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

R: My Wellness Coach is named Jamie and I think she’s still in high school.

R: It feels like I have to meet her for my session during her spare.

R: Hot?

R: Really? Did you really just ask me that?

R: Oh, it was autocorrect. I see.

R: You wanted to know if she was wearing a hat?

R: If what you say is true, then what you meant to write was, “Is she hat?”

R: It doesn’t make any sense.

R: It just doesn’t seem a likely thing for you to have written.

R: Of course, of course, I’m over-sensitive and always misunderstanding you.

R: Look, you can’t bring Fassbender into this, that’s not fair.

R: Whatever.

R: Look, let’s just get past this, okay?

R: Yes, I love you, too.

R: It’s hard to believe, but I swear this girl weighs about 80 pounds.

R: She practically qualifies as carry-on luggage.

R: She reminds me of Marcel the Shell.

R: I wonder if her parent’s know she’s doing this?

R: She’d make a lot more money than baby-sitting, that’s for sure.

R: Well, I’m on a Paleo diet now.

R: And I have a workout schedule.

R: I know.

R: You were a natural athlete with a very fast metabolism.

R: Not so much anymore.

R: It’s true, my love.

R: You have these, I don’t know, kind of lump handles around your waist now.

R: Mostly on the left side, which is weird.

R: Yeah, maybe you should mention it to the doctor.

R: I don’t think so, dear.

R: I just don’t think you have what it takes to be a doctor.

R: Well, for one thing you could never keep your coat white.

R: It would be covered in stains, like a tornado hit your lunch and sprayed it all over you.

R: It is true.

R: And then there’s the academics.

R: You’re good at other things, yes.

R: I don’t know how much Jesus weighed.

R: My guess would be 185, that sounds like a godly weight to me.

R: I bet Jesus would make for an fantastic Wellness Coach.

R: He’d be an awesome motivator.

R: You’ve always wanted to be on Survivor Island with Jesus, you say?

R: Just you and him in the final.

R: And then you would demand he sacrifice himself for the good of the island?

R: I’m not sure I understand your strategy.

R: All right then, it is the will of the Lord. Fine.

R: You’re right, that is a good argument ender.

R: Remember to take the dog out and get something for dinner, okay?

R: Right, I mean hunt. You and the hound go out and hunt for dinner, please.

R: Like Paleoiths.

R: I’ll be home around 7:00.

R: xoxo

Anyhow, like every Saturday night, I was at the Quail and Firkin on Yonge Street drinking a half liter of white wine while playing my Scratch N’ Win tickets. You should know that this bar is on the cusp of Rosedale, an immensely wealthy district in Toronto, and is typically filled with the hammered offspring of very rich people. Normally I’m entirely ignored, but this week a massive guy who must have been about 6’2 240 bullied up to the bar beside me, and seeing me scratching and not winning, derisively said to his buddy, “ Look, Elvis Costello there is hoping to win some cash for his next drink!” And then they were all “Bro” about it, laughing and giving one another high fives, before ordering themselves and every waitress in the place, shooters.

I gave them a sour look.

“Jager Bombs, good choice,” I said, “the gold flecks make it classy.”

The big guy fixed me a look.

“You gotta problem, besides being you, I mean?” There was a high-five followed by the big dude putting the littler dude in a headlock, both of them letting out a beer ad yell, and then another round of shooters.

“Look, I’m just trying to scratch n’ win here, okay?” but instead of looking away after I spoke, I looked right at them and held their gazes. I was almost finished my half- liter of wine. Feeling pretty confident.

“Do you know who I am?” the big guy asked.

“ Were you a contestant on the Canadian version of Survivor?”

The smaller but still huge guy said, “ He plays in the NHL, he led the league in penalty minutes in 2006-07. An Oiler. He could buy and sell you, low rent man. A chick flashed him at a game. He’s a stud.”

Suddenly it all clicked into place.

“Ben Eager?” I asked.

He tilted his head and looked at me, somehow managing to make his face look bigger. “That’s right, I’m not the guy you want to be messing with, understand?”

“You were in my hockey pool last year! It was like a dead pool, only for guys we thought were in the closet!”

At this point NHL enforcer Ben Eager slapped me really hard across the face, knocking me to the ground. He then spit on me. It landed on the back of my head, I think. A bouncer charged over to break-up the altercation and was immediately beaten to a pulp by Eager. It was ugly and the police were called, whereupon both Eager and his brother were charged with assault.

It’s clear that the NHL lockout is hurting us in ways we never even imagined.

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

R: Oh Pickle, I just saw the worst thing!!

R: A man jumped from the Lawrence overpass onto the Don Valley Parkway and I saw his body, pinned underneath a pick-up truck. Just horrifying.

R: Sorry?

R: Oh, I see, your lunch was horrifying.

R: How sad for you that you had to eat the leftover lasagna I made the other night.

R: You’re very brave to endure such brutality.

R: You’re right, I should call it Pink Slimeasagna.

R: Regardless, imagine being behind the wheel of that truck, seeing a man jump and then running over him? Good God, that person will never be the same.

R: No, I don’t mean the person who jumped.

R: The driver.

R: No, I am NOT taking video of it!!

R: It would be awful for the driver to live with that, it would be a life-altering event.

R: Ha-ha. Yes, I’m sure that my leftover Pink Slimeasagna was a life-altering event, too. You’re very funny today, dear.

R: You had a coffee, didn’t you?

R: Sorry?

R: Well, I had never thought about it until now.

R: I suppose driving over a person who had just committed suicide would be more traumatic than seeing a UFO abducting a cow for probing.

R: How would you know?

R: Oh, that’s right, you have lucid dreams!

R: And in these lucid dreams you see UFO’s and drive over suicides?

R: I see.

R: Right, right, Night Time is Mike Time.

R: Did you really have that printed on a T-shirt in high school?

R: Very cool, I bet you were very popular with the ladies.

R: Sure.

R: Yes, I know, you were good at sports, too.

R: Now tell me, back in high school when Night Time was Mike Time, did you wear a Breathe-Rite strip to bed?

R: A Lucid Dreaming sleep mask.

R: It all makes sense now, you know.

R: Me?

R: I could dunk a basketball in high school.

R: And I had many lovers, some of them black, black as the night, Pickle.

R: I’m not being racist. I’m just stating a fact.

R: I never told you this, but I had a baby, a black baby.

R: Because I gave her up for adoption.

R: I was young, that’s why.

R: Her name is Jada.

R: Her father?

R: We haven’t seen one another in months, but we’re Facebook friends.

R: I think he knows about you.

R: Yeah, I think so. Maybe.

R: Not sure.

R: What does he do?

R: Well, he won Survivor: Fiji, but he’s really an entrepreneur, philanthropist, producer and advertising executive.

R: He looks a bit like Marvin Gaye.

R: But that’s all in the past!

R: You wrote a letter to Erin Collins from Survivor: Thailand?

R: You admired her grit?

R: Did she ever write back?

R: Oh, that’s too bad, Pickle.

R: Tell me about some of your high school sweethearts!

R: Oh, well I’m sure playing the field was a very good strategy for you.

R: Yeah, keep your options open.

R: What was high school like in the 50’s, anyway?

R: Okay, see you soon, xox