Hey there! Over here. Here. Little to the left. A little more…Hey! For a second there, I totally thought that you were ignoring us. Weird huh? Sooo…how are things?

Super.

Everyone working on their PDCs? I know you are, because I have noticed a remarkable difference when I watch the action outside our offices with my high powered telephoto lens. Keep workin’ on them, everyone is doing great.

The summer has been good to us at the Center for Human Zenetics™. Since merging resources with Jumboshrimp, our enrolment has tripled — sure both my parents moved out of the communal tents, but they don’t get it. Not like you guys, you guys get it. That’s the bad news. Good news for the rest of the ‘family’ in the commune, no more crazy asian screaming matches during Wheel of Fortune! On another note, people are really noticing a difference since allowing Human Zenetics into their lives. And that warms our cockles. Feel them, they’re super toasty feeling.

Before we get rolling, just to update everyone who is anxious about the upcoming “Tour de Awesome” seminars: our interns have been busy finalizing the program. They are ‘cutting the fat’ so to speak. Attendees can expect a lean, green life-affirming machine when our tour rolls into your neck of the woods. Our emissions rate will be somewhere between a U2 European concert tour and Oprah’s Travelling Bookclub. Let’s just say we keep pretty good company. Our carbon footprint will be down a very respectable value, once our pesky interns are done. Who says you have to pay salaries to get results? Really. Who said that, because I wouldn’t mind face-punching them for a wee bit for tipping off the local 420 labour union. Lol, I keed I keed.

SERIOUSLY LABOUR WATCHDOGS, OUR INTERNS ARE VERY HAPPY. THERE IS NO NEED TO HAVE A JOB SITE INSPECTION TO CHECK CONDITIONS AND EMPLOYEE WEIGHT LEVELS.

With all that ugliness out of the way. Can I get to the part where I get to share our latest offering? While we know that the path to enlightenment is a long drawn-out journey, we can’t ignore the fact that we are living in a fast and hairy world. To appease both you (valuable supporters) and our share holders, we have come up with a compromise. We have created a new section of the site. Think of this as a bite-sized treat from the official Guide to Happy™.

Say hello to Ask the Crustacean! — our resident advice arthropod. Everyone at the office goes to this guy for tips, ranging on small engine repair to dating etiquette. We thought—Shit, there has to be a way to monetize this little guy. And of course there is. But we are still holding true to our mantra of…while cheap is good, free is better. That means Ask the Crustacean! will be free. All Day. Every day. Free? Yes. Free. What about weekends? FREE. How about holidays? FREE. OK enough! I really didn’t think we were gonna spend so much time about this FREE thingy.

Moving on.

While his stature is small, his wisdom knowns no bounds. And did I mention the wit! If Bob Saget ever made it with a prawn, this dude would be their love-child. Suffice it to say that he’s kind of a big deal.

Ask the Crustacean! will be published in a semi-regular bi-weekly schedule (subject to change without notice). Here’s a preview of some sage-iosity!

Dear ’shrimp,

I am a 35 year old female executive, I consider myself intelligent and not lacking in the cushion for the pushin’ department. You know the deal…my professional success has left me deficient in the relationship department. I am sick of girl’s night. Where can a girl like me meet the right guy. Hook a sister up!

— What’s a girl gotta do?

Hey girl,

If I had a penny every time one of my lady friends laments about how they sacrificed their social life for career, I’d be able to wrap my exoskeleton in Harry Winston jewels…meaning I hear it a lot. I’m gonna tell you what I tell them. It goes something like this:

Tell me about this fantasy world that you have been living in? Where a woman (or anyone) can achieve everything her (or his) hearts desire. The career. The house. The family. The love of their life. The ability to dunk a basketball. Etc, etc. You see, life is about balances, and achieving success in any realm requires that you are dedicated towards that specific endeavour. That means you have to pick. If you want a relationship now, you are going to have to sacrifice your work. I am not saying to jump off the corporate ladder, maybe just stay at your current rung. What about those people who have everything and are happy? To that I say this: Those people are liars. They are either lying or secretly unhappy, or a combination of. The human animal is not capable on focusing on so many different things and being successful at them all. It’s your whole processing gases via nose/lungs. Way too energy sapping. Crustaceans on the hand, we breathe through gills. It helps us focus big time. We’re good at everything. Therefore, you should call me this weekend. Oh, and try that whole love yourself more dealio, I hear that helps project a more attractive image. Or at least that what my girl Tyra says.

P.S. A picture with this note would have helped your cause large.

J’shrimp

That’s just a cocktail sampling of Ask the Crustacean! If you require advice on anything (we mean anything), shoot the him an email at askthecrustacean@gmail.com. Letters will be published on this site at a completely random rate. We can not promise your confidentiality and or anonymity.

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.

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.

A little march madness

How do you spell upset? B-U-F-F-A-L-O. Second only to New York City in population, the Don Swayze of the Empire State, if you will. Like a stampeding herd of sun-stroked large prairie mammals, this blue collar town ran rough shot over the hopes and dreams of a couple NCAA teams and their faithfuls. for the first two rounds of the tournament, this city had the nation’s attention. A truly American traditional, American as apple pie, capitalism and offshore outsourcing. The Road to the Final Four had a pit stop in Buffalo, New York, where four plucky Canadians were on hand to witness two heart-pounding second round matches. Feel the madness, be the madness.

On the morn of March 17, under a light dust of snow, four groggy Spartans set out to war. Did someone say 24 hour roadtrip?! Each warrior kissed their kin and left the comforts of home to embark towards the battlefield. Mind you, the battlefield was exotic downtown Buffalo, and the foursome will only act as observers and the maximum energy exertion would consist of fighting off other urinal users during halftime. But make no mistake blood will be shed and lives are at stake.

With courage in our hearts, Tim Horton’s in our guts, and passports on our persons, the party of four rolled out onto to 401 (the King’s Highway) on a collision course with Buffalo (the Queen City). As if it was written in the stars, it seems Destiny had Google-mapped this course. Time of impact, 2:30 pm. Two hours before the first tip-off, enough time to acquaint ourselves with our surroundings, find the seats we paid for, and subsequently find better available seats that we can squat and occupy. Unrelenting in our determination, we ebbed closer and closer, battling a late blast from Old Man Winter. Not even the siren call of an outlet mall en route could divert us from our path.

Once the destination was reached, the electricity in the air was palatable. Our chariot was filled with the giddy laughter not unlike that of high-school girls. Today, Mecca was the HSBC Center, home of the Buffalo Sabres. I had always considered myself a sports fans, and an even greater basketball fan. But our American counterparts put us to shame. Like everything else in the U.S. of A., they go big. Man, woman, child, nanna, all of them breathed college hoops. This love affair was a family heirloom passed between the generations. This was proven by the three generations of Pittsburgh fans cheering in front of us. Grandmother, mother and child. The entire clan was dressed in their full war attire, replete with ‘Pitt’ sweater, hats, scarves and foam fingers.

When the dust clouds settled, we finally finagled our seats (after being politely asked twice to vacate our current position by the rightful owners). Game one of the double-header involved (No.4) Maryland vs. (No.5) Butler. A close affair, the two teams were neck and neck throughout the game. The Butler Bulldogs eeked out a 62 - 59 victory over the Maryland Terrapins. A mild upset in the tournament, but a big win for such a small school. You got to love seeing the little guys come out on top. Good game, a perfect prelude for the main event. Today our bladders will be tested.

This was the second day of the 64 team tournament, and thus far only one major upset occurred. VCU ranked 11 beat Number 6 Duke. For college hoop fans, there’s 2 camps…you either love or hate Duke. We all fall into the latter category. And everyone loves an underdog. We were here to witness VCU try to extend its Cinderella story against Pittsburgh. Us, players in this modern athletic storybook tale. Rams versus Panthers. After a brief intermission, the game we drove 7 hours for was set to commence. Luckily we were in the predominant VCU section, but unfortunately Pitt took an early lead and held it for a majority of the game. The faithfuls were losing faith, so four foreigners from up north had to rally the forces. We clapped, we cheered, we hissed at the refs, one of us took a cat-nap in anticipation for the post-game drive home — we use everything in our fan arsenal. Although we can’t take all the credit, with 10 minutes left in the game, the Rams seem rejuvenated by our enthusiasm and mounted a counter attack. They fought back from a 19-point deficit, a ungodly sum of points. Their comeback culminated into a tied game! Holy. Shit. Ladies and gentlemen, we have overtime. Overtime games during March Madness, are akin to an albino baby Koala bear — rare, to be pulled close to the heart and cherished forever.

We high-fived and hug complete strangers, but the warm-fuzzies didn’t last long. Quickly into the overtime, Pittsburgh regained the lead, and the kids of VCU ran out of steam. Panthers 84 – Rams 79, make it a final. There were tears abound, from players, band members and fans alike. I am man enough to admit that my lower lip did a quiver or two. Those scrappy kids from Virginia Commonwealth did themselves proud and in the process gained four big kids from Canada as lifelong fans. You will always have a special place in our hearts.

Battle-weary, hungry and little heart-broken, we started our trip home. Total travel time was 14 hours for 6 heart pounding hours of vitality. Say what you will about our American cousins, but they sure know how to throw a party. In regards of a billion dollar industry in the guise of amateur athletics, no one does it better. No one.

Finally the second instalment of the critically ignored, rarely viewed graphic narrative that has gripped the comedic heartbeat of Latin America. Join us today, as we follow the mundane happenings of Señor Barry y Señor Bowler. Two zany gángsteres corporativos just trying to do work.

Please note: Currently only available in gringo-speak.

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.

D: Dude, what are you doing here? Your illustration talents are wasted in this joint.

G: Hey, man this gig pays the bills. Pays it real well.

D: I know, I know. But I can feel my creative soul being slowly smothered by the ass of monotony.

G: Haha. It’s funny cause it’s true. Ha…ha…he…whimper.

D: We should do something like a online zine or something.

G: For sure. Let’s do this.

D: Guy, let’s meet after work and get this mother off the ground.

6 months later. 6 agonizing months later.

D: Ok, dude. Let’s finally get going on this web comic idea. We need to channel our creative ninja skillus before they dry up and fall off. You in still?

G: Yeah man.

D: Nice. I sketched out some rough scripts for a few strips. Pick one and do your magic.

G: Haha, these are not bad just ‘Leave it with me…‘

Captain Planet, the beloved brainchild of environmentalist and one-time pinko sympathzier Ted Turner is getting old. Captain Planet that is, not Ted Turner — thanks to Swiss science and his hidden reserve of gold bullion, the Tedster is livelier than ever. Truth be told, The Captain’s green mullet is greying, sure it looks distinguished and sexy in the Sean Connery geriatric kind-of-way in Entrapment, but dude is out. Since 1990, the Captain along with 70’s funk super group Earth, Wind, Fire, Water and Heart have been infotaining the world’s youth on environmental and social issues. And making a tidy profit from the merchandising and spin-off products to boot. BANK!

He has served us well, and has earned his right to throw up his size 12’s knee highs, rest his muscular shoulders on an English-leathered wingback and take it real easy-like. We thank you, the world thanks you, your work is done but there is much left undone. Enter stage right, new guy. Hit the tape deck, and somebody turn up the Hammer. The hour has come; the torch must be passed; the famous skin-tight unitard will now grace a new corn-fed body. Oscar race, shm-Oscar race. The fake contest du jour is the crowning of Captain Planet 2007. Planeteers, we got your back like for serious.

Like any other respectable corporately-funded UN-observed democratic nomination process, there are only two candidates vying for this sweet, sweet job. And since the state of the entire globe is at hand, it only makes sense the candidate shall be fabulously unilingual - meaning English speakers ONLY need apply, and if you don’t like the rules, you can take your freedom-hating ass back to France.

A cross section of potential candidates have been thrown into a Dell laptop (confiscated from Albanian bookies) containing the same software that has correctly deduced the outcome for the last 15 Ohio State ‘Little Miss Buckeye’ Toddler Beauty Pageants (with an accuracy rate of over 65%, no less). After two hours of tabulations, one patch for Explorer and three system reboots, two shiny rhetoric-encrusted mounds of turd floated to the top. Without further adieu, we present to you — your new Captain Planet 2007 — please hold your lobbying until the end.

Mr. Personality
*Artist Interpretation

In the blue corner, the Right Honourable Stephen Joseph Harper, Leader of the new Conservative Party of Canada, and the nation’s 22^nd Prime Minister. He has been leading a lean, mean governing machine since January 2006. A founding father of the Reform party and wunderkind of the Canadian Alliance Party. While driving the Alliance party bus, he orchestrated a deal of Gretzsky-esque proportions with then leader of the Progressive Conservative Party to merge assets, created a new ultra-secret (twice as secret as super-secret) handshake and rebranded themselves as the Conservative Party of Canada. The right-wing base breathed a collective sign of relief, and Canadian politics was restored to its former glory. ‘Unite the Right’ was their chant, and in one slow, drawn out lacklustre election, Mr. Personality became Canada’s first elected animatronic Prime Minister. Stephen Joseph was a man on a mission, flipping unions and allegiance for his political gain, the man is ‘change’ personified. He is the change in ‘Climate Change’. Sure, he dismissed the notion of ‘Global Warming’ and poo-pooed the Kyoto Protocol as the leader of the Opposition and then proceeded to sledgehammer existing and successful national campaigns once he was in power. It is that easy nay-sayers, you want an answer? He doesn’t even see a problem. He is single-minded in his determination. If he can fain interest in the province of Quebec to gain his office, you bet your tree-hugging, hemp-covered behind he can easily fake being green to keep it. While he keeps his ideas and policies vague and closely guarded, make no mistake…it will be a ‘Made in Canada‘ solution. Now that’s a fine tagline, eat it Madison Avenue! Government Accountability and Transparency — check! Ensuring Canadians safety at home and abroad (whatever the hell that means) — double check! Environmental problems, bring it on ladies. The pride from the west side, the part man-part robot, Stephen Joseph Haaaaarppppppeerrrrr.

Walker Texas Ranger
*Artist Interpretation

And in the red corner, a darling of the international stage for the last 7 odd years. Born into a life of squalor and hardship, a self-made man in business and politics. There was nothing life gave this southern gentleman, he took it…then proceeded to either snorted it and or shot it back with a vodka chaser. We give you the 43^rd President of the United States of America, George Walker Bush. Say it with me — TWO TERMS — democracy works people. While his current opponent may have flip-flopped, GW is steadfast in his autistic-like focus on his beliefs. Beliefs that may go against grade school science and common sense, but they’re resolute and unwavering. Catastrophic climatic episodes due to changing oceanic currents? Save your college-speak lefty wienies. While some may have naively taken every word fed by the world’s science elite at face value. This Texas Ranger from the Lone Star state formed his own panel of experts (read unemployed lab guys from Big Tobacco) to investigate into matters. And even when their conclusions deviated from his knowledge, he formed another panel to refute his previous panel. The man doesn’t know the word quit. But he does know the word legacy. Democracy and Freedom in the Middle East? Two words. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Human tragedy of Hurricane Katrina, you are welcome New Orleans. And now he has his eyes on a bigger fish to sauté and deep fry. Saving the world, that doesn’t look too bad on the old resumé. He is a man with a plan, check that he has four. You say the environment needs a friend in the Capitol building, well Gee-Dub and his investment portfolio has been teabagging Mother Nature for decades. She couldn’t ask for a better bedfellow, we give you. George. Walker. Bush.

There can be only one winner in this contest, but no matter who bears this incredibly important burden, we are the real winners in the end. Are you paying attention lefty conspiracy theorists? Your whining call for help has been answered. You see the glinting at the end of the tunnel, it’s the the beam of hope bouncing off the new Captain Planet’s codpiece. Think long, think hard. This is the best it gets. Now, using your mobile device, call now or text your vote. Be patient as our lines will be busy, please stay on the line to maintain your level of priority sequence. Your call is important to us…and the next available agent will respond to your problem. Standard international rate apply.

Mr. and Mrs.

Sometimes, clarity of thought requires a separation from emotion – and a month or so of recovery time. I can laugh now, because my tears ducts have dried into shriveled pockets of cells weeks ago. Nearly four months has passed since the day of my matrimony (October 7th, 2006 actually), I do find myself far enough removed from the eventful day, to give an objective break down. Allow me to sit back and review…Mind you, we still have a couple of loose ends to tie up (I am looking at you ‘Thank You Cards’ and ‘Studio 409′ — our official ceremony and reception photographers).

In any event, as I look back now, I am overwhelmed with a sense of joy and general warm’n'fuzziness. My lady and I essentially, went against every primal instinct and the final result was truly an affair to remember. I do not hesitate using the term awe-inspiring interchangeably with mind-numbing. They really go hand in hand when we are talking about the pomp and pageantry of a modern wedding celebration. We went über-conventional, meaning the flowers, the hair, the make-up, the church, the caddy, the jovial Scottish minister, the bridesmaid, the groomsmen, the custom invitations, the hotel reception hall, the multimedia slide show, the overpriced photographers, the bottled wine, the hand-made bonboneries (guest gifts for the uninitiated), the cake, the tropical South American honeymoon, the aunt from France, the feuding cousins, the former work colleague that seated herself in the family-only section, the babies, the speeches, the dancing, the laughter, the joy, the tears, the FUN. And just for good measure, the traditional Vietnamese and Indian wardrobe changes. IS NO JOKE. Take a moment, breathe.

Let us go back to 2005, we found ourselves in love and engaged. We both wanted to be married, that was never in doubt. My first inclination was to elope. Made sense to me, if not the both of us. Then the realization that were the proud owners of about ten dozens sets of uncles, aunts and cousins had set in; and that notion of a quaint intimate ceremony and dinner with close family became a tired running inside joke, that produces more tears than laughter. You see, with big families such as ours, if you invite one then you surely had to invite them all. We were quite proud of the fact that our numbers levelled off at 165, because if it weren’t for the minute amount of resolve that remained within us, it could have easily ballooned to 300. I kid you not. We quickly realized that phrases like “No”, “We can’t invite them” and “We are not paying that ridiculous price” would eventually dissolve into “Whatever…”, “Sure, bring the kids” and “Do you take credit?”. Mind you, we were somewhat stubborn in our determination to do things ourselves, and quite ambitious with our time line for deliverables. Everything went off marvellously, I do seem to be laying on the superfluous adjectives with ease, but we were truly blessed. The only sunny Saturday in October fell on our wedding, one has to think that there’s some sort of universal serendipitous hands working in our favour. I am by far too Asian to believe in mere coincidence.

October the 7^th, two-thousand and six will be known as one of the happiest days of my life. A great start to a new chapter. I am often asked if I feel any difference. And everyone is surprised to hear that EVERYTHING is different. The air is better, my step is livelier - I smile about 200% more. I know that we are a generation of sceptics, and I, a practitioner in the art of cynicism; baffled by my own testimony. But, I do want to relay some hope toward this institution. An institution that has undoubtedly been battered and bruised. But like any matter of life, if you enter it with earnestness and a commitment to hard work, the rewards will come back ten folds. A wedding is a declaration of that commitment, a declaration bared witness by your private community. I may have overstep the sap quotient, but this would be the first time where my sarcasm has no place. It was a day of true romance.

The only advice that I can pass on to anyone entertaining the idea of marriage is this, people do get over it (whatever it may be) and no decision (however monumental you may deem them) during the process really matters in the end. If that day ever arrives, enjoy each other, enjoy your guests and most definitely enjoy the wine.