blades, a crash could have very dire consequence. And so when you see one of the athletes cross the finish line, know that they have just skated through death, and when they take off their helmet and throw back their head, elated and forever, know, too, that they are one of us, and that for a moment at least, we are all beautiful and immortal.

—————————————————

Well Michael Murray you may enjoy watching sexy athletes court death (because?!) but give me a performance I can watch later via Robyn Doolittle’s tweeted emojis any day.

Or night.

Because we don’t have cable and I don’t want to watch sexy athletes court death, but I don’t want to watch English villagers disappearing one by one on TVO either.

We get it, TVO. English villages are full of old people and old people are murderers so do not move to an English village unless you’re old and want to murder people. The end.

But speed skating? Seriously? Speed skating?? What’s that – one emoji? Done. Well I’m sorry, Michael Murray, but that’s not a story. So not sorry. Figure skating, though, figure skating is a sportstory (yes, that is so a word!) that a reporter can emoji (yes, that’s a verb – I emoji therefore I amji) for people who can’t watch the Olympics BECAUSE OF THE COURTING DEATH THING, MICHAEL MURRAY!

And it’s just like being there on your couch watching Patrick Chan do his short or long or whatever – but faster. My emotions totally ran the gamut, but like in one second.

Don’t believe me? Here it is.

Ms. Doolittle called it, “Watching Patrick Chan: An Emoji Journey” – so right away a heads up that it might be a bumpy ride. Fortunately, I had a cup of mint tea right here beside my computer, just like I do now. Then there was a Canadian flag, which, you know, I’m actually a down-with-borders type but okay. Then a pair of ice skates (well duh, Robyn). But then, oh my Gord – a laughing emoji! Yay! Wait… what? A grimacing emoji!? Nooooooo! Not again! Too soon! Too soon! Oh sweet Jes – a crying emoji? Already? What the – SWEATING?! Oh now come the eff on – screaming? Really? We’re screaming now? In agony? Or maybe… Ah, never mind. Looks like we’re weeping buckets.

Okay. Well. Glad that’s over. <schhhlurp> Ah, mint tea. So refreshing. And just one more week…

My most recent invention is a dating service called Hater Mater, where people are paired based on the things they dislike rather than the things that they like.
This is the preliminary questionnaire I have written for people using the App:

1. On a scale of 0-10, how much do you hate the sky?

2. Please choose the stupidest fucking sign in the zodiac.

3. Order these celebrities in the sequence in which you would most want to see them surreally injured in a crossbow incident:

Amy Schumer
The Ikea Monkey
Ethan Hawke
The entire cast from Orange is the New Black
Eric Trump
Adam Driver and Terry Richardson

4. On a scale of 0-10, how much do you hate the ocean?

5. Which Margaret Atwood novel gives you the worst stabbing stomach pain?

6. What do you hate more, squirrels or birds? (Please elaborate)

7. Do your parents hate you more than you hate them, or do you hate them more than they hate you?

8. Is you best friend kind of an asshole?

9. Do you find chopsticks to be infuriating and stupid and pretentious?

10. Do you often find yourself fantasizing about making over-rated Canadian author Margaret Atwood cry?

11. Which part of this passage from a celebrated Margaret Atwood novel do you despise the most?

“Who are you? And I mean really. Who are you?”

My gut tells me that if I tell her right now, in this moment, it will not be well-received. “A friend,” I say, my gaze lowering to her lush mouth and lifting. “And the man who wants to kiss you. Really kiss you. Can I kiss you, Myla?”

“You’re asking?”

“Yes. I’m asking. After all you’ve been through-”

“He hasn’t destroyed me. He hasn’t beaten me and I don’t like that you think he has.”

“I don’t think he’s beaten you.”

“He hasn’t,” she insists. “I’m not giving him that power and damn it, you better not either by treating me like I’m broken and fragile. So kiss me if you’re going to kiss me or let me go, if you don’t want-”

I cup the back of her head, and slant my mouth over hers, my tongue sliding against hers, stroking, caressing, and the taste of her, one part hunger I welcome, but the other part, the torment, I intend to drive away. I deepen the kiss, my hand pressing beneath her tank top, finding warm, soft skin. My fingers splay over her rib cage, while my mind reminds me that no matter how big she talks, she wants this escape for a reason. She has been abused, used, hurt. “

12. “Everybody loves a parade,” true or false?

13. Is Real Estate for fools?

14. When you hear the word “Mindfulness” do you want to build an attack drone or buy a magic killing sword?

15. What do you hate more, having to use a sink or writing with a pen?

16. Which superhero would you most like to beat-up in a fight?

17. Do you hate it when people say, “Good Morning!”

18. Are relationships insanely unrealistic and entirely impossible?

19. On a scale of 1 to 100, how much do you hate non-Spanish speaking people who pronounce Nicaragua as ‘Knee-ah-rah-hah?”

20. If you heard that Margaret Atwood opened a restaurant and that all the sandwiches were named after her poems, would you immediately vomit?

Tall, powerful and with flowing, blonde locks and a fastball that exceeds 100 mph, he has the distinct aura of the divine about him. He had a tough time early in the game, but seemed to gather confidence and strength as it wore on.

David Wright, veteran third baseman and captain of the Mets served as his human interpreter at the press conference after the Mets victory:

Alice Gwyn, Yahoo Sports: “Thor, you seemed a little confounded on the mound out there as the game started. The Royals kept getting hits off you no matter what you threw. How did you adjust?”

David Wright, human translator:

Thor says, “I could not believe that even as I shattered their puny mortal weapons, sundering them like match sticks with my offerings, they still managed to get little, dinky hits! It was black magic, I tell you! I looked to my captain and said, “What dark arts are these? Surely Loki is behind such enchantments!”

But in truth, never once did I stop believing in my mighty immortal powers, powers which you can see were reflected in the final score.”
Joe Ainsley, New York Post: “Good effort out there, Thor. The first pitch of the game was quite an eye opener. Was the high and tight fastball that levelled Royals lead-off hitter Alcides Escobar meant to convey a message and change the tone in the series?”

David Wright, human translator:

Thor laughs heartily! He throws his golden locks behind his head, saying, the pitch was meant to convey that Alcides is a pitiful mortal and I am the immortal Thor! The Royals, a team that little changeling girl Lordes wrote a song about, needed to know they were in New York now and that things are very different in New York. I smote him. He will not be a factor in this series again. The pitiful human mewling from the Royals dugout after that, little kittens scared of a thunder, made Thor laugh. Verily, it was a good time.”

Benedict Summers, New York Times: “Thor, I have to say, it was good to see the God of Thunder so in control of things tonight, and wow, you are really, really crazy numinous tonight, blinding. Anyway, what would you say was the single most important thing to you being able to pitch such a gritty, consistent and powerful game?”

David Wright, human translator:

“Being a God and immortal status, for sure. I just reached deep into my well of divinity and kept throwing pitches of fire that I knew mortals would not be able to hit. Just stuck to my game plan. Also, the presence of the great Billy Joel at the game, and the playing of Piano Man,

was both touching and inspirational! It was like I was back in Valhalla at the hall of Bilskirnir! Thor, God of Thunder, thanks you all very much, but he must now go and feast and ice the immortal arm!”

( Thanks to Yael Friedman for the idea!)

Team Leader: Okay, I guess we’ll just wait another five minutes to see if Noor shows up, but if not we’ll just start without her.

(AWKWARD SILENCE)

Me: Well, I think it might be a nice way to kill the time if we each told one another a little bit about ourselves.

Team Leader: This isn’t required so nobody has to participate.

Me: My name is Michael Murray, I stand nearly six feet four inches tall and live in Toronto with my wife and our Miniature Dachshund. When I was a boy Iron Fist was my favourite superhero. He could summon and focus his chi into one amazing punch and was teemed with the super awesome Luke Cage, who was known not to take any jive.

Person #1: My name is Cindy and I live in Ottawa.

Person #2: Tom, in London.

Person #3: My name is Beth and I live in Kingston where I’m a student, and I guess I my favourite superhero would be Lara Croft.

Me: She’s not a superhero. She’s a video game character.

Person #3: Oh, I didn’t realize that Iron Fist was a real person. I’m surprised I haven’t heard more about him.

Team Leader: Hopefully Noor will be here very soon. We’ll just give her two more minutes and then we’ll get into the material.

Me: Team Leader, is there any sort of dress code we have to abide by when we’re doing our work?

Team Leader: Well, as you’ll be working from home, of course not.

Me: Great, because it’s a straight up fact that I do my best work when I’m not wearing a shirt.

Person #1: Gross.

Team Leader: Michael, we don’t need to know that. You’re over-sharing and making us all a little bit uncomfortable.

Person #1: Look, I’m not a difficult person, but I think this is sexual harassment.

Me: I think you hear what you want to hear, Cindy.

Person #1: What does that mean?

Me: You sound like somebody who maybe wants to get sexually harassed, you know?

Team Leader: Okay Michael, you are way out of bounds here and if you don’t apologize immediately and stop this conduct, you will be terminated from the project.

Me: Our Dear Leader makes a persuasive argument. Cindy, I am very sorry, I was just making stuff up and trying to be funny, lighten things up a bit while we waited, but I see that I was creepy and inappropriate, and I am really, truly sorry for that.

Person #1: Fine, but I still feel like I need a shower.

Person #2: I think we all do.

Noor: Hello! Sorry I’m late, did I miss anything?

Me: We were just talking about taking a group shower.

Team Leader: Michael, you’re fired.

Q. What is your biggest weakness?

A. I’m quite handsome and clever and sometimes people, particularly those less handsome and clever than me, find it intimidating.

In my past job at the box factory, they talked behind my back and said things that were, at the time, entirely untrue about my sex life and the way I treated animals. Well, I showed them, I tell you. Anyway, there will always be people like this, people who have drunk deeply of the Hatorade and are out to get you, and so you just have to take care of it, you know?

Q. What irritates you about co-workers?

A. Usually, and I know that this sounds petty, but it’s the way that they dress. It’s always so predictable and lumpy, their outfits typically accented with some sad detail of their life like Cheesie dust or cat hairs. It just depresses me, and then I get mad at them for depressing me. It can be a toxic cycle.

Q. How do you handle stress and pressure?

A. I’m glad you asked this question because it’s really quite a complex issue. Often, I simply take time off work. This helps, but it doesn’t really solve the problem, and so after trying meditation and finding it useless, I’ve discovered that I need to create a cocktail of prescription medications to help calm the “BLACK TORNADO ZONE” I typically spin into. Also, I find that regular target practice at my gun club near Brampton is incredibly therapeutic.

Q. What will you do if you don’t get this job?

A. I will go and see Iron Man 3 again. I always get inspiration from the Iron Man. He’s made of iron, you know? Nothing gets him down. And then, after a good, inspirational cry, I will just try and take what I’ve learned from this experience and apply it to the future, hopeful that I may yet get a job at your shitty company when the next opportunity arises.

There were a few other people standing around watching the bin.

A woman walking a poodle, a consensus builder, I think, said, “We should call 311!”

Street guy: “You mean 911, lady.”

Woman: “No, 311, it’s the number you call when you have a city related question or see somebody committing graffiti!”

Street guy: “Committing graffiti?”

Woman: “ The garbage bin is city property, they must have a protocol for such an event!”

I decided to show some leadership.

Me: “ No, this isn’t a situation for government intervention, this is a time for us to come together as citizens.”

Woman: “I still think we should call 311.”

Me: “I’m going to put out the goddamn fire.”

( this is the bin that was smoking)

Street guy: “Who made you boss? I think we should just let it burn, man!”

I ignored him, reached into my knapsack and pulled out a bottle of water. I then poured all of it into the burning bin. Nothing happened.

Street Guy: “Nice job, Superman. You just poured your water into the recycling slot instead of the litter slot where the smoke is coming from.”

I put my hands on my hips and sighed.

More smoke was coming out.

Woman: “I’m calling 311.”

I pushed open the litter slot and peered in. I couldn’t see a thing.

Once again I put my hands on my hips and sighed.

Me: “I’m out of water.”

Woman: “I’m taking my dog away, this is becoming a dangerous situation.”

Street guy: “ Dangerous situation? I live on the streets, now that’s a dangerous situation!  This is nothing! Somebody flicked a cigarette butt into a fucking garbage can and now you two think the world is about to end!”

The woman quickly walked her dog away.

“Did you call 311?” I shouted after her.

She did not respond– she was gone, like a ghost.

Me: “I’m going to buy another bottle of water.”

Street guy: “Fuck the one percent. You’ll buy water for a pretend fire but not for me, and then you’ll pour that water down the wrong slot again.”

I went into the local corner store and bought two bottles of water, but when I came out the man who was running the food truck parked in front of the smoking garbage bin was spraying it down with a hose. He looked like an older, angry version of one of the Mario Brothers. When he saw me holding the two bottles of water in my hands that I had just bought he gave me a disdainful, pained look. And then he shook his head, rethinking something, “Come, come, I give you a free slushie, you do the best with what God gave you. What flavour you like?”

“Blue,” I said.

“Blue,” he repeated, “on the house.”