The Big Rock Candy Theorem

Recent minute blips in the cardiograph of the European markets has the public slowly but surely cocking eyebrows towards economists AS IF they know not what they did, will do, are doing. I must ask the public to be patient. Relax. Have a wheat beer. Take a wide Bertha (or a wide Martha if that's all you got). I learned to take an expansive, patient view of the world during my brief ten-year sojourn in the Swiss Alps.

I was taking the cure at Berghof Schrudrifer Sanatorium for my pathologic gummy addiction (to this day I can't see a swedish berry without salivating like a dog in a jerky factory). Ah, the sweet regulatory life of a patient at the Berghof! Time condensed and expanded in a way you "valley folk" could never understand. Between the five identical and precise meal-times, where we were served everyday with Happy Meals and Fresca, to the long stretches of the "rest cure", where, bundled up in our yak-skin sacks we sat hours on our balconies in all weather, snow or rain, howling at the moon and taking stock of the universe - who among you groundhogs could grasp it?

In short, it was blisteringly boring. But how marvelously so! Still, not all time was solitude. Besides brief conversation at the troughs during meal-times, I also managed to do some Berg steigen, mountainous hiking, although nothing too strenuous for my weakened, gummy-riddled frame. It was during these walks that I met Herr Tortellinni. Clad in a worn but tasteful pea-coat and neon-green neck-kerchief, Herr Tortellinni would harangue me on my mental fructifications and leave with me with plenty of valuable insight to maul over and forget on my own time.

He was a great homo humanus, a passable homo dodgeballicus, and a cringingly greedy homo stealsnapkinicus. He was also a maternal great-grandson of the famed economist Sismondi. His father had been a professional "Connect Four" player who struggled to bring national unity to his home country of Parmesania. Uniting the intellect and fervour of his famed progenitors, Tortellinni served the cause of his country and western civilization as a whole, writing a fifteen volume reference work, The History of Constipation in Literature. "What is all of Greek Tragedy," he would say, "but the mighty constipations of gods and men?"

It was Tortellinni who taught me the true meaning of Economics during one of his humanistic barking sessions -- sine pecunia, of course. I had brought up the subject with reference to the recent universal collapse of markets, sanity, and stability "down below". I went on further to call Economists, bankers, and market-traders alike "greedy sons-of-whores-and-whoremongering donkey eaters." Tortellinni smiled, played with his mustachio in that subtle, Snidely Whiplashesque manner he had, and proceed to correct my peverted opinions with the following lecture:

"Sapperlot, my young Informationist! I do not think you quite grasp the idea of Economics. It was Plato who said Philosophy begins in wonder; he might just as well have said that Economics ends in it. Indeed, one can hardly censure Economists for the unfruitful studies they undertake. At least a Philosopher or a professor of English would have no grounds. Economists are not astrologists. It might very well be that they study the ups and downs of market forces, currencies, and that impenetrable river of numbers and decimals with the same relish that a Classicist laps up from a passage of Homer describing the wine-dark sea. As soon as the critic can tell me the theme of the next great novel before it is yet written, then and only then will I look toward the Economist with regards to the future."

It was a striking thought, I thought, as I struck my thunker on an unseen outcrop of mountain.

"But," I continued, for my sentence was hardly begun, "what then are these Economists good for, Herr Tortellinni?"

He smiled and nodded. "You are playing in dangerous, Bourgeois, urine soaked pool waters, my young Informationist. Asking what a thing is 'good for' is tantamount to intellectual Goonism. However, I will accept your teleological goal-post for the present argument. Let us consider the term from the Poetics that Aristotle uses to define the end of tragedy. The term is katharsis, which might be translated as relief, expulsion, or, in my personal view, the sacred bowel movement of the conscience. It is the feeling that rushes over one after the tragedy, the feeling of joy and release that accompanies the abstracted vision of terror onstage. It affects the whole audience, as if they were figuratively (or in some elderly cases, actually) just waking up from a dyspeptic nap.

"Now you ask me, what are the predictions of Economists good for? I point to Tiresias, to Cassandra, to the prophets of the Old Testament, who underscore the tragic moment by revealing it beforehand. They are our modern capitalistic mystics. It is their place to point at the ghastly, meaningless numbers of the stock ticker, to babble incoherent verses like the Delphic oracle. Above all else they serve to garnish the absolute catastrophe of mankind with a bit of foreshadowed seasoning."

I mentioned casually that as far as the stock ticker on TV goes, I had never learned to discern its meaning. I always read the numbers out like a Bingo man much to the general mirth of the Berghof rumpus room. Some jokes never get old. Tortelinni smiled his wolfish smile. We seperated for lunch, where our Happy Meals and toys were waiting with Swiss precision at our designated seats.

The Shadow over Goonsmouth

子曰、飽食終日、無所用心、難矣哉、不有博弈者乎、為之猶賢 乎已。

'The Master said, 'Hard is it to deal with him, who will stuff himself with food the whole day, without applying his mind to anything good! Are there not gamesters and chess players? To be one of these would still be better than doing nothing at all.'

-Analects, 17.22

Deep in the wooded depths of the Ottawa Valley lies a certain townhouse complex; therein are many units smelling of this or that fried delicacy. However, down at its furthest end, at the door of unit 667, there issues no immediate smell -- of cooking. Yet this was my goal. A rhythmic knock brings a dark hooded figure to the entrance; he slowly opens the gateway and ushers me in with the archaic, nasal dialect of his sect: "Hail, hail." I hailed. Inside, the rooms bespeak sacred rites not bound by social laws of cleanliness or hygiene. Holy books clutter my path as I make my way to the inner sanctum.

My eyes are immediately lifted to the icon of a howling warrior deity plastered on the wall with clear reverence. I use my rudimentary knowledge of Old Nerdish to decipher the gothic script beneath the ghastly Kali-esque image: "Bloody Kombat XV: Voyage to Kill-o-polis". Quickly a chorus of hails snaps my attention to the scene at hand. Along two ancient Ikea couches sit three acolytes equally male, hooded, and neck-bearded, with eyes empty of all save reverence for their avatar. The middle table contains bowls of cheesy-puffed offerings, high-octane sodas, and the mystic scribblings of their latest devotions. At the head, in an armchair of blood-curdling antiquity and historical bespatterment, sits the High Bishop. "Welcome and hail, Brother in Ghanos!" I had done it. I had found at last the remnants of the Old School Nerd Cult.

History would seem to have all but dispensed with the cultural significance of asceticism. That the Monks of Ireland and Old Europe saved Latinate culture through the Dark Ages and into the Carolingian Renaissance is well attested. Ascetic principles, both coenobitic and anchoritic, have played major moves in the chess game of world history and its progress. Yet the modern era seems scarcely aware of its few remnants. We have taken what we like from their doctrines and outer shells, and have tossed aside the inner meaning behind the sweet melismatic chants of the Gregorian era.

Yet most asceticism has been bound in some way with the religions of the Old World. Up until very recently, the Old Nerds were among the few genuinely modern and flourishing examples of asceticism in the later 20th century. Its origins lie in the spiritual reactions of a few deep souls, usually students of mathematics, sciences, and what became computer studies, who though wise in mortal knowledge yet felt resistance against the trending pull of the North American magnetism, that is against materialism, greed, and money. They besought truth from the outer reaches of the Universe in Space, or the sacred archetypes of man's fantastical Mythologies.

The true Patriarchs of the cult had already inscribed the canons and sacred texts by the 50's-60's. Conversion and martyrdom were the first fruits of the 70's. Bullies persecuted the Nerds with a sadistic, Neronian taste for cruelty. According to one of their most respected Theologians, St. Pointdexter, "the sect was built on the wedgies of the martyred." During the 80's regulations of the various orders had been set down; the most significant, among others, were the Ordo Sci-Fiensis, Ordo Fantasticus, and the Ordo Nintendoensis. The present cult of Ghanos which I am studying is a descendant of the last, but, as with many other religious orders, has adopted the eclecticism and protectionist tendencies of a decadent age. As a last, withered branch on a dying tree, they feel the heritage of all Nerdom is their domain.

The Nerds have seen a sickening debasement of their religion no less astounding than the Protestant Reformation. The old rites of true Nerdom have spread to the populace in crude new forms. "Noobs and posers, the lot of them!" I heard one acolyte exclaim. "What do they know of long hours alone, level grinding through the dark soul of the night?" What was once a tacit and subdued display of religious fervour has became a socially acceptable party favour. Who among you has not played on one of the new-fangled systems, a Ninetnedo Woo, Chex-Box, or Playstation Drei? The Old Nerds however stick solely to the oldest systems; Super Nintendo, Sega Genesis, Gameboy; and the true adepts of the sect play only the original Nintendo Entertainment System and Commodore 64.

Maybe the more adventurous of my readers have even embarked upon a little game of Dungeons and Dragons once in a while, with drinks, good company, and a hearty acceptance of its silliness? Something you can boast about to your friends later, saying how "super nerdy" you are with a wink and a sly reference to your dispensed virginity? Yet therein lies a great gulf; for a true Old Nerd, these things are deadly serious. Chastity, study, and reverence for the import of the Old Rites - these are the holiest of virtues to the sect. Their gaming domain has since been taken over largely by competing sub-cultures: The Frats, The Students, The Izzy-Goths and The Claustro-Goths, Metal-Heads, the Jocks, and even that most antithetical of sects to the Nerd, that is, the Celebrity or Popular Culture sect, has embraced the gaming culture. With such temptations at hand, even Nerds themselves began to fall into apostasy. Some shaved and married. Others joined up with the aforementioned subcultures. Only a small, dedicated core remained true to the old teachings.

Particularly disturbing to Old Nerds is the trend of "girl gamers". That females are strictly forbidden and cast out from all Nerdom is one of their most cherished commandments. "It is the key to the entire Mystery of our Brotherhood," explained the High Bishop. "It is through the sublimation of Earthly desires, especially that one..." and here he glanced down-wards, "That is the Way. That is where the fervour and devotion comes from. That is the key to the Old School, to beating Wizardry 1-2-3, to playing through decade long campaigns, to achieving the ecstatic heights of union with Ghanos!" He continued to harangue against the heresies of Geek Chic, Cosplay, Gamer Weddings, and all such petty fraternizing. "Mere shells without meat" he said.

I asked the High Bishop if he saw a future for the sect. He grimly shook his head. "We do not breed" he said with a hint of longing. "Our doctrines are dissipated and watered down among the masses, preventing new converts. Our spirits and our teachings may live on piecemeal, but the time of the Old Ones has come to an end. It is a new age dawning, and while we seek unity in the timeless bosom of Ghanos, the rest of the world must fend for itself. Perhaps there will come a time, as the prophets predict," and here he took a puff from his inhaler, "Perhaps, when the Phoenix of Dorkdom shall arise once more from the ashes of hedonism and success. Hail Ghanos!" I left the Nerds a sadder and wiser man, feeling a mix of regret, melancholy, and indigestion.

The Seventh Squeal

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,

Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,

Louping and flinging on a crummock,

I wonder did na turn thy stomach!

-Robbie Burns, Tam o' Shanter

Judging by the police reports, the claw-like shreddings in the new wallpaper, and the singular event of my awakening topless and shivering in maple-tree outside of the house, last night's Turner Classic Movies horror marathon must be pronounced a mind-gnashing success. I thought oldies were supposed to be a cakewalk. Laughingly I condescended to spend "an evening of it", making wry faces at the poor special effects and chortling at the hauteur of 40's Trans-Atlantic accentuation. "Noli me tangere!" I gurgled; Was I not a child of the most de-sensitized and bloodthirsty American generation since Hernan Cortez?

Reader, take my advice. If you would like to make a mockery of the cinematic heretofore, and choose the macabre as your genre, make damn sure the film doesn't have four stars. What becomes cheesy acting when done poorly reaches stupendous heights of eldritch horror when performed with Shakespearean acuity and depth; instead of our modern decapitations, the merest sigh or raised eyebrow comes to indicate fathomless terrors beyond the ken of human perception.

The selection was particularly effective. From the casual sheningans of a bloodthirsty lycanthrope, to the shrieking claustrophobia of a British seaside manor, last night's showing left me a stewing pile of nerves and pizzicato mini-yelps, much to the chagrin of both missus and mutt. But far worse than any of the feature pictures were the dreaded intermezzi. Yes reader, I am referring to those commercial (which came close to mental) breaks.

Wound-up to the pitch of high c by dissonant chord changes and fine acting, how do you think I felt when I saw the ghost of Sarah Jessica Parker suddenly appear before me in shimmering white and maw agape? Dead, dead eyes peered into my very psyche, howling, and pointing a gnarled claw at me to lift the curse of a thousand years by buying her new shampoo. I fell to my knees and prayed in all 108 languages I knew until the apparition dis-apparated. Yet many more followed; vision after heart-stopping vision of celebrity ectoplasms, photoshopped to uncanny new heights of ghostliness, threatened to haunt generations of my offspring should I forbear to purchase their unnatural skinware.

What they promised was as eerie and unholy as their appearance. Rejuvenation, eternal life, the philosopher's stone! I was exhorted to "fight the seven signs of aging" by means of a dreadful new alchemy known as "microdermabrasion". Computer generated close-ups of the aforementioned process left me more in doubt about its scientific value, and more assured as to its Satanic origins. What seem to be uncanny little ghostlings suddenly appear after the application of the non-euclidean substance - terrifying shapes beyond the known fibre of the cosmos in the blink of an eye dispatch time and matter alike with babe-ruthless efficiency.

Cosmic dread was upon me. Yet some maddening atavism in my being prompted me to dig deeper into that which I loathed. Telephoning my contacts at Miskatonic University, I obtained through dark channels some security transcripts from the unholy headquarters of these devotees of Hecate. I present them to you now, unadulterated, and recommend squeamish readers turn their heads to more pleasant jottings. You have been warned!

(Scene: Headquarters of ***** skin and hair products. President's office. Two middle-aged men smoking cigars in fine suits (their own suits aren't too bad either) are looking outside at the bleak Autumn weather. One speaks.)

Tracy: Johnson, I need that formula. If we're going to beat Macy's for the Holiday Rush, we need a new product for mom that sells.

Johnson: Mr. Tracy, sir, we're doing all we can. Our scientists are plying their microscopes night and day. We've already managed to take off 20 years...

Tracy: Bah! Only 20!? You and your science! Your slow, plodding, progress of science! No Johnson, I need something more potent.

Johnson: (hastily) Just give us a few more weeks sir-

Tracy: (interrupting) Johnson, I've made up my mind. Call him.

Johnson: Sir, he's mad!

Tracy: He's a genius, Johnson.

Johnson: No sir, I can't be a part of this any longer. I have a family, sir, and -- well damn it all, I have religion and a conscience! You're meddling with powers beyond your control. I'm leaving sir, and if you know what's good for you, you will to! (walks to the door) God keep you, sir!

(exit Johnson. Tracy sighs, flips casually through his flesh-bound copy of the Necronomicon. Finally, he opens his cell phone. Fade to black. )

(Scene opens in Festermoor Castle. Alone in his study, cluttered with unholy tomes, pentagrams, alchemical apparatuses and pizza boxes, the infamous Doktor Fistus finishes drawing a magical circle.)

Fistus: Have now, ach! Philosophy

Studied throughout, alas for me!

And all religion is a bore

Your sanctity doth make me snore.

I stand here yet a mighty fool

In a puddle of my own drool.

Fortowhich I turn to devilry

To ply the wand, aye that's for me!

(enter his manservant Garble, a jaunty homunculus with a heart of ash)

Garble: Master, I've recieved the a call

They wish to know if you withal

Have made the cream?

Fistus: A fool do I seem?

Abra-dabra-cabra car

Gloogle bungle bing ja jar!

I shall show them, who are so pushy!

(waves his hand over the magic circle)

I summon forth an ancient hussy!

(The ghost of Helen of Troy appears in the magic circle)

Fistus: Oh dame who launched a thousand nations!

Pray tell the secret of microdermabrasions?

Helen: Eye of goat, and toad of mud,

Mud of sheep, and cow of blood!

Fistus: Haha! Success! And now I've done it!

The secret alchemy, I've won it!

And to secure the unholy ingredient
A monster party methinks expedient!

(Fistus begins to dance with his homunculus while Helen begins a galliard with castanets. A variety of demons and ghouls join in. Fade to black with accompanyment from Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor).

Dear Dirty Dubstep

An Investigative Report for Up-Yours Magazine

"Madam, will you join me on the verandah? I understand they serve an outstanding lemon squash."

-Phileas Fogg

As a critic and investigator of popular culture who was awarded the Priss Magazine 1928 Glowering Gable Prize Ribbon for the Hushing of Youngsters, I can say this and this alone: keeping up with trends in popular music is like trying to ride a greased warthog - both are very hard to stay on-top of. It was only last Tuesday that I had been listening to a cutting little number from Maurice Chevalier on my old Ginger-Vox, "Ça sent si bon la France". Humming along and browsing the Internet, as is my wont, I suddenly noticed that my Facebook newsfeed was littered with a strange, glowing neologism: Dubstep. Dubstep. Dubstep! The very word flipped out of the mouth like an ill-fastened tongue stud. The audacious contraction! That lack of a hyphen! This was just the sort of thing young ne'er-do-wells would get up to behind my back.

Realizing that, if I let slip this latest development in popular culture, I might miss the most important leap forward since that young lad from Yorkshire -- yes, George Formby -- swept us all off our food, I struck out at once for Wikipedia. I shouldn't have struck out, as that disturbs the monitor. The correct action would have been to point and click, and I made a note to do so hereafter. "Keep your temper, man!" I said to myself. After three hours perusal, I managed to tease out a few so-called "facts":

Fact: Dubstep is from England.

Fact: Dubstep has many sub-genres including Greez, Whimble, Patchouli, and Neo-Substep.

Fact: Dubstep is NOT - a martial art, fishing tactic, organic produce, breed of turtle, or marble-based action figure play-set.

I kneed I nuded more information. I had to make for the heart of Dubstep, in the heart of Merry Old England, right in the heart of Old London Town's throbbing heart. Consulting my Grey's Anatomy, I found my way to a semi-collapsed aorta in Croydon, where I had tea with one of the original founders of Dubstep: DJ Whackamole. Sipping my cup o' rosy, I took note of his (or her) wide-brimmed baseball cap, plenilune piercings, and hollow cave-dweller eye-sockets. He offered to "break it down" for me, and after I slapped him, allowed him to regale me with the legend of Dubstep.

"Yo, Dub stawted wiv some remixes from de 90's, loik majah fimbaulin' you know? Dere wuz tracks, some beats, you know. Well groime gets goin' around '02 and FWD is kickin' off when MegaStylez drops 'is first wizzle. I'm talkin' aces. Well, dat changes everyfin'. We're talkin' dissonance, wobble-tone, 'eavy fump, and lots ov samplin'. Super-syncopation. So you've got dis beat and dese tracks you know. And den it all starts comin' out. Mysticratz, Shanghai Jo, Speaches'n'Skream. It's big. Bee-Bee-Cee big. Next fing American pop-stars are bitin'. Brittney Spriggles, Hushler, all of 'em. Americans h'ain't got no idea. You know? Dey steal and Dey bite but dey don't know, you know?"

I nodded sagely. That is, Doctor Q. Hieronymous Sagely, travelling companion, personal physician, and friend. He did not appreciate my nodding him but, trusting in my impeccable way with the plebs, allowed me to pursue the dubious course I had taken. I shook him a little for politesse and continued with the conversation.

I became more aware at every moment that if I was to truly understand what he or she was talking about, I would have to attend a Dubstep show for myself. This became particularly apparent when Whackamole invited me to attend a Dubstep show for myself. I myself had put-off concerts as insignificant parerga to the popular music scene - my personal conviction was that there had not been a concert worth attending since Mickey Mouse played his era-changing cavalcade of Zampa in 1932. Still, I girded my loins, put on my blue Studentkorps cap, secured Sagely to my fanny-pack, and took off for the unknown.

Darkest night. We approach what seems to be a large abandoned warehouse. We are led in through secret tunnels to the crowded interior. Reader! How can I describe the simultaneous synaesthetic symphony that I stumbled onto! There were lights, red, green, blue, flashing and swirling in a thousand variations per second. Hundreds of wild, multi-limbed, youthful bodies were wobbling and sweating in a mystic trance, giving way to their natural abandon and kicking Old Queen Vic' in the knickers.

And the sound! The sound! Piercing through marrow and cucumber alike. A slight tinkling -- the hum of a speaker -- suddenly I hear a sample of Winston Churchill; "We shall fight them..." echoes throughout the chamber. And then, like the slow plodding march of fate, a heavy multi-level beat -- thump -- beat -- thump -- beat! I felt my heart and hands follow the militaristic rhythm. I was getting giddy. I sweated and bumped and after about 7.824 minutes passed out in a fit of aesthetic wonder.

When I awoke, I found myself in the office of foreman Joseph Billbottom. Where was the dance? Where was the thrill? Where was the Dubstep? It turns out I had taken a wrong left turn at Marmalade Avenue, and what I took to be throbbing beats of a Dubstep show was actually the ambience of a night-shift at the biggest Tooth-bristle and Kipper factory south of Manchester.

Suddenly it dawned upon me. I laughed and laughed until I cried. "I've got it! I've got it! I cackled insanely. Sagely and Billbottom looked at one another in doubt. "Got what, old boy?" my travelling companion cautiously asked, putting a cold-compress on my brow. "Dubstep! I know what it stands for!" They looked askance. "Dubstep - it's all a practical joke! Don't you see? Dub -- Step? I had taken a wrong turn. A Dubious step! Ahahaha!"

After a fortnight in the Tower, I was right and hale as Kidney Pie. Valium and Kidney Pie.

Mr. John Adams meets the Tripolitan Ambassador

...“We make Tobacco in Tripoli," said his Excellency “but it is too strong. Your American Tobacco is better.”—By this Time, one of his secretaries or upper servants brought two Pipes ready filled and lighted; the longest, was offered me,: the other to his Excellency. it is long since I took a Pipe but as it would be unpardonable to be wanting in Politeness in so ceremonious an Interview, I took the Pipe, with great Complacency, placed the Bowl upon the Carpet, for the stem was fit for a Walking Cane, and I believe more than two Yards in length, and Smoaked in aweful Pomp reciprocating Whiff for Whiff, with his Excellency, untill Coffee was brought in. His Excellency took a Cup, after I had taken one, and alternately Sipped at his Coffee and whiffed at his Tobacco, and I wished he would take a Pinch in turn from his snuff box for Variety: and I followed the Example with Such Exactness and solemnity that the two secretaries, appeared in Raptures and the superiour of them who Speaks a few Words of French cryed out in Extacy, Monsieur votes etes un Turk— — —The necessary Civilities being thus compleated, His Excellency began upon Business...

- John Adams to Thomas Jefferson, 17 Feb. 1786

The Young Provocateur's Cookbook - A Guide to Wall Street

"A bas la république des lâches!"

-Bathroom stall-door, Gay Paris

"He iss madeh deh zhamefull beace, iss he? He is madeh de zhamevul beace? A Brest-Litovsk, yess? Aint yuh herd? He vinneh de vore."

-A tenderhearted Fascist

So you want to occupy Wall Street, tovarisch?

Before you set off dancing your carmagnoles and hoisting-up libertarian plant-life, make sure you are completely aware of the consequences. Remember, the smart agent does his research beforehand. Ask yourself the following questions:

• Do you really have the time and commitment to ambuscade a major metropolitan neighbourhood?

• Will you feed and walk it everyday, groom it every week, and take it to the vet for shots?

• Have you consulted your parents?

• Is anyone in your immediate vicinity allergic to fur or gabardine?

Keep in mind that Wall Street can grow very large, and can pull very hard on the leash. We therefore reccommend nobody under the (physical) age of twelve to make an attempt on Wall Street. If you find that Wall Street might be too much to handle at this point in your dialectic development, don't despair! The young Komsomolet can start practicing right away by occupying something a little smaller. Try overthrowing a bowl of sea-monkeys! Or maybe dad's new rumpus room!

Once you've truly decided you can handle the responsibility, the next step is to think out what we in the insurgent business call an angle. The best way to do this is to think big picture. Let your rage against the machine consume your every moment. In the classroom, throw darts at Washington Crossing the Delaware. For art-period, draw Godzilla eating the White House. After-school, stand in front of the mirror, take off your shirt, and look angry. Get really riled up. Think about that time in D&D you rolled a critical hit, only to drop your broadsword -- don't be timid, this is a Revolution after all! What is it that makes you really mad? Oppressive Religion? Boundless corporate Greed? Or is it more of of a visceral, Rottweileresque reaction to men in suits?

Whatever the answer, make sure it is prominently displayed on your placard. And just you forget Mrs. Dumplebottom's calligraphy course! Make those A-B-Cs look really G-R-R. The squigglier the better. Only bourgeois scum colour inside the lines. And nobody can stand that little miss protester who spells all of her words correctly. As for the colour of your glorious standard, we recommend a tasteful sea-foam green with a fuschia border. It's easy on the eyes and shows up nicely on-camera. Simple is the new smart!

If you're thinking about using a slogan, style always trumps sense. Analogic parallelism is a tried and true formula, and can render the most meaningless comparison into a Bolsheviki bra-buster: "My cat buries its poop - Why doesn't BP?" or "Arab Spring = American Fall!" Ominous statistics are also a sure winner, however tangential: "Only 10% of Americans eat AAA hamburgers...and we're the sliced cheese." For doodles, nothing has a more vivid impact on the political arena than well placed stink-lines. De l'audace, encore de l'audace, toujours de l'audace!

As you make a start on your field trip, you may hear names and phrases tossed about by your fellow busmates; things like privatization, organic pineapple, non-violent resistance, hemp beer, gaybortionism, climate change etc. etc. If you are unfamiliar with these terms, don't be put out. A simple set of class-conscious mnemonics will help you to navigate the meaning of every single Kontrovers they can conjure up:

"Leaves of three?

Overthrow the bourgeoisie!"

"Eenie-meenie-miny-mo,

the corporate fat-cats overthrow!"

"Red Sky at night, CEO's delight;

Red Sky in the morning is the CEO's warning."

Once you've gone out and begun to occupy Wall Street, you may find the romance of protest begins to lose its zest after a few minutes. Don't give up! Remember that you made a commitment, and stick to it. Just imagine how proud mumsy will be when she sews on that bright new Jacobin badge onto your sash. Won't yours be the most dashing Facebook picture on the block -- getting shoved into a SWAT car like that! Music is a great way to boost morale. We suggest a quiet, lilting melancholy tune about loss of teenage love as particularly relevant. Keep an eye out for notables on whom to latch your political ideals; the "guy with the beard braids" is always a good rallying point, as are the "hot chicks with dreads". You might even come across Zizek the Entertainer (accent on the Z!); a jolly looking buffon, something like an Eastern Bloc Santa Clause who dispenses socialistic train-sets and cymbals to eager radical children the world over.

The question remains as to the intended and actual effects of your political statement. Overthrow the whole government? Lead greedy CEO's to the guillotine? Save the platypodes? This course will have to be negotiated with your comrades-in-plaid as you go along. Keep in mind that when the Revolutionary tribunal takes power, mercy is always noted in the history books. Of course you will have to chop off a few blocks, but don't feel that you need to. An occasional lifetime sentence in the cider-bogs of Northern Manitoba will spice things up a bit. The Vanguard of the Middlebroletariat will have to maintain order and public services, so make sure you've got your Settlers of Catan strategy guide handy.

And so we bid the radical youth of today a hearty "ahem"! Strike up a chorus of the Internationale! Keep up the good fight. Don't lose your spirits. And above all else, keep off the lawn!

A Philosopher's Guide to Voting

Say what? Election day, is it? I'm not normally one for politics. As a follower of that great Stoic philosopher Paininthenes, I have ever sought to steel myself against the variations of fortune and fickleness. When something goes wrong -- let us supposons with the crapper-- I swallow my rage, clench my jaw, and, pinching my nose without haste or eagerness, enter into that noble state of ataraxia wherein all things are held in the palm of the hand - in this case, a plunger. The preceding analogy applies as well to government as any. For, as with a backed-up toilet, to blame government is not nearly so noble as to endure it. Ask me not whether I am for or against any man or party - readers, I am for myself. I can neither tell a member of the Gumption Party, from one of your Ghibelline boys so much in the news today.

Yet, admiring the ancients as I do, I one day felt a slight prick of conscience somewhere between my lower-back and spinal cord. I was thinking of Cicero ( I was carrying a Costco six-pack of mega-sized margarine). Voila un homme! There was a complete man. Who else, I asked myself in the condiment aisle, had so successfully combined the rigorous honesty of political office with the popular appeal of abstruse philosophy? Setting down my load at once I dashed to the nearest writing desk with the zeal of Thomas Jefferson on a cool Pennsylvania's morning. Quill in hand, and hand in pie, I composed the following definitions. They are above all for the thinking man who, in the height of his intellectual ecstasy, finds the rigamarole of modern politics too base to handle. I trust they will serve as patches, out of which an industrious philosophe can fashion a make-shift inflatable dingy to bear him from the halcyon shores of Philosophy over the rough and rather unaccommodating Sea of "Everyday Affairs".

Let us start then, ab ovo.

Man: According to Aristotle, man is a political animal. Hitherto the emphasis in translation has been that man is a political animal, whereas I believe it ought to be that man is a political animal. Similarly, man can be said to be an animal for anything he desires passionately and devours willingly. Thus just as in common parlance one man is a sex fiend, and another, a beast for the Cheetoh, man as a whole is bananas for politics.

Plankton: Not a political animal. Very much to its credit.

Politics: Originally the act of carrying an umbrella out on a sunny day just in case. Also, in common slang, refers to a very broad sphere of activities undertaken by a very narrow group of people.

Debate: A technological advancement in the state of nature (which is bellum omnium contra omnes - a war of all against all) whereby the death-dealing rock or pointed stick have been replaced by more civilized forms of argumentation e.g. the flinging of faecal matter (and others?).

University: A club for men with good taste and bad manners.

Prison: See University (above).

Government: A club for beating men with good taste and bad manners.

Women: A nuisance. In the last century have brought sanity, orderliness, and strong leadership to the political sphere, much to the detriment of Politics (see above).

Issue: Any numbered edition of a particular comic book. To "raise an issue" is a form of political rhetoric in which the moral import of an act by Spider-Man, Superman etc. is debated and judged by the discerning electorate.

Party: A verb roughly equivalent to "debauch". Also, a means of governing. In either case, man is as much a political animal as he is a party animal. See Gang Violence (below).

Education: At minimum, a mandatory fifteen years of training in the art of answering multiple choice questions as quickly as possible.

Voting: The carrying out of Education (above) in the sphere of everyday affairs.

Public Transportation: Transportation that looks, smells, feels, like a camel. Is not a camel.

Democracy: A fear of crowds and open spaces.

Agoraphobia: A form of government in which the common people determine their own policies. Representative Agoraphobia is the most common form available in today's market.

Canada: A country in the frozen North, ruled with an iron fist by Santa Claus, its eternal God-King.

Bail-out­: Synonym for "woops".

Arts and Culture: Anything having at all to do with Stephen Fry.

Ballot: An unused movie ticket. Often confused for a delicate form of European dance, or for Bail-out (above).

Gang Violence: A censure used by one group of thugs concerning the activities of another.

Results: A form of "special effects" used by politicians at convenient moments, question periods, etc.

Alas, I find, at this juncture, that I must stop. This yakking could go on forever, and then, when, je demande, would the real work get done? To the polls!