Jumboshrimp has always been a fan of themes. Once you give something its own theme, it seems to have more of a purpose. People can attached themselves to a theme. People can believe in a theme. A theme complements the entire production - whether it be a social event, a set of icons for your mobile or an awesome 80’s sitcom starring Gary Coleman. A theme brings it all together in a tight little package.

Take for instance, the so-so months of June, July and August. Individually, rather mundane, but when you string them together, you get Summer (at least in the northern hemisphere). And you know how most people feel about Summer. They plan their entire calendar around those 3 months, the simple whisper of Summer induces fits of juvenile seizures in schools across the country.

Now, we realized that essentially, Summer is a theme, but why-not give a theme…..um, a theme.

Well, regardless of what you think. Jumboshrimp is welcoming back The Summer of ‘_________’.

Once a theme has been determined, you are to adhere to the spirit of that theme. As always, participation is voluntary. Since the inaugural Summer - 2001 ‘The Summer of Discovery’, each following year has been saddled with its own special theme, chosen is a completely un-scientific manner. 2001 was a glorious triumph, while 2004 - ‘The Summer of Menial Labour’ was not a crowd pleaser.

Regardless of obvious flaws in thinking and structure, the goal remains the same - it’s the experience that matters.

So, we have arrived at 2008 - The Summer of Yes. What does this mean? Gone are the days of multiple options for responses. ‘Maybe’ is dead to you. ‘Depends’ is not welcome here. And ‘No’ can wait for the Winter months to show its face. Whatever you are offered, your answer will be an enthusiastic and consistent ‘Yes’! Preferably, the ‘Yes’ will precede the completion of the question.

Scenario 1:

Q: Hey, would you be interested….

A: YES!

Q: …in a BBQ this weekend?

Scenario 2:

Q: Do you want…

A: YES!

Q: this old salsa I am throwing out?

Two completely opposing scenes, but the outcomes are equally awesome.

The ‘Summer of Yes’ is not about what you get for free and it is definitely not for the faint-hearted. It’s about being totally into everything. It’s about being the first to break the inertia. It’s about leading. Why would I do this you ask? Reflect on this statement: If you think life is short, think how short Summer is.

Chew on that science for a wee bit.

And - if you are thinking, ‘Well, this could have been useful info back in April or May. I could have said ‘Yes’ to so many things!’. You just met one of the consequences of ‘The Summer of Yes’, too busy having the most awesome time to blog. It is only August, but Jumboshrimp has already experienced 4 concerts, 2 plays, 4 vernissages, 5 festivals, 14 BBQs, 2 weddings, 7 birthdays, 2 bar-mitzvahs, 1 sighting of Nick Carter, 2 cottages and a grand opening of a Lebanese deli. And these are only the few details my timid manner would allow me to divulge. Anyhoo…

Start now, start today. It has been officially, ‘The Summer of Yes’.

There’s something very fundamentally cathartic about scooping 4 litres of semi-liquid fecal matter with a dustpan into a quadrupled-reinforced non-airtight medley of plastic shopping bags while wearing galoshes, undies, a wife-beater, yellow dish-washer gloves and a dust mask.

Truth be told, I had been getting a little high for my britches, and I needed to be taken down a notch or two. 2007 was a great year, not good but great. My extended family got bigger, my career was back in fighting shape, my first year of matrimony was beautiful and my BMI was back to a respectable number. The sky was clear and the sun was shining, then I found a cesspool slowly congregating around my feet, literally.

In the theatre of life, it would have play out like such:

Karma (played by a scene-stealing Gérard Depardiau) : Hellos-there, please enjoy as I place my knee in your scrotal region in a violent manner. Do not question the act, for this is your day of reckoning…Some time in the past, you have the-screwed, and now my soft-in-the-midsection friend…are the-screwed.

Me (on the ground, fighting for breath): Grunting….wheezing…

Karma (while having knee lodged into subject): This is but a moment. A moment that has previously escaped you. Embrace this moment as if it was a blood relative. Hold it to your soul, and place your nose in its bosom.

This was life’s way of clipping me at the knees as I dashed towards the end zone. In between gags, and swallowing my own vomit I had to smile. Who was this fancy pants-wearing dandy I had turned into? I’ll tell you, someone who thought he was too good to be bagging liqui-poop. Some people read tea leaves, some consult 24 hour telephone psychics. Me? I looked for answers in the partially digested nougats found encrusted in shit. Was our POW sized basement bathroom a metaphor for my psyche? What fetid waters may be coursing through the pipes of my ego? What ugliness hides under the glossy exterior? Sure, the post 55 minute shower still left me feeling dirty, and the air and food still has a hint of shit. I needed this exercise. I needed to feel sick to my stomach, yet finish the job until the last speckle of turd was collected and disposed. It was I who deserved the brunt of the bitterness. I did this to myself, so naturally this was a gift I needed to give myself.

A new tradition has been created, and it will be now known as the Hours of Merde, a time where one purges the remnants, the debris logged deep inside our souls. The crap, that long fits of coughing can not dislodge or loosen up. The loogie that hides/resides deep within the bowels of my heart and soul. Because you haven’t known truth until you have forage for food, ate it, digested it, excreted it and then subsequently scooped it up with your hands and disposed of it, again.

END SCENE.

An important economic summit just took place at a resort near Ottawa this past week. At the top of the agenda, were discussions relating to the North American Free-Trade Agreement (NAFTA) and border security. The circus event had the usual suspects of freaks and geeks. Journalist across the globe swooped into this sleeping Capital for some piss and vinegar. The inter-webs is currently bubbling with chatter pertaining to this video and accusations of the use of agents provocateurs during the confrontation between protesters and riot cops. But nowhere in the traditional media has anyone mentioned another atrocity witnessed during the summit. The blogalaxy has been equally silent.

Please direct your gaze at the 3 yahoos pictured below.

We are accessible and transparent and you will know this by our open collars.

Notice anything disturbing?

Two freakin’ words. Casual. Friday. The usually respectable universe of global politics infiltrated by wrinkled cotton pants and open collared shirts. This makes me ill.

Since the mid ’80s, this war of attire has been raging in the business world. Now it has to trickled down into every institution known to man. Is nothing sacred?! Initially funded by golf shirts and Dockers® khakis special interest groups, this ‘casual’ assault had turned the corporate world on its head. Employees foregoing the time honoured traditional garb for their weekend best, if you can call it that. In outfits usually reserved for buying bbq supplies or eating 3 lbs. of honey mustard chicken wings, corporate board rooms started resembling the rom-com aisle at your local video store.

The rationale was simple and relatively innocent, workers are to adhere to a strict dress code the first four work days. Friday is a time for employees to let their hair down. This is the part where in lieu of a raise or a bonus, you get a relaxed work environment. At first glance, how can this be a bad thing? Wrinkled cotton chinos equals fun. And who doesn’t like fun?

You can tell this was a brainchild after some human resources weekend seminar. At first, this movement meant leaving your tie at home for the men, and for you ladies, maybe a pair of sneakers to go along with that smart skirt suit. Then came the ’90s, and the rules of Casual Friday became much more lenient. Now, you wouldn’t even blink if Brian from Finance came into a meeting sporting shorts and a ‘My other ride is your mom’ t-shirt. Classy. Hey, there’s Lois with her barely there tank-top and flip-flops. It must be Friday!

Like the ideals of socialism, a once promising concept has gone horribly wrong. Casual Friday has slowly crept into the rest of the week. Somewhere along the line, buttons, ironing boards and a general feeling of self-worth became the enemy. Currently (at least at my work), the attire is beyond casual. It is more like Hobo Friday (though the rest of the week ain’t too pretty either), pants of differing varieties of elastic waistbands and t-shirts are the norm. Don’t even get me started with the ever popular Canadiana Line — animal graphics set to a lovely black poly-cotton backdrop. I understand what ’suits’ communicate to the regular bystander. Strict. Unwavering. Serious. But I ask you — Is this really a bad thing? Of course casual attire makes sense in certain sectors or job sites. If your job involves heavy lifting or prolonged exposure to the elements, you’re in. If you work in an office with other adults, sorry you are going to have to spend more than 10 minutes dressing. Come on, you deserve to give yourself that extra 15 minutes of prep time. It’s for your own good, that raise or corner office you covet might be on the line.

My main point of annoyance isn’t directly towards poorly dressed office drones. While it may be an eye sore, it doesn’t keep me awake at night. I do have major issues with politicians using Casual Friday as a PR ploy. They may think it’s a great idea from their team of stylists and image makers, I am not buying it. I don’t think it’s folksy and it doesn’t make them seem like regular joes. I expect — no, I demand — that leaders of nations dress appropriately. In fact, even minor politico players should get into this whole dressing properly thingy. The image of José, Steve, and George says this to me: I follow rather than lead. I don’t care either way but my PR team thinks this is a good idea.

Special note to current and aspiring heads of states, if you are conducting talks that has global repercussions, I want to see suits, ties and good shoes. They don’t have to be Saville Row 3-piece numbers, heck you can score 5 suits at Moore’s for a sack of nickels.

While I may not petition for a ban on Casual Friday, I won’t hinder the recent backlash either. News flash: Stuffy shirts are back in kids! Some offices have outlawed Causal Friday all together. Why? They want to present a more professional corporate culture. And you’re saying a stained t-shirt with the words, ‘No Fat Chicks’ doesn’t exude professionalism. That’s a shocker. Hopefully, this memo makes its round by this coming Monday, but I am not holding my breath.

Hey everybody! Feeling rested? Wasn’t yesterday awesome? Well, it’s today, the first day of your Human Zenetic™ life.

Throughout this process, I will present you with small chunks of info that I have coined a Life-Block, which will form the foundation that you will use to build a happier daily existence. Isn’t that cute? Cute yes, but also dead serious. The themes will include the seemingly trivial to the grandiose. We will work on the horizontal plane, where each nugget of knowledge will be intrinsically related, even though their immediate correlation won’t be apparent.

Each Life-Block can be applied individually or stringed together, kind of like those necklaces you used to make in summer camp, yeah just like those, but way less lame. Oh yeah, there won’t be any grading, and coloured belts won’t be given at each successful interval. Growth can’t be measured by framed certificates or gold star stickers silly. I know a lot of you enjoy the constructs of your current existence — a rigid structure laced with time-tested methods and results. Tell me…How the heck is it working out for you so far? (I kind of stole this from that Texan rose Dr. Phil, he won’t mind.) Go on, I’m all ears. So far, you are usually left feeling disappointed and inept. Well you’re finish with that.

Everything I offer, you can take or leave, but I hope you do TAKE, I got way too much lying around inside my huge cranium. I have probably lost some of you already. It’s ok, you’re just not ready yet. You guys should go here, and find some over-packaged temporary semblance of happiness — we’ll talk later. The rest of you, continue reading.

Ok, without further explanatory statements and or justifications (please refer to most previous post) to my qualifications. Roll up or rip off those sleeves, do whatever you do to show the world that you’re ready to do work. Human Zenetics™ starts…right…now.

They say happiness is a state of mind, but it requires physical interpretation also. I am referring to one of those manifestations, the other lesser known silent killer. Let’s talk about PDCs — watyoutalkinbout’willis!? I’m talking about Public Displays of Celebration…er, Willis.

PDCs can make and it can break a relationship. I’ve seen it, you’ve seen it. It’s couples bowling night again, one partner hits a strike or spare or whatever — I hate bowling but indulge me for a moment. Like I said, someone makes a nice bowl, and they turn to their loved one and in celebration, they go in for the high five. The time-space continuum slows down, it’s like watching a car getting t-boned at an intersection. Everyone cringes and turns away, and no one can react fast enough to stop it. What happens? Usually, both completely misses each other’s hands, maybe the timing or the angle is off. Maybe one partner was thinking high ten, resulting in an odd exchange as both individuals try to compensate and mime out what can only be described as air push-ups or a bank hold-up. In the worse case scenario, both are obviously delirious in wanting to end this embarrassment so they can only muster a pathetic grasping of both hands as they shake violently. Think Tom Cruise vs Oprah Winfrey.

Whatever the case, it’s sad. The results can only be public humiliation, completely negating the actual positive achievement that called for the PDC in the first place. It says that we as union of two individuals have a total lack of cohesion, communication and self-awareness.

What do they get wrong? They didn’t practice. Parallel parking, you’d practice — same with baking a lemon meringue pie, so why not this? They assumed that everyone is on the same PDC page. But the PDC play book is voluminous and diverse. You got everything to the standard high/low 5 to the chest bump all the way to the elaborate 21 hit combo ending with the six-shooters to the sky. As a novice, I suggest you aim low. Keep it simple and you will undoubtedly avoid humiliation and or injury. The advanced PDCs is best left for college roomies and lodge buddies.

So which PDC is right for you? That I do not know, for a leopard can not ask the elephant to pick its spots. You will have to learn and grow, and feel it out. DO NOT FORCE THE ISSUE. You might be thinking — hey jerk-face, save us the Zen crap about leopards and spots and tell us what you do?

Ok, first off I don’t appreciate the animosity. But I can understand your exuberance. I like your moxie. As for my partner and I, we were lucky. Without much discussion or ground work, we settled on what is often referred to as the ‘Silent Scholar’. Think a clap with no sound or catching a butterfly. If one person starts high, then other immediately goes low. This is the important part. High always initiates the motion and contact. Low just plays it real cool and waits for the action. But it is silent, you are trapping the butterfly, not crushing it to smithereens. The Silent Scholar is demure and polite, it doesn’t call for attention. Just the way we like it. Sometimes when things are really awesome, we upgrade to the Southside Slide. This starts as the Silent Scholar but the ‘Low’ meets the ‘High’ at the last moment and pulls in for some skin. It’s a wee more flash for your dollar. But is it right for you? Search your heart.
Some of you are saying, great tip; but I am single, I have no one to celebrate with. To you I say this, I have seen groups of beer swilling, hardcore sports buddies completely muck-up the post- touchdown or 360 windmill dunk celebration. Hey, you just got an ‘A’ on mid-term…PDC! What? Your dad woke up from his coma? I am gonna go ahead and order up a PDC! PDCs affect all of us. And practicing or developing your own standard move will strengthen any relationship. Having a set game plan for your PDCs allows you to traverse that crucial moment with confidence and ease, and it allows you to roll on through to the good times.

Will either of those techniques mentioned earlier work for you? Tough call. Again, I suggest you try before you buy. There will be no hand-holding through out our journey together, I am only providing you with these different yarns, but the onus will be on you to knit that beautiful technicolour sweater-vest that is your life. Isn’t that a superb analogy?

No? Try this one on. I will serve you these how-to edibles, but you have to chew, and digest it yourself. Better?

OK (insert your name), you were great. Get out there, remember to keep it simple and have some fun!

Hey everyone, how are things? Good good. Interested in knowing how it can get even better?

I totally knew you would be.

Ok, Let me explain…I have been successfully married for about 7 months now, and before that I was in 4 separate long-term relationships with an average life-span of 3.15 years. I am 31 years of age, so you do the math. OK, don’t bother, that equals me being super knowledgeable about the world of dating and relationships. So I figured, hey every ‘mo out there is dishing out advice like it was going out of fashion. Why not me? You got your books, your dvds, your audio tapes, your gurus, your Montel Williams, etc. etc. Everyone and their cousin Leonard is an ‘expert’. Go ahead and roll your eyes. Heck, I just heard Dr. Phil McGraw isn’t even a real doctor. I know — crazy! Anyways, everyone is capitalizing on it. People are desperate and telephone psychics costs money. But now here, and not now. I am doing this for free. Why? Because I like you. And I mean a lot.

Put down that Chicken Soup for the Soul and prepare yourself for some good old learnin’! Welcome to Jumboshrimp and the Guide to Happy (lawyers are ironing out the copyright details as we speak, so don’t even think of stealing that awesome name). I thought about giving it a more relationship-specific title, like ‘You and your first mate: What happens when the ship goes down’. But let’s be honest, it was stupid and not everybody appreciates a nautical theme. Then it hit me, I am moderately knowledgeable about tons of stuff. Why not share all of it? Gosh, I wish I was one of you. Lucky!

Ok, before I crack my head open and show you all the meaty know-how locked inside. I want to get some things clear. That’s just how I roll dawgs. I want utter transparency — you mean that much to me. I am a professional of Human Zenetics™, professional in the sense that I have the ability to print my own business cards and I kind of made up this field of practise about 5 minutes ago. Google returned with zero results for: human zenetic. It is that new and revolutionary. Do you know how many episodes of the View dealt with this subject, how about a fat zero.

Don’t be alarmed, relax and put down your notepad and that fancy image capturing device of yours. I will present these tiny morsels of genius is small edible chunks. Any expert worth their salt knows that the path to personal development and fulfilment is a slow and steady jog and not a mad dash with your arms flailing all over the place.

Before I continue, you might want to check some email or watch a lovely pet video on Youtube. I am going to need you to focus when we do some work. Better yet, get off the inter-webs and go play outside for a little bit.

Go on. Go.

From the dry deserts of Las Vegas to mean streets of Ottawa

Everyone Tom, Dick and Mary talks about it. From one-man outfits working out of their aunt Helen’s basements to multi-national corporate giants that span continents, they all profess it. Customer service is their middle name.

Oh really?

If it’s worked into their marketing spiel, it must be true. Laugh it up Madison Ave ad weasels — you got us good. Sadly, even more commonplace than these golden carrots held tenuously over the slobbering consuming masses are the stories of either poor customer service or a complete lack there of. Of course, this is nothing new. Entities like the Consumerist would not have flourished, if this wasn’t the case. On a daily basis, there are countless posts about blue ribbon cases of poor, I mean horrendous adventures in customer service. Indifference is the ultimate sin, a disregard for relationship building can end even the best whirlwind consumer/merchant love affair. Are you listening Bell Canada? Don’t go snickering Rogers and Royalbank Visa…you are ass to me also.

While stories, posts and blogs about shitty experiences are rampant all over this thing we call the internet. This ain’t one of them. You heard right. Zappos, ready your upper back/shoulder region for full patting action.

I recently made my first purchase on zappos.com — before I begin, here’s a back story (that may or may not add any insight). At the tender age of 12, I was diagnosed as a sneaker-freak…prognosis…negative. It’s a life-long battle. My mom cried and we stopped attending public events. But with hard work I was able to finish school, find a steady job and eventually found a mate. Good things.

OK, back on course, so I heart shoes and I have attempted to buy some online without much success thus far. With the advent of the online shopping experience brought a plethora of retailers ready to take my hard-earned cash money, most of them American — no surprise there. I found out quickly that Canada is a shipping no man’s land like Puerto Rico, Hawaii and Alaska. Usually I had to pay extra duties and shipping that made the entire buying experience lose some luster. So footwear aficionado meet zappos.com, online merchant meet disposal income. Their website was well built, categorized in a orderly fashion, great user feedback for sizing/fit and don’t even get me started about their search. Let’s just say that it had me at ‘men + 9.5 + hightops’. While I breezed though its diverse catalogue, the actual buying screeched to a halt upon check-out. Damned by my Canadian address, I decided to ring them up for a taste of their self-proclaimed legendary customer service skills. They are after all, Powered by Service™, it’s true. That’s their slogan. Big red flag in my books. Service could very well be the e-commerce engine they use or the name of their catering truck. A marketing trick no doubt. And the site was loaded with customer testimonials. Another red flag. Anyone can throw empty testimonials around. Watch.

‘Jumboshrimp was fast and courteous when they fixed my septic tank. I recommend them for all your sewer related needs.’
Denise
Housewife
Albuquerque NM

Wasn’t that easy?

So I dialled them up — ready for some mass confusion and annoyance. I got Dolores within 2 rings. Two! I wish that everyone could get a dash of Dolores in the lives. I asked her if it was possible to pay with a Canadian credit card but then have the item shipped to a my sister in Connecticut (who would be visiting me in a few days with shoes in tow). Surely that would grind the entire operation to a dead-stop! ‘No problem, sugar’ was her answer. I liked her calling me sugar. Usually I didn’t, but it felt nice. Within minutes my transaction was complete, Dolores repeated every detail to assure its correctness, including free overnight shipping and a free 365 day return policy. As in no charge — zilch.

While waiting for the email confirmation to drop into my mailbox, Dolores and I chatted about the weather (snow in Ottawa vs. sunshine in Las Vegas). I told her I was there 5 years ago for business, she invited me back to see how much things have changed. It was a delightful exchange. Short and friendly. The fateful email arrived, my order has been shipped is says. Sure it has I thought. I know about the status games you online entities play. I would be ecstatic if the shoes arrived within 5 days. Finally Dolores and I had to part ways. She asked me if there is anything else I needed assistance with. I told her I loved her. Seriously. She laughed and then gave me a most genuine salutation I have ever received in my entire telephony history. One pair of crisp white hightops later, Dolores become family.

Dolores, you are a testament to the Zappos credo. A real pleasure to deal with, Zappos you hold on to this woman, youhearme? So now, when I am ever greeted with a smug indifference across a counter or a telephone I calmly state. You….are no Dolores.

The following morning , I received an email from my sister saying that a package has arrived. Mind boggling! I made the order at 9 pm EST. It arrived at 8:30 am EST the following morning. Does this make sense to anyone? Does Zappos have access to some sort of teleportation technology? This is the norm evidently, Zappos didn’t make up their testimonials. I believe. I believe. It was secure, and pain free. All the things you want in an online buying experience. If only buying mortgages and insurance, or a donut for that matter was so delightful. Make it happen people of Zappos.

Since the 2 weeks that I the shoes arrived, Zappos has launched a Canadian version. It has only a quarter of the inventory and there are shipping fees. Not too impressive, but I am sure they are working on its improvements as I type. But if you pick up the phone, you still win the customer service lottery that is Zappos. Friend of the consumer near and far…

Important: I have no personal or financial affiliation to Zappos.com and or its employee-extraordinaire Dolores. I was more than ready to be utterly disappointed by this buying experience. But I have to give praise where it is due. Zappos talks and walks like a duck. Indeed.

Not an actual photo of Team Basketcases

Let it be known that in the year of our Lord, two-thousand and seven, on the eleventh day of the fourth month, during the nineteenth hour, the tranquil city of Ottawa, Canada grabbed the world of athletics by its nutsack and exclaimed — I own you bitch. No truer words have ever been spoken. With a clutch and a half-twist, sport followers sat up and took notice.

Regardless of event or activity, this city produces winners — no, dare I say CHAMPIONS.

I present to the members of the jury, Exhibit ‘A’:

Team ‘Basketcases’ of the Alcatel Basketball League. Go ahead and enjoy the hilarious wordplay in the team name. I’ll wait. All season long, this fun-loving gang of jump shooters played with conviction and moxie. They weren’t paid, they didn’t have matching uniforms and except for the janitorial staff and few loiterers…they didn’t even have fans. What they lacked in shoe endorsements and fan adoration, they made up in passion. They played each and every game for the world, they played for the young, the old, the infirmed. They played for every goddam man, woman, child. Don’t worry, they had enough heart for everyone.

The season reached an apex with the championship finals against the ‘X-men’. Team Basketcases had been decimated with injuries and lost of 2 key team members for the entire play-offs. It didn’t look good for our guys. Only 5 players were on hand for the final game, against 11 on the side of the X-men. If betting was allowed in the Alcatel League, the Vegas line on Basketcases would have been downright sad. It would have be a fool’s bet. From tip-off to the final buzzer. The teams were neck and neck. The X-men’s game plan was simple, run these guys to the ground. Surely, Team Basketcases didn’t have the physical stamina to maintain their play the entire 60 minutes. Or did they? At the half way mark, trailing by 4 points, the lads of Basketcases willed their way back into the game. With sheer grit, they transformed the deficit into a 10 point lead. Someone call the Vatican, a miracle took place in Ottawa last night. Like two heavyweights exchanging kidney shots, the teams battled. Enduring fatigue, bruises and multiple pulled groins, Team Basketcases held on for 4 point victory. A triumphant score of 36 – 32. An ugly eye-gouging, neck-elbowing affair. Every fouling situation in the modern rule book came into play. For a team that averaged 65+ points a game during the season, this was not an exhibition in offencive prowess. Offence may wins fanfare, but defense wins championships. Call it a shout-out to those hallowed Detroit Pistons ‘Bad Boys’ days. Can I get a Bill Laimbeer up in this mother? Words like poetic, and fluidity and beauty will never be used to described this victory. But for the rest of the summer, bragging rights belong to Team Basketcases. Prolly the greatest basketball squad in the Greater Ottawa-Gatineau area (to grace the Alcatel Basketball League). Champions of the League!

If this wasn’t enough to seal the case, I continue by presenting to you Exhibit ‘B‘:

The Ottawa Senators laid the smack down on Sidney Crosby and the Pittsburgh Penguins. The Sens won game 1 of the first round by a 6 - 3 count. Surely on the road to their inaugural Stanley Cup victory. Conversely, a true show of offencive dominance.

And finally, to round out my air-tight argument, may I direct the court’s attention to Exhibit ‘C’:

The Ottawa Lynx (Baltimore Oriole AAA affiliate), fresh from fending off an off-season hostile take-over bid by evil Nolan Ryan. They had to start the season under a cloud of rumours and hearsay. Even with the constant threat of being boxed up and moved out of town looming, the team pulled up their socks, and doubled the Buffalo Bisons 13 – 7 in an early season match-up. Can you say owned?

In conclusion, I have presented to thee the 3-headed sporting behemoth that is Ottawa, Canada. A rabid, prolific winning machine. Let it be known on Wednesday, April 11, 2007 that this city be forever known as the City of Champions.

I rest my case. Game. Set. Match.

I know every suspect spouts out endlessly of their innocence whenever they are accused of a crime, but it wasn’t my fault! Not directly anyways, let it be know that I subscribe to neither the spiritual or the literal interpretation of the law. I got a very good defence, Johnnie Cochrane-like even, may God rest his soul.

We are creatures of habit, and I am no different. Between 9:30 - 10:30 am, I need to clear my bowels. There, it’s out there. I’m not shy about it. It’s pretty much the only thing you can count on, I’m quite proud of this routine. It says, I exercise proper bodily functions. I care for my intestinal health. Rarely, am I cranky due to constipation. It’s true.

Today, that pride, that routine was shattered by an evil-doer. As always, accompanied by my trusty wad of newspaper, I went about my business. Upon arrival I noticed a yellowish shine within the bowl, and visual confirmation of turd was made. This sadly, was not a shocker, evidently I work with circus animals masquerading as bureaucrats. If I had a penny for every time I had to pre-flush the bowl before I begin my process, I can build my own personal lavatory right in my cubicle. Not the most pleasant of events to experience this early in the morning, but I have resolved it to the fact this was due to the Public Service’s low hiring standards. In a perfect world, the interview process could include the following scenario:

“Well, everything looks great, you have the experience and your references are stellar. I think you are perfect for this role. Let me just take a quick look at the personal hygiene questionnaire you filled out when you applied for this position. Okay, uh-huh…yep…yeah this looks great…Oh fuck, wait. You answered that you never flush the toilet after a shit. Ummm..yeah that’s nasty. I’m sorry but, we can not offer you the position of VP of Marketing. GET OUT! GET OUTTA HERE YOU ANIMAL!!”

Alas, our world is far from perfect and atrocities like these are common place in the public sector. So like any other day, when I see turd in bowl. I don’t cry or lament how the world has done me wrong. I just use my left foot to flush the offensive matter. But today, the water moved in a irregular way, it started rising, taking turd and whatever else with it. As soon as it neared the rim of the bowl, I bolted. Cowardly? maybe but I panicked. Sue me. I glanced quickly back and the floor was flooded. Damn it! But, here is the kicker. When I entered, there was this ass-captain quickly drying his hands and he shot me an odd look. Only later did I deduced that it was a look of guilt mingled with shame. He reaked of it. He was the culprit. But get this, as I made my mad dash to higher ground, I almost knocked down another guy as he was coming in. I know for a fact that he blamed me for this fiasco. Me! the victim. Double crap. How’s that for injustice. Did he recognize me? Will he? Am I subject to whispered gossip of, “Oh man, there’s that guy I told you guys about. The guy that flooded the bathroom with his turds.” But you know what? I know the truth. And his judging eyes won’t change that.

It has been 36 minutes since a gauntlet was thrown, and a challenge was accepted. Those with a supernatural fear of fish-borne intestinal maladies watched with anticipated glee. What idiotic gall, what disregard for basic health they cried. Surely man, you must be mad in the head. Back down, back down now, they pleaded. A price will be paid by this defiant gastronomical act of gumption.

A meal has turned into sport. Noon hour bravado that the lunchroom regulars hasn’t seen since last week meatloaf surprise. A lunchtime respite from a typical boorish finale of the public servant work week.

Ring. The. Bell.

These two combatants has squared off multiple times before. Both has shaken off the remnants of previous victories and losses. As soon as the sun dawned at 6:27 in the AM, today became and remained a new day. Playing the part of MAN, is a charming 31 year old male immigrant. Tuna fish salad sandwich will once again don the sash of FISH. (Odd Note: ‘Tuna fish’ is quite redundant as a description and or category. They are currently no known occurrences of Tuna beef, or Tuna chicken. May be region specific term.)

Here’s the back story for both sides, which may or may not influence the outcome.

Man: As noted above, 31 year old gentleman of known origin. Subject garnered years of superlative ingestion and digestion of a cornucopia of international foodstuffs. Coinciding with eating prowess is a periodically debilitating irritation of the lower bowels. Also referred to an acute upset tummy or ache of the ass (due in large part to refugee-like devotion to saving money and complete disdain of food wastage).

Fish: Week old dolphin-safe Tuna salad sandwich, made with a generous dollop of generic mayonnaise, chopped green onions, julienned carrots, a sprinkling of secret homemade concoction of spices finally sealed by two toasted multi grain slices of whole wheat. Noted to be delicious when first made and tasted. Stored in a container in a fridge with the exact temperature setting of ‘cold’.

No medical professionals were in attendance.

The confrontation started out without much fanfare. But a small crowd began to form and yells of support hurled toward both combatants. Man’s initial exuberance was slightly speedbumped by a grainy memory of a weekend marathon dumping session, loosely attributed to Man vs. Fish XII - Sushi Slaughters Man. With a metaphoric brush of the shoulders, the battle raged from this point. Emotionless, calculating as always, Fish sits and waits. Waiting for the fight to brought to its doorstep.

Fish baits man. Man bites. And bites again, and again.

A collective gasp followed by anxious silence. Dry, dead silence. All eyes on Man, searching for signs of the beast. Watery eyes, profuse sweating, uncontrolled bleeding from various orifices. The front line soldiers for the army of Diarrhea were held at bay. For those who came to the spectacle envisioning a display of bodily spasms and convulsions were sent home disappointed. As soon as it began, so it was done. Ten minutes has lapsed since the final morsel was masticated and swallowed, and still no signs of pain and Man maintains up right posture. There were no mad scrambles for nearest available lavatory or any potential excrement containing devices.

Today, Man triumphs over Fish, and his bacterial cohorts. This outcome sends a shock wave of fear for all inhabitants of cold storage. Your days are numbered. Toady, Man looked into a the beady eyes of the somewhat questionable edible, and with a quick sniff, boldly stated, “I will eat you today. I will risk a weekend of projectile vomiting to avoid wasting food.”

For another day, all is right in the world.