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It’s only halfway through November and with each passing day, men’s moustaches grow creepier and thicker, as they raise important funds for prostate cancer research. Along the way I see more and more Facebook statuses of downtrodden girls, those who avoid men in bars or avoid their own boyfriends, due to the bristly epidemic.
Therefore I must speak out:
Before I get punched in the face, let it be known that cancer sucks too, and it’s great that men are banding together to raise awareness and funds for prostate cancer research.
But why effing moustaches? It’s not like moustaches grow on prostates, so what’s the connection?
Is it to support men’s health? Because a man in his natural manly and testosterone zenith, is capable of moustache thickness? And shaving it is unnatural?
Well that’s great for YOU, but what about womankind? Is it fair that for one month a year, we don’t have guys to flirt with at the bar, because we’ll never really know which one’s a pedophile and which one’s a supporter of “Movember”? Why are you robbing us of meeting “Mr. Right” for one month a year? What if women did that to YOU during October in breast cancer awareness month? What if we made ourselves so “natural” with extra hair and sagging boobs that you couldn’t stand to look at us let alone romance us during those brisk October nights? And say goodbye to slutty kitten costumes on October 31st, there would be none of that if we all played it “natural” like you.
Instead we women embark on 5K or 10K runs to support our cause. In fact, almost all major causes raise ass-loads of money by having running events, yet the “man cause,” which is led by the gender that loves video games and armchair athletics, conveniently lacks a cardio portion.
So dear men: please stop being lazy, and please start working on your bodies instead of embodying “pedophile fashion 101.” Because if you don’t, we women won’t stop at complaining about your faces on our Facebook statuses. We will rebel, by watching more moustache-less romantic comedies than ever before, by eating more chocolate than ever before, by gaining more weight than ever before…
Well even if I hate your methods, I support the cause, and you can too by supporting your male pals who are becoming more disgusting by the day. Sigh.
If head lice didn’t have a cure, I’m not sure what I would’ve done in university.
There I was, pretending to follow along in a lecture on Canadian law, when I felt a little tingle in my scalp. A few tingles later and I knew I had a visitor. Naturally, I began to forage around with my index finger and thumb. A few seconds passed and I pulled out a brown wriggly bug. Indeed, actual lice bugs laying their eggs in my hair, during an afternoon lecture of Canadian law.
I was baffled. I mean it’s not like I’d been spending my nights with immigrants who had bypassed the de-lousing station.
So how does a grown-up get head lice?
Notwithstanding the possibility that I’d tunneled through a pile of garbage during a sleepwalking expedition, it was beyond any explanation.
I didn’t have time to worry about the “how”, because instead my brain was fogged with illogical fears. In fact the second I crushed the first bug I imagined a million more, and a world where I would never be cured. I imagined head lice as the new millennium’s AIDS. Maybe not fatal in this case, but definitely the cause for benefit concerts (and a reason for U2 to get on stage).
If head lice wasn’t fatal in this imaginary world without a cure, the earth’s greatest fear would be expansion unto others. Which would explain my brand new lifestyle in a plastic bubble. My parents would visit from time-to-time, but even they’d grow tired of watching me wave hello amidst a playpen of brown crawly things.
During this unfathomable ordeal, I would somehow manage to find and secure a boyfriend. Maybe he liked the idea of his woman being trapped in a cage, or maybe he liked the way I sexily scratched my hair (and yes I refused to buzz my hair off despite the disease…I covet my locks). He could touch me by sticking his arm through those protective “glove arms.” I would regard it as an adequate level of caressing, but let’s be honest…I’ve had better.
And that would be my life; never allowed to soak up the sun, never permitted to go out for ice cream, having to wait until the last Harry Potter movie came out on DVD…a living hell.
Yes, that would be my life, IF there wasn’t a cure for head lice.
Instead there is harsh shampoo and that tiny but efficient lice-bug comb. Instead, the twenty-year-old version of me in real life cured her head-lice within a week, and never told a single soul…until now of course, and to the awkward reaction of you all.
So maybe my dirty little secret has ruined my reputation, but I sacrificed myself for YOU, to teach you that head lice is not the worst thing in the world. A cure is as easy as one-two-three, and if the pharmacist who hands you the shampoo seems like the judging type, simply bash his face in by the dumpster when his shift is over.
So let’s re-cap: Don’t tell ANYONE, physically assault a pharmacist if necessary, shampoo hard, and don’t forget to burn your sheets.
Also, please don’t tell anyone I told you this.
Spend enough time with elitist healthy folk, and you’ll eventually hear: “You are what you eat!“
Okay fine, I’m being judged on eating a cheesecake that’s meant to serve a family of eight, but I don’t actually look like a cheesecake so all is well.
Unless…I wake up one morning, and CNN says that from now on humankind will actually be what it eats.
What would I do differently?
This has nothing to do with being healthy, and everything to do with looking hot.
For me the scenario is hopeless. There is no “hot” food in the world.
I’m sure the girls would quickly say how they’d love to be a carrot or a string bean because it’s thin, but would you? Really?
A string bean would make you skinny, but that doesn’t mean you’d be a skinny girl with boobs. String beans DO NOT have boobs. AT ALL. Even if you wanted to be a peach because it looks like a curvy butt, well what then? You’re just a walking fuzzy butt. Have fun with that.
With no hope of looking hot, I might consider being a chocolate bar, for no other reason than to take juicy bites of myself.
But body parts are not re-generating, so once I make a meal of my chocolately arm, I’ll be a one-armed chocolate feast. Then I’ll feel sad, and what do women do when they get sad? Eat chocolate! Pretty soon I’ll be a chocolate face and nothing more, ’cause you can eat all the rest but you can’t actually eat your own face (try it, you’ll fail).
And so, there is no happy ending to “you are what you eat”, which makes me so grateful that there isn’t a beginning.
I hope your current life feels less wretched now, at the low, low cost of zero dollars.
Like everyone in the crowd, I was fascinated by the spectacle, smiling and cheering at the lettuce distribution.
After the event concluded, I realized that despite feasting my eyes on a colossal barbecue favourite, I didn’t have an appetite at all.
A subway ride and some contemplating later, I discovered that my absence of hunger was a symptom, of a much more serious issue:
I mean it’s all well and good to build a giant burger, break a world record, and auction it to charity…but is it really a victimless endeavour?
What about giants?
I’m not referring to regular people enlarged by eating too much McDonald’s; I mean actual, official, can’t-fit-through-doorways giants.
If you don’t think they exist, then watch Big Fish; not only was there a giant playing a giant in that film (may he rest in peace), but he lived in a cave, which is obviously how real giants live (unless you think a jobless giant can afford a vaulted-ceiling apartment).
Back to the burgers; while we laughed, pointed and cheered at the progression of additional layers, did we ever stop to think of any giants who were watching on TV? Or who follow me on Twitter as I shamelessly tweeted the event? The very same giants who when craving a delicious burger on a hot summer’s day, don’t even have any options!
I mean let’s face it: go to drive-thru at McDonald’s when they can’t even fit in a car? Grill ten cows at at time on barbecue, when there are NO giant barbecues available for consumer purchase? (at least not at Canadian Tire…)
And what even happened to the world’s biggest burger? Auctioned off I suppose, to be sliced up and shared amongst a couple hundred regular-sized humans. All the while, nature’s giants sit and wait, for a succulent disc-shaped meal that will never come.
And you wonder why giants eat humans?
All I’m saying is…if my final demise comes at the hands (and mouth…and teeth) of a giant, I’ll understand.
(But since I posted this and feel really guilty, please don’t eat me. Thanks.)
Silence turned to muffled voices. Darkness turned to shades of red then light. And suddenly, only when the time was right, I tested out my very first “scream”.
It was April 9th, 1981, and I was born.
There have been twenty-nine occasions where the moment of my birth was acknowledged. I remember birthday cakes, My Little Ponies, and as I got older—ugly shirts and sweaters I didn’t want. Then I remember getting shmammered a time or two (vaguely), or buying myself nice things when the bank account was right.
But now that I’m at my oldest, the wisdom that showers this blog once a week asks a question:
-is the day of birth even being honoured at all?
Let’s look at wedding anniversaries for a moment. While many couples go the Hallmark route (letting ugly roses, ugly calligraphy and saccharin messages do all the work), others try to re-create the joy of the wedding hooplah. Whether it’s renewing vows, a second honeymoon, or even a special restaurant that carries a certain meaning, it’s “the union” that always takes center-stage.
So tell me then, what do birthday celebrations have to do with actual birth?
I mean unless placentas spill from birthday balloons when they pop? Not a hell of a lot.
Maybe if we actually celebrated our first day on earth, we wouldn’t take for granted all the many years we’ve been allowed to grace it. And maybe if we realized that the only reason we’re here is due to beautiful harmony in science (via nastiness we never want to picture our mom and dad doing), we’d spend more time making minutes count, and less time being assholes everyday (come on, you kind of are one. So am I though, it’s okay).
So I’ve basically solved the problem of humanity, which you know, is kind of a big deal. So how can you and I change the world? How can we honour our births at next year’s parties?
With some options of course, take your pick:
-Pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey is out, pin-the-umbilical-cord-on-the-fetus? Sooo in (recommended materials are bald Cabbage Patch Dolls, and moistened yarn (choose a yarn/Cabbage colour that fits the race—what? Don’t be afraid to talk about race; it is, at times, pertinent to the discussion).
-Save all that money you spend on bouncy castles or renting out bowling alleys, and use it on a full-day rental of the “Birth Simulator 3000.” I’m actually working on this one with some scientists, and I don’t have all the details yet, but think of your favourite Disney ride, where they truly try to place you in the movie moment. Materials and time of release to be announced, but there’s a very good chance that the Octo-mom will play a starring role (due to fame-whore tendencies, and lots of empty space/physical expansion abilities…)
-Bobbing for apples…in amniotic fluid. Visit your local produce section/hospital for materials, and for all of you still pissed about Obamacare? Item number two is covered, so HAVE A HAPPY BIRTHDAY!