Civil War May 17, 2006

So, my inane brain seems to have convinced my disinclined body to attempt the running of a full marathon in less than two weeks.

In other non-related news, a civil war has ensued between the northern ruling party and the rebels of the nether-regions of the Republic of Tirunien. For the past month and a half, three rebel factions from the south have been resisting president Valerian’s dictatorship, which over the same period has become increasingly imperious and unyielding to the exhaustion of the working masses.

A spokesman for the most aggressive of the rebel forces, Genudestrum, said yesterday that the sub-human work conditions and the unrelenting physical schedule imposed on his people was bordering on slavery. “We have always believed in a unified nation in which the global trend of North/South duality need not manifest; however, our beloved Tirunien has capitulated under Valerian’s depravity and so we, the workers, the labourers, the very skeleton of this nation must rise up and dissolve the madness! I call on my brothers and sisters from Gamba and Anclow to join forces and show those despotic northerners just what we’re made of–flesh and bone and hard, hard muscle!”

UN reports indicate that thousands of workers in the Cartilagian plants have been decimated while at work due to the atrocious labour conditions imposed by the despotic Valerian.

“Why don’t the workers simply strike?” retorted the Genudestrum spokesman. “Impossible! Valerian has threatened deserters with the lives of their families. It’s as though we were all part of one big mass that he is controlling with strings. People are terrified and in constant pain and yet, they will take him all the way to his finish line because they know he is crazy.”

What is this finish line and when will it appear? Analysts believe that May 28^th will mark the end of this madness. Valerian has this history of Machiavellian-style extremism that sends him down illogical paths for the attainment of nonsensical goals. But once he gets there he chills out for a bit until the next harebrained idea catches hold.

So, the rebel forces, unable to mobilize the masses, are crippled. The nation is hobbling. Genudestrum, Gamba and Anclow are bearing the brunt of Valerian’s intransigence as they fight in futility through Tirunien’s lactic rain season.

The UN has decided to wait (surprise surprise) and see if the analysts’ predictions will come true before taking any action.

Tribute to Mama J. May 15, 2006

What to get for a mama who has it all? This is what my brother and I recited to our mama today at brunch. She loved it so much that she read and re-read it 7 times today. I recommend giving the personalized poem a shot next year for your respective mamas.

Through the cervix, round the bend

Up a tube fallopian,

Here we find a humble egg,

Round in shape, devoid of leg.

Still, without excessive trouble

It made its way to the uterine bubble.

There it lodged itself in wait

For its hot spermatozoon date.

Lo and behold, 9 months thence,

A babe shot forth from mama’s pants.

A few years thence and once again

One more sprung forth, a youngish man.

Now there were two, plus two made four,

A little family, mama thus bore.

With tender meats and pasta red,

Her little children she thus fed.

Not only did she grow them strong,

She fed their minds with books and song,

Doobie doobie dums and yays

She loved her cuties everyday.

They fell off walls and got malaria

She named those kids Nick and Valeria.

And with those names we live today

Bringing home such monstrous pay.

Not quite so, but even yet,

We, to this day, have no regrets.

She showed us through her own example

That the joys of life can be quite ample.

TV star and thespian grand

The community is at her demand

With gifts of peppers, beans and meat,

The elderly bow at her feet.

Her kindness is beyond compare

And love she has enough to spare

She is a joy of the littlest kind

A better woman you cannot find.

Cute and little, strong and lean,

Often looks like she’s sixteen

Funny, clever, clean and classy

Gorgeous, with a pinch of sassy.

That’s our mama, shout it loud!

Her love is like a mushroom cloud.

She lives with Quaid and Mr. Pat

And claims that “I don’t talk like that!”

And so today, tho’ womb is bare

We thank you for what once was there

For now we’re here and praise is due,

And so we sing this poem to you.

Mama, happy mother’s day

Let’s celebrate with this buffet.

Your offspring.

Rock Stars Should be Vaccinated Too May 3, 2006

We, the prosaic members of the workaday masses, could not possibly comprehend the joys and sorrows, and the trials and tribulations of the almighty rock star, even after he has passed his prime. You see, no matter how old a rock legend gets, to his loyal fans of yore, he still represents the indomitable, hip-gyrating, heart throb of his boyhood days. We, mere mortals, can accept our own processes of aging–the grey hairs, the crow’s feet, the crotchety moods, the unrelenting dementia–but ask us to acknowledge that our teenage rock star crush now classifies as antediluvian, and we’d much rather crowd-surf the moshers at a Megadeath concert.

What we are not wont to understand is that, apparently, rock stars are prey to a whole different set of ailments. You see, I went to a Little Tony concert the other night. For those of you who are not familiar with the Italian Elvis, I don’t recommend looking him up unless you are looking for a good chuckle. He’s old. Way passed his prime for a showman. But his fans are loyal to the point of squelching at his sight. Imagine, I was among crowds of senior citizens who, as they spotted Little Tony moving around backstage, may as well have been a bunch of 14 year-old girls shrieking in the presence of Justin Timberlake.

Tensions were thick and excitement was high as we awaited the music mogul’s appearance. When he finally walked down the stairs (slowly and with calculation), his apparent lethargy was veiled by the busy lights and frantic beat of the music he sang 40 years ago. The elderly woman standing beside me, as she moved her hips to the music in unfortunate syncopation with her husband’s, nudged me and yelled into my ear in her strong Italian accent, “Iya havea to watcha my husband. He hassa badda heart. Butta he loves a Little Tony!”

LT rocked out for about 4 songs and then passed the mike to his band-mate. Three men grabbed hold of the “living” legend and supported him up the stairs toward his dressing room.

“Oh shit,” I think to myself. “This guy’s gonna croak in front of his adoring crowd of superannuated fans. God only knows what kind of a chain reaction this is gonna have!”

We wait. The band plays on, trying desperately to come up with one song after another to appease the growing concern among the masses. They play YMCA, singing the chorus over and over again, since their Italian brains don’t know the rest of the song. The old folks aren’t dancing anymore. It’s one thing to aggravate your arrhythmia by dancing for LT, but it’s just not worth it for poorly translated cover songs sung by his backup singers.

Finally, the self-important, self-proclaimed media mogul of Ottawa’s Italian community, comes out to give us the update. “Little Tony caught a chill on his way here and his intestines are blocked up. He will not be resuming the show. He’s been rushed to the ER.”

WTF?! You’ve got to be kidding me! THIS is the explanation you give us? Since when does a burst of cold air cause constipation, and since when does constipation constitute a medical emergency. I admit I’m no doctor, but I have bowels, and very temperamental ones at that. And never in all my years of battling intolerances and tropical parasites and IBS, have my bowels ever become blocked due to frigid weather conditions.

And so, dear friends, it is my humble conclusion that the rock star has a genetic make-up that renders him susceptible to illnesses that we humans may not even venture to imagine because they are simply too stupid for our evolved minds to conjure.

But, since we derive such pleasure from the entertainment the rock star provides, may I invite our humanoid doctors to invent a vaccine for CRIB (Cold-related intestinal blockage) so as to protect our beloved musicians from these embarrassing incidents?