One Froggy Delusion

The scribble-books of famed Evolutionary scientist, man of letters, and all-round nutter, the late Dr. Spinach Canopener, have shed an interesting, though somewhat pinkish light on his thoughts and experiments. Dr. Canopener was made famous the world over for his evolutionary theories, eccentric sense of humor, and his award winning chicken nugget recipe. The following extracts have been made carefully with a view to presenting him in his entirety - that is, through rigorous censorship and editing. The editorial work, as well as the time consuming project of deciphering Dr. Canopener's crabbed mirror-reverse Fraktur handwriting has all been undertaken by his parrot, Peg-Leg Pete. It was a labour of love, and a love for crackers. We at Tasty Housefrau magazine are glad to present these exclusive extracts which will penetrate through to the scientific community via their wives, who will now have something to talk about at the dinner table other than Frederica Wong's new shaving kit.

-There was a time when we thought Evolution worked in slow, blurry stages with minute differentiations amassing from generation to generation: natura non facit saltus, "nature doesn't hop about." My recent study on the evolution of Leaping Demon Frog of Santiago points to a different theory. To put it metaphorically for the layman, Nature, although normally quite at ease, every once in a while decides to let its hair down, lick a cosmic toad, and make a macaroni picture with DNA strands.

-"The greatest thing about Science is that it opens up new horizons. Figuratively this means new ways of conceiving the world we live in. Literally it means tearing open the thin blanket of space and time that shields us from the terrors of a thousand eye-melting dimensions of unfathomable evil." -- Extract from a lecture I'm giving this evening, promoting Science to grade-schoolers.

-Watching ESPN today, I saw a score of 134-Love in the International Lawn Beaker Championships. Biology has a lot to learn from these plucky overweight Swedes and their mind-boggling scoring system. Evolution is like the Krankenbjorn before the third inning; if it doesn't get Skrimstag, then the Wiener Run can happen at any point after the clog-hop.

-Peg-Leg Pete has decided that he believes in metempsychosis, and that he was Edward Teach in a former life. What a retarded parrot I have. He's just unTeachable.

-Gave a fantastic lecture today at MIT. Waxed lyrical about Evolution, the Demon Frog, and the glories of science. And then do you know what happened? Some pimply dork in the front row ruined everything by asking a question about Dinosaurs. I didn't even acknowledge him with an insult as I tearfully clawed at his eye-sockets. Left the building immediately with my heads held high. Clearly that scallywag Gould has been here before me sowing the seeds of dystenery.

-Snails are totally boring and only loser biologists like Stephen Jay Gould study snails. I heard Hitler was a Gastropodologist of the first order. He named a unit of the S.S. after the Common German Mountain Slug. Just saying.

-Interesting observation: the Leaping Demon Frog of Santiago, which normally makes its home in the skulls of mummified Incan Kings, has recently been observed living quite comfortably in a store-bought apple-pie. My theory of evolutionary jumps has been vindicated. Also, touchy Thanksgiving this year. Am no longer allowed to do the shopping unattended.

-Had some toffee today with Richard Dawkins. Decided to re-animate the dead.

-Today I saw a tacitus voluptatis creeping among the bushes outside the Victoria's Secret. I didn't think they lived this far North. Global Warming is heating up more than the Earth's surface, mark my words...

-Played tennis today with Stephen Jay Gould. Don't like his serve or his theories. Also, managed to re-animate the dead.

-Peg-Leg Pete has also become a Creationist. He will disavow evolution in its entirety until I give him a cracker.

-Decided to name my re-animated corpse "the Wretch" because "Claude" just won't stick. Neither will the left arm, but we're working on that one.

-Charles Darwin! How a man who was born 200 years ago could be so misinformed about evolution is beyond me. There's nothing natural about nature's selection. Thinking about his jejune idea of the "survival of the fittest", I shot a fat man in the name of science. He survived, and more importantly, settled outside of court for a life-time's supply of my delicious chicken nuggets. One thing is perfectly clear: either Mr. Darwin is mad, or I am.

-Fed the Wretch some of my famous chicken nuggets. It looked at me with those horrible eyes and clearly found them lacking in fleshiness. He must be got rid of at once. Bought him a ticket to Montreal. I think he will enjoy the Just for Laughs festival, and more importantly, will fit in quite nicely once the dust settles.

-Gave a guest lecture at the College of the Humanities today. A student remarked that "even Newton believed in Alchemy and the Judgement Day." I reminded said student that Newton died a virgin, and that he would as well if he kept up that line. Shut him up good.

-Is there a room for both science and religion? It would have to have a mini-bar and a vibrating bed.

-It's an undeniable historical fact that the Catholic Church persecuted Galileo. What is regrettable about the situation was Galileo's acquiesence to the Inquisition. Why did he surrender the principles of scientific free thought for the dogma of the Church, merely to live out his life in bitterness? He should have been more proactive, invented lasers, and had his way with them.

-Got a cable from Wretch up in Montreal. Is having a lovely time, but made an unprovoked jab at my nuggets in favour of Poutine and Pâté Chinois. Must remind him who he can thank for his nuggets.

-Apparently physicists in Switzerland have observed particles travelling faster than the speed of light, disproving Einstein and all of modern scientifc thought. It's probably blown all out of proportion. Have decided to write a novel.

"Deep in the Catskill mountains, a small chalet teetered over a gentle rivulet. Here was the home of Buckminster Gregory Johnson, ex-biologist, war-hero, and ladies man..."

-The Wretch has found happiness at last. He's married a lovely Quebecois girl named Jacqueline and they are opening up a pataterie called "Café du Brains". They've asked for my nugget recipe after all. Am quite touched.

Excelsior Your Breath

Cursus honorum: the ascent of man, from a young nobody into an old somebody. Directly co-relative with an increased tolerance for vegetables, though never a liking.

All is Love in Fair and War

If you are reading this, Lieber Leser, then the question of your intellectual salvation is already decided. As someone completely enthralled by the pythagorean music of the blogospheres, you know that it's always two for the price of one here: dulce et utile, sweet and handy, peanut butter and jelly, Dick und Doof. You are one of the elect. "Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?" asks the Evangelist; here, my friend, we safely deposit both options into your morning cereal. Roughage is good for the digestion. In short, we need not worry about the condition of your mind; "Where flies gather, there stinks the meat", as they say.

Indeed, I detect only one weakness in my reader; alas, it is a fatal one. Of course I am speaking of cupiditas, amor, das Liebe, eros, l'amour: all terms perfectly translated by the English phrase "crackerjack in the knickers".

My reader does not know how to love. My reader feels in his or her breast the dreadful burning of a forest that hath no hunky firefighter. Thankfully, and gleefully, I am also a trained quencher of flames. Many's the time I've put down the stylus and scroll of Dame Philosophy to spend an afternoon gamboling with her comely cousin in the hillocks. And what hillocks they were, dear reader! I know the sweets and sours as well as any mere Ovidius Naso; I've written sonnnets more languorous than any dour Petrarca; have seen and suffered more than the hobby-horsical contraptions of a priggish de Sade.

Indeed, now that I've quite warmed up to the topic at hand, I feel I can offer the reader some practical advice. Following the trend so popular in magazines and on the Internet, I have reduced thousands of well-researched pages into 10 pithy bit-sized rules for your immediate consumption. Sit back then; cool your ardour with a cup of Ginger Beer, and allow Old Ting-Tang to work his Walla-Bing-Bang.

The Top Ten Practical Rules of Love,

or,

Sir Fopling Flutter Clears the Custard.

~Rule the tenth: Less is always more. ~

The plucky intellectual of today is used to persuing love with the same vigour and vim that he or she employs when hunting down a reference, attacking a thesis paper, or quaffing a midnight dram with the Lieutenant. This is a mistake. There is no surer anathema to the venereal enterprise than forthright action. It is as hammer to egg; we must slowly and surely boil the thing hard, if we are to preserve it for lunch. For nothing scares off a potential entrée more quickly than the admission of hunger. It will leap off the plate like a renegade greenpea, and stay hid in the corner for countless generations. We must be coy. Thus, if you see someone you fancy, never apprise them of the fact. Turn your head, snort your nostrils, furrow your brow. Start whistling The Nightingales if you have to. Claw your cheeks. Bay at the Moon. Bang your head against the nearest memorial bronze. Above all, cease and desist, o brave Miura Bull, for the next pase could be fatal! Proceed softly. As the Italians say: piano, piano (or in German, tuba, tuba.)

~Rule the ninth: Eye, stalk, chase, pounce, bite.~

There is much to be learned from the predatory behaviour of our canine companions. Woofologists have analyzed the instinctual sequence of wolf and dog hunting strategies, honed by millennia of careful evolutionary nitpicking. First they eye out a straggler. Then they creep up, while it unknowingly munches on some innocuous vegetable. Eventually the hunter is close enough to risk an open charge. This followed by a muscular pounce. If the timing is right, a good old snap at the jugular works wonders to pacify the slightly ruffled lambchop-to-be. What, you stupidly ask, has this to do with making of sweet sweet romance? Oh reader. Poor, innocent, mutton-faced reader.

~Rule the eighth: Argumentum ad hominem.~

Two axioms reign over The Kingdom of Courtship like the twain Kings of Sparta. One, the Home King, dictates how women judge men, while t'other, the warlike Away King, arranges a man's troops in the tactical selection of a female. The latter is a simple matter: for men, the fate of the race is a rate of the face. Superficial our sex that judges by the merely plastic qualities of ship, shape, and sharp! Women, on the other hand, tend to probe at l'homme diachronique, or man-historical. What has he done? What will he do? Where for god-sakes has he done it? etc. etc. Hard though the dispensations of Fate may be in these regards, do not despair if you find yourself deficient in quality (or quantity). Both attributes can be dickied by variations in lighting and make-up. For the gents, a fashionable eye-piece and cuff-link combination has never yet failed this man-o'-war, penury regardless.

~Rule the seventh: Work the kidneys.~

Some boxers are subtle enough to avoid the schnozzle area in favour of "working the kidneys". Do you likewise by plying your sweetmeat with Highballs. If done correctly, the lowballs will appear of their own accord.

~Rule the sixth. Turn down a bower, cry for an hour.~

By this point, if you have followed the preceding instructions, cozier accomadations will be called for by the toastiest party. Do acquiesce. Remember that your home is your castle, and that no castle is complete without a drawbridge, if you catch my drift. Other features include a moat, bailey, enceinte, keep, curtain wall, barbican, and various battlements. Once you have done explaining the architectural subtleties of the domicile to your princess-cum-take-out dinner, the jousting can commence.

~Rule the fifth: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.~

Remember that seduction is the art of fox-hunting (minus, of course, the fresh-air). Bar all exits and kick your King James' Version beneath the rug. Strut. Be natural. Maintain persistent eye-contact and chop-licking. The first kiss is a hotly debated topic. Or, depending on your success, a topic debated hotly. There are many set-moves for this particular play, but I think it best to act according to one's nature. Only avoid the number one rookie mistake: always leak before you loop - er, ahem - look before you leap! A tightly clenched crucifix or clove of garlic may indicate reluctance.

~Rule the fourth: Mille e tre. ~

All lovers are not alike. For every thousand amores there are a thousand and three hindrances. In your ongoing Quixotic sojourn you may encounter barriers in the form of morals, cultural differences, or complex clasp-and-hook mechanisms. The first two can be dealt with by the tried and true tactic of "bait and switch". The last problem may require axle and/or pulley. If you are struggling at the gate, take good heart from the heroic dictum of Archimedes: δῶς μοι πᾶ στῶ καὶ τὰν γᾶν κινάσω!* Avoid recalling his other dictum: μὴ μου τοὺς κύκλους τάραττε**.

* “Give me a fixed point and I will move the world.”

**"Do not disturb my circles!"

~Rule the third: Who's on first?~

Baseball is a remarkable sport.

~Rule the second: What's on second!?~

So avoid curling.

~Rule the first: Da Capo!~

Should you forget all the others, I strongly advise you to remember the first and most important rule of all lovemaking in every country and clime: Lather, rinse, repeat.

You are now an excellent lover, or Anchorite. I encourage all my devotees to post about the results of my method on this site - diagrams, Flash animations, and macaroni pictures are always welcome for instructional purposes.

Board Games

One comes across many interesting specimens as a librarian-for-hire. In my time I've stumbled across everything, and nearly broken my leg on it few times as well. Of course there are your first edition Folios and everyday incunabula just lying about devouring valuable laptop space. Then there are the has-been popular novels of five years past, aged like fine cheese in the course of the aeons, then tossed into the for-sale bin like so much mouldy Gorgonzola. But the real treasures come from the special libraries.

For all the non-librarians out there, "special libraries" is a technical term in the industry referring to collections that fulfill the core requirements of 1) unreadability 2) undesirability and 3) inaccessibility.

I was once tasked with overseeing just such a corporate wood-pile. The business section was particularly enthralling, containing as it did so many penny dreadfuls of adventure and swashbuckling and derring-do. You think I am exaggerating, but anyone who has studied applied business literature from the 1980's knows exactly how Homeric the analogies can get. I remember one volume that insisted on applying to non-profit organizations the business strategy of a certain bandit who haunted the forests of Sherwood with bow and arrow. Call me Lincoln-Green, but the idea of business executives 'harking' and 'ho-ing' from cubicle to cubicle with hunting horns and drawn daggers seems slightly optimistic.

Robin Hood, Communications: What's this? Avaunt, men! Outlook hath befrozen! To arms, the Sheriff must be afoot!

Little John, IT: Methinks we have pinioned the wretch with our lusty quarterstaff!

Robin Hood: Very good sir. Verily we know not the meaning of the term, 'trouble shooting'. For all I shoot is fair and well hit!

Little John: Well bespoke!

Friar Tuck, Accounting: B'ym'faith! S'bodkins! Quaff of sack, my child?

Robin: Aye, an't please you brother! What of the quarterly reports?

Moving up the chronology, we come to the more butterscotch business manuals of the mid-90's and the dot-com bubble. The emphasis here always seems to be on garnishing the corporate guillotine with lavender candles, cartoon cut-outs, and freshly brewed "java". These books contain strange, ecclectic philosophies, part Zen-Buddhist and part Dilbert; they veer away totally from the making or maintaining of capital and into the rather dodgy architectonics of Maslow's "hierarchy of needs". I forget the exact order of his path towards fulfilment, but I believe it runs something like:

1) air, water, food
2) screaming
3) marbles, and associated marble activities
4) sexual innuendo
5) sexual outuendo, or "horizontal" corporate structure
6) big bag with a dollar sign on it
7) moksha, or corporate-cosmic release.

It's hard to say how much damage this kind of thinking did to the corporate atmosphere, but its horrific consequences in the mug-and-calendar industry has since been deemed a UNSECO world-heritage disaster zone.

Thankfully the negativity and warmongering of our present zeitgeist has set the business world squarely back on its own two hoofs. A taste for the old days of fire-breathing executives and damsel secretaries in distress has once more captured the minds of a generation. I believe this has its roots, not in any harkening back to "the good old days" on the part of today's young exec, but rather through the subtle influence of NES games on his constitution. The Nintendo Generation endured many emotional scars from the console wars and these are not easily hidden even in adulthood. The desire for a corporate structure resembling the ascent towards the final boss (note the term) through the castle and finally to the "highest level" is apparent to even the most slap-happy first grader.

This nostalgia for the old ways of "doing busines"s is also made quite manifest in the popularity of TV series like Mad Men, Boardwalk Empire, and of course Man vs. Food. All three show the desire of modern man to free himeself from the shackles of the stifled "politcally correct" business atmopshere. Whether this is through fondling secretaries, shooting up coppers, or devouring extra-spicy chicken wing burger milkshakes is all one and the same. But, as Mad Men clearly underscores, the modern business Tyro has one aspect that is perhaps more indulgent than his rag-tag predecessors - he has a gout for plaisir like no other. A true Epicurean, he has managed to run his business entirely by means of pleasurable indulgence:

"Let's be frank" Simon says, taking a puff of his expensive, aromatic clove cigarette.

"Well we can't all be Frank," says James, "I'll be York." He punctuates his bon mot with a sip of whiskey. He rolls an uncut Maria Mancini cigar before his thing and thumbfinger... Er, between his thumb and forefinger.

"Well, whatever Simon says, goes." says Frank. "I'll be Frank." He takes a long drag on his California Roll. He looks dissapointedly at his empty glass.

"Quinine and tonic?" offers Frank, née Simon.

"Don't mind if I do." He accepts Frankly.

"One over here as well!" says Gerstein as he enters the board-room.

Cheers all-around. They call in the secretary, who enters wearing a black and silver lingerie two-piece and an apple in her mouth.

And so the corporate ballet continues. Was the great 19th century Utopian, Saint-Simon, right in seeing these men as our only hope for a technologically sane future? Don't ask me, Lady. I'm living out of my wheel-barrow.

How Many Yuks Could a...

Thanks to the good people at Defenestration Magazine for publishing my latest buck-and-chuckle!

http://www.defenestrationmag.net/2012/01/sonata-non-grata-by-jason-abdelhadi/

A Song of Vice and Ire

I believe it was Asimov, in his foundational Semi-Loft Suite Trilogy, who claimed that empires die from the extremities, that cold lifelessness slowly tringles its way from the fingers and toes, through the limbs, and straight to the very heart. This I can attest to. My deep study of the Houghton-Mifflin Ancient Civilizations Grade 11 textbook has left me as cynical as to the durations of the works of man as the Solomon of Ecclesiastes, if not quite as susceptible to tickling as the good Teacher. But such are the lessons of these dire manuals. Who can peruse without nostalgia the pictures of long forgotten Empires, rendered as they are with cartoony accuracy and melancholic word bubbles? Et in Arcadia Ego, aye, and in Comic Sans no less! Who, in listing off the fell accomplishments written in the "Did You Know?" panel, blue-bordered like the lips of a thousand mummified Egyptian Kings, does not feel the tingle of despair and hopelessness in all our human endeavors?

Death from the limbs inward! The mighty amalgamated City-Sate of the National Capital Region is, I think, undergoing its last rites in that very manner. Living as I do in one of its extremities (which extremity I leave to your fancy and good taste), I can already feel the cutting off of circulation from the main arteries. Where once, in our glory days, a man could travel whenever he pleased from the far-off Westeros of Stittsville and the Ottawa Valley to the quaint French-speaking stabships of Orleans and Vanier-de-la-Crackhead, the route has since become a perilous endeavour. It was far too long on foot or horse, and the threat of highwaymen, brigandage, and puddle-stains are all too great for all but the most hard-eared ranger.

Public Transportation, the very veins of our intra-statal circulatory system, has all but ceased to function. The schedules may as well be printed in Italian for all the punktlichkeit they signify. If and when you do manage to see a lone OC Transpo, that melancholy ship of the suburbs, chances are greater than not it will be Out of Service, or worse, Hors Service! Yes, the horses get service before you do. But even if one does halt at a Bus Stop for a few precious moments, the riddle of the sphinx is still waiting crouched and hungry for your flesh. Have tickets? I remember going to buy tickets once. A grim old quaker sat at the counter, missing an eye, a leg, a tooth, and, I suspect, a lobe of some kind.

"Eight tickets please. Er, for the OC..."

He eyed me suspiciously and sucked his pipe - an old PVC stuffed with licorice and hot-sauce.

"Eight tickets pleased!" He mocked me, "Aye, and why not Eight trips to Malebolge and Satan's Arse while we're at it? Eight tickets please! Come thee lad, done any ridin' before? I doubt it with those doe-blue eyes! What's that? Hohoho! Via Rail you say! Ahahaha! Hear that Jebediah? Via Rail! Away with your Via Rails, boy! This is a man's hunt. Accursed be the man who rides the OC! Still insist, eh? Very good, 'tis thy funeral. Write him up, Jebediah. Eight tickets! Make your mark, lad, and God be with thee!"

Grasping my purple fold-out sheet, I left the store with a vague sense of dread and a specific cents of 50. I noticed the tickets had changed since last I was in town; the delightful neon blue had been replaced with a dire purple, and with a no logo no less - seemed to be a sort of Death's Head above the outline of a white poodle. Very odd indeed. I made my way to the lone Bus Shelter, and waited the suggested three-hours of "safety time" to ensure I didn't miss the bus by a hair's-breadth. Of course there was the expected four-month delay. I made due with the shelter and a spear I fashioned from a rusty screwdriver and a circus baton which I found in a pile of Tim Horton's cups. I survived mostly on chickadees, squirrels, and roll-up-the-rim Donuts.

Finally, one long, lone night, amid the howl of owls and hooting of turtles, the bus finally pulled up to my little shanty. The door opened and I saw the face of madness - our driver, Captain Jeroboam. A long scar ran down his dark features, and a flashing eye indicated the ticket-receiver. As he handed me the proof of purchase, I saw that his right leg - what they call the "pedal foot" - was made up entirely of dog-biscuit. That evening I was informed by the crew what kind of a made voyage I had undertaken - why the gleaming gold sheen of a Canadian dollar was nailed to the standing pole, waiting for the first crew-member to shout "'Tis he! 'Tis he! 'Tis Tracy Dick, with a muff as white as a snow-hill!" Yes, the Captain had a long standing feud with a beast of the dog-paths; a White Poodle named Tracy Dick, who once peed on his ill-fated limb, causing extreme discomfort. He had it amputated for cosmetic reasons and never forgave the poodle, aye, sought to destroy him with all his might.

Knowing that I would never reach my destination with this Flying Clutchman, I got off at Bayshore Station and never looked back. So much for my shopping trip to the Rideau Centre. I would have to make due with bare, provincial amenities of the Bayshore Shopping Centre. Still I mused on for the sake of my children. Would they even have Bayshore? Would they not be even further cut off from civilization? Might they be bound to the very suburban land they tilled, growing iPhones and gummy-worms for their pointy-shoed feudal overlord? Thus it seems. When I got home, I opened my copy of the Domesday Book and squiggled my name in a good part, somewhere between Knight and Baron - just in case.

Things I Happen to Know

I know damn well wasps like ketchup,

I know a man by his cap,

I know an awesome time from a fuck up,

I know a pine tree’s got sap,

I know a hobo from a chap,

I know a Quebecois by his “oui?”

I know a wink from a slap.

I know it all, but not me.

I know the smoker by his smell,

I know the hipster by his taste,

I know a liar by his "well...",

I know the student’s life (a waste)

I know a slutty top from a chaste

I know a neckbeard goes with geeks

I know a hot wing by its glaze

I know it all, but not me.

I know a Costco from a Loblaws

I know a Mac from a PC

I know safe drugs by the bylaws

I know a pug dog is wheezy

I know a cat by my sneezing

I know a public servant’s card-key

I know a good book from a sleazy

I know it all, but not me.

Cheap or expensive, willing or loath,

Boss, I know everything, see?

I know Death comes for us both

I know it all, but not me.