Mescaline Visions 4.0 (Beta)

The Most Finalest Final Goodbye…Of Doom!

2007-08-22T09:51:00.002+01:00

Roughly two years ago—armed with nothing but a second-rate lap top, a hyperactive imagination and an unfulfilled sex-drive, I began this blog. Originally, it was supposed to chronicle my many (mis)adventures as a Nubian nerd living in Kilt-country. But it has turned out to be so much ~~less~~ more. Granted, my lap top remains second-rate and I’m more shag-deprived than ever. But I have been able to e-meet some really cool people (L>T and Warya come to mind), compose a number of morally uplifting posts, and significantly contribute to the overall wellbeing to the human species.

But now I’m finally saying goodbye to Scotland! There is much I am going to miss about Great Britian’s very own third-world country; the short dark days, the long cold nights, the endless rain, the taste-less food. It pains me deeply to leave. On the upside, I will now be living on the same continent as Mist1. (And who knows, perhaps I will one day meet the body that houses the mind that so often made me wet with desire. Mist1, if you’re reading this, you can expect my formal marriage proposal shortly.) But lingering internet crushes aside; I’m going to sorely miss Scotland. So I bid a sorrowful farewell to the land of a myriad sheep, a loch dwelling monster, and the mournful melody of bagpipes; where wild Haggis roam free and Mel Gibson is worshipped as a god. O’ what fleeting dream, what idle fantasy! Alas, my mescaline visions are at an end.

Little Brother's Advice (A Wedding Toast)

2007-07-10T20:16:00.001+01:00

On July 6th, 2007, my big brother Andre tied the knot. What follows is a copy of the toast I delivered at the wedding reception:

Statistics show that up to half of the marriages today end in divorce. And I know that sounds bad; but what they don't tell you is that the other half end in death. Kind of a no-win situation. And yet we find ourselves running headlong into the marital union like lemmings off a precipice. My elementary school English teacher taught me that marriage is a word. But now that I’m older, I’ve come to believe that it’s more like a sentence; life without parole! The worse part is that it is completely self-imposed. But some how, some way, some why, we find ourselves seeking, craving, longing for this imprisonment! Driven by some deep rooted masochistic desire for life-long suffering; we vow to never love another again. They say if life gives you lemons make lemonade, but isn’t getting married a bit like growing your own orchard? If you ask me, it all seems a wee bit presumptuous. Like jumping naked into a barrel full of porcupines and expecting not to get pricked.

Nonetheless we pursue this most coveted union, fuelled by a desire to connect with another human being in the most deep and meaningful way possible. Statistics be damned. We will not be dissuaded. We cling to hope like toilet paper to the bottom of a shoe. But one can’t help but ask, is the union of two human beings nothing but a chimera, and idle dream, a quixotic fantasy, an endeavor as futile as trying to take a close-up of the horizon?

Some people fall in love very easily. I heard of one young woman who was quick to declare her devotion to her beloved: “I love you,” she said, “I want to marry you, have your children and spend the rest of my life with you.” To which the man replied, “Mame, can you just pay for the pizza… so that I can go.” I, however, have never been one to fall in love easily, though I have managed to step in it a few times. Naturally, as the least experienced member of the Archer household, I think I'm in best position to give advice on matters of this nature. After all, when it comes to love, there are no real experts. There are only those who have made a few mistakes and those who have made a few less. Since I’ve been on earth for shortest time I have had the least opportunity to make mistakes. (But don't worry, I'm working hard to catch up.) This fact allows me to give advice with the least hypocrisy.

So here is little brother’s advice. My own limited experience has taught me two things. First, that there is a very fine line between true love and a restraining order. Long story. Second, loving is an art, and like any art, loving must be learned. Now this may seem rather counterintuitive. After all, loving seems about as natural as going to the loo. However, even infants need to be potty trained. And so, I charge you with the responsibility of undertaking romantic potty training. (Don’t you just love that metaphor.) I think it is to our culture's great shame that there is no formal education or training in interpersonal relationships. We devote so much time to teaching the young to be good workers; acquiring the skills necessary to be productive little robots on the capitalist assembly line. And this, undeniably, is a good thing since being a fecund worker is important. However, what can be more important than the making of a marriage, more vital than the honing of a home, more fundamental than the founding of a family?

And yet, this remains an area of insufficient instruction; where awareness is absent and guess-work guides. In matters of the heart, like so many others areas, ignorance continues to be our culture’s most cherished vice. Regrettably, the information available often exceeds our curiosity. Some have even suggested that such education may even be harmful. This notion is but the second cousin of the old myth that sex education leads to promiscuity. I did lots of arithmetic in high school, but you don’t see me sneaking around in dark places doing long division. It is never a bad thing to be informed. It all depends on what we do with the information. But what I can guarantee is this: if you want to make a poor decision, then being uninformed is the best way to go about it.

Admittedly, there is a lot of conventional wisdom on matters of this kind; like, “marriage is a fifty-fifty arrangement.” Well, if you believe that you either have a very poor understanding of women or percentages. But when I talk about romantic potty-training I’m not referring to the type of pop-advice you find in tabloid magazines, daytime soaps or on Fox news. Rather, I’m referring to the wealth of information you can find at your local library, Barnes and Noble, church, family planning centre etc. So I encourage you to set aside some time, even if it’s a couple hours a month, to read up on and discuss with each other, issues related to your relationship. Make it a habit, your own personal tradition. And don’t make the mistake of waiting until something goes wrong to begin educating yourself. Here, as elsewhere, prevention is better than cure.

But even a nerd like myself must admit that books can only teach you so much. In theory, theory and practice are always the same, but in practice they often are not. When it comes down to it, the way we learn about life is by simply living. And so, expect to make lots of mistakes. But endeavor to learn from them. Also, take time to observe other couples. Find out what the successful ones are doing right, and what the unsuccessful ones did wrong. Learning from other people’s screw-ups saves you lots of time to make your own fresh new screw-ups.

Love may be blind, but that does not mean that YOU have to be. By reading together and educating yourselves, seeking out advice, and learning from your own mistakes, you will be taking steps to ensuring that your love remains healthy and vibrant. Let your marriage be a union of heart and head, romance and reason, emotion and experience. The statistics may be grim; and yes, probability may be working against you. But I believe the love you share means there is much more working for you! And so don’t be afraid to cling to hope, to seek after the deepest most intimate connection possible, to devote yourself to each other and vow to establish something enduring. With singleness of mind, earnestness of spirit, determination of heart, and an intensity that cannot be placated, let the steps you take today be your public declaration: we will take a close-up of the horizon!

The Easter Bill

2007-04-06T14:09:00.000+01:00

Remember that without capital punishment there would be no Easter. So this Easter, go to the ballet box and show your support for the new binding referendum for the reinstatement of crucifixion. Let's face it, lethal injections and the electric chair are for pussies. What we need is capital punishment with testicles!

Peter was crucified upside down for his lord and when the martyrs were burned at the stake, legend has it that they sang until their voices were no more. Sure, their songs were somewhat high pitched and along the lines of “oh Gawd, oh gawd make it stop!” But at least they sang, dammit!

But take a look at the sorry state of capital punishment today. “Will you like to have a pedicure with that lethal injection?” Give me a break! Back in the day, criminals would often die just from the scourging that served as the warm-up for the main event. And once the nailing began all you had to look forward to was hours, sometimes days, of insane amounts of pain, asphyxiation, dehydration, pulmonary embolism, and if you were really lucky, an ischemic stroke. Now that's the way a REAL MAN dies!

Let your nation's leaders know that you're tired of the girlie booster shot that people today call capital punishment. Vote yes on Referendum ER 33: Crucify Them!

I Was Just Rushing Out...

2007-03-28T07:59:00.000+01:00

I've been growing more agitated than a dog at a flea convention. A friend gave me a self-help book: "How to Become a Patient Person". I read the first three lines and then skipped to the last chapter. No time for inessentials. I have things to go, places to see, people to do...or something like that.

Anyway, I would love to chit-chat, but like I said, I have sh*t to do...

Mike and Jamie: A Valentine's Day Lament

2007-02-14T07:13:00.000Z

This post is about two people that I find so annoying that the very thought of them makes me want to pay someone a large sum of money to beat my head in with the nearest blunt object. Mike and Jamie (who happen to share the study cubicle right next to mine) are best friends, just short of having matching tattoos and BFF bracelets. But what makes me feel compelled to perform bodily harm on myself each time I hear their names is the fact that Jamie is positively in love with Mike. I realise I'm not making any sense so let me put things into perspective. Here is the crucial tid-bit you need to know about Jamie: She's HOT!! And I don't mean, oops, I burnt my finger on the toaster, hot. I mean janitor in chemistry lab mistakes bucket of nitroglycerine for industrial cleaner and then, once he's finished mopping the floor, proceeds to light his cigarette, hot!

Anyway, like I said, Jamie is totally head over heals in love with Mike. In fact, she is regularly dropping hints that she would like to take things to the next level. For example, last week I was sitting in my cubicle minding my own business when I accidentally pressed my ears against the wall and overhead the following conversation in the adjacent cubicle:

JAMIE: Hey Mike. {giggles} You wouldn’t believe the silly prediction my horoscope made this morning. {more giggles} It said that I shouldn’t be afraid to cast aside my sexual inhibitions because the friend that currently fulfils my mental needs may be the ultimate fulfilment of my bodily needs as well! Can you believe that?

MIKE: {In a somewhat distracted tone} Actually, there has never been any conclusive scientific evidence in support of astrology.

This is where I pause to hand all my male readers a box of tissue. I swear, I could kill this guy repeatedly until he dies to death! The poor bloke doesn't seem to have a clue! After being forced to listen to the above conversational equivalent to a crime against humanity (I'm sure there must be a Geneva convention against this sort of thing), I have drawn the conclusion that Mike is either gay, mentally deficient, or Canadian.

Anyway, this got me thinking: why does love always seem to come to those who don't know what to do with it? Meanwhile, those actively searching for love, at best, only end up with a broken heart or an uncomfortable skin rash on some embarrassing part of their anatomy. The world just isn't fair! In the words of someone wiser than I: “It's worse than dog eats dog...it's dog doesn't return other dog's phone calls!”

Hey, I'm not unreasonable. All I want is a woman with the body of a supermodel, the mind of a Mensa member, and whose favourite hobbies include cooking, cleaning and coitus. Oh yeah, and who also happens to have an insane amount of money and would be happy to pay off all my student loans. Now is that really too much to ask? Despite such modest demands, I nevertheless find myself enduring yet another loveless Valentine’s day, while Canadians everywhere squander the love fate has so lavished upon them. (Sigh.) I so wish I was that guy from those Tag body spray commercials.

Happy Valentine's Day everybody (except if you’re Canadian, in which case: bite me!)

Why God Hates Me

2007-02-02T19:33:00.000Z

My Reply to L>T's Tag

My Christian friends assure me that God loves me. I really want to believe them, but then I look in the mirror. Sigh. So here are the top five reasons I think God hates me.

Number 5: Because I'm black. So I've tried to put the whole “curse of Ham” thing behind me. But now, God has resorted to stealing my socks from the dryer. I didn't think anything of it, until I learned that my white flat-mate still has all of his. Now I'm furious!

Update: Since then God has assured me that He thinks “I’m articulate, bright and clean…heck, I'm like a walking storybook!” I feel much better now.

Number 4: Because my milkshake is better than His. So God and I were at this club and in walks this sonsie sista with the kind of hind quarters that rap videos are made of. (You know the big guy loves the ladies with a little junk in da trunk!) I'll spear you the details of what transpired next, but suffice it to say that at the end of the night I got the girl's phone number and God didn't. In your face Almighty!

Update: I later discovered that the phone number was a fake. But I'm assuming God had something to do with it, the all-powerful bastard!

Number 3: Because I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut. So a number of us were over at God's house watching the game. Jesus had been doing his whole water-to-wine thing all evening, so everyone was pretty liquored up. Inhibitions were low and we were all taking turns recounting some of our past “adventures”. Krishna had just finished talking about the time he hooked up with that sweet little number during a trip to South America, circa 1200 BC. It was God's turn, and the deity was attempting to hold out on us. “Come on Yahweh, give us the dirt!” Moses prodded. “Yeah Big Man, got any virgins pregnant lately?” I added, only then noticing that Mrs God had just walked into the room. She didn't say a word, but from the look on her face it was clear that later that night there would be hell to pay…literally! (She never did forgive him for the whole Mary affair.)

Number 2: Because I didn't let Him copy off my paper during our Freshman year Chemistry finals. Jehovah was like, “man, I totally didn't study for this exam, let me see your answers.” And I was all, “Dude, You're omniscient...and You created everything!” And He was like, “yeah, but last night my room-mate scored the best pot ever and...yo, can I have those chips?”

Update: Really great pot also explains the existence of the duck-billed platypus and the Aurora Borealis.

Number 1: Because of all those times I doubted Him. I believe it first began when we were still in high school. Back then God was still going through his Old Testament phase and was notoriously insecure. One morning He entered the cafeteria, walked over to my table and announced proudly, “Last night I made this new galaxy and it’s the best one I’ve made yet. Tell me honestly Nerd, if I keep getting better at creating planets and stuff, do you think I’ll eventually get my own talk show and become as famous as Oprah?” Always the sceptic, I responded: “well, maybe You shouldn’t get Your hopes up too high Lord.” At which point, God overturned His tray and shouted, “You never believe in me…I hate you!” He then ran out of the cafeteria in tears.

Update: Fifteen years later, and the Most High still hasn’t gotten his own talk show. No Wonder God hates me!

I Tag Mizfit, Lizza and Mist1. (Update: See Mist1's reply to this tag in the comments.)

I'm Afraid There's Someone Else

2007-01-22T07:52:00.001Z

Okay, I have a confession to make. There is another blog! She's one of those New Blogger blogs. She's sleek, sexy, and she treats me well. That explains why I'm never around anymore. I'm sorry.

Currently, I'm in the process of slowly transferring posts from this blog to the new one, so there isn't anything there yet that you haven't seen. The blog would have a slightly different tone to this one, particularly since it's linked to my academic blog network (yes, there is even a nerdier side to me than what you see here!) However, there are certain "special" needs that only my darling Mescaline could meet. (This is where I can truly be myself, in all of my curmudgeonly, sexually-preoccupied yet coitally-challenged glory!) Consequently, I plan to keep her running as well. However, things will continue to be slow-going here until I fully get the other blog off the ground.

In the mean time, I invite you to check out my Expat Interview, which Lizza so graciously invited me to take part in...I'm not sure she realised just what she was getting herself into, poor girl. Enjoy!

Let's Get Re-acquainted

2007-01-08T09:31:00.000Z

I do tend to leave a distinct impression on people, mostly because I'm a bit weird. (Unfortunately, I don't belong to the right tax bracket to warrant the appellation 'eccentric'). But since I've been away for a while, I thought this was a good time for us to get re-acquainted. Actually, the truth is that a week ago a 'friend' sent me this bloody tag and kept hounding me to fill it in (its amazing just how annoying the persistence of a single person could be) and so here are my answers to her questions:

1. Your first name? Shut up (or at least that's what I thought the first ten years of my life)

2. Were you named after anyone? 'Avery'. Hmmm, let me think. A brand of stationary?

3. What is the weather like right now? I live in Scotland. Enough said.

4. What are your favourite colours? Purple and Indigo. But my arch nemesis is Orange. I hate Orange!

5. What is your favourite type of food? East Indian (those people taste great!)

6. What was your favourite toy as a child? The microwave and toaster my parents gave me as bath toys.

7. When you were a child, were you very curious? Definitely! I kept trying to figure out why those nice people at social services took my parents away.

8. When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up? According to my IQ test scores I could've been a nuclear physicist, but there were too many good shows on TV.

9. What is your shoe size? Getting cheeky aren't we?

10. What are you listening to right now? I swear, you ask me what I'm wearing and I'm done with this survey.

11. Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell? Nope. Not even when my old supervisor, Michael Harper (address: 112 JFK Drive, Riverdale, Bronx; social security number: 068-78-9806; wife's name: Colene Harper), told me that he contracted herpes from a prostitute. To this day, I still haven't told a single person about that! (Your secret's safe with me Mike. Prick!)

12. What class in high school do you think was totally useless? In my case, I would have to say sex-ed.

13. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with yourself? No, but I'd totally do me though.

14. What is your least favourite thing you like about yourself? I give too much. sigh

15. If you were a crayon, what colour would you be? Indigo. And my supreme goal would be to rid the world of all orange crayons. Did I mention I hate orange.

16. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex? Their personality and political views.

17. Do looks matter? Diane always said she loved me for my mind. Sniff sniff.

18. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Me? Sarcastic?

19. What are your (acceptable) nicknames? 'Oh Great One' and 'My Lord'

20. Does being up high make you anxious? I've never been afraid of heights, but weights totally freak me out!

21. When did you last cry? The day I learned that Pamela Anderson contracted Hepatitis.

22. Last person you talked to on the phone? My therapist. And if you don't know why, re-read this post.

23. Do you like the person who sent this to you? See answer to question 13. (Which, incidentally, is pretty much how I feel about most people I meet.)

Happy New Year! (2007)

2007-01-01T16:09:00.000Z

Hi Y'all,
This is the Nerd coming to you from Britain's own third-world country, Scotland. (I’ve lived here long enough to get past the initial novelty inspired ‘ooh, ahhh’ phase, and I've finally settled into the calm cynicism that comes from being in any country for a lengthy period of time.) Anyway, as promised I am coming out of reitirement just in time to post my annual New Years greeting (can you believe this is my fourth year carrying out this great tradition?) For all of you first-timers, it goes something like this: the US president has the State of the Union, the Queen mum has her Christmas address, and I have my New Years message. It's that simple. And as always, I have a list of lessons I've learned from the year gone by, which I offer to you now free of charge (though generous donations are encouraged).

But first, I have to announce that Diane and I are over! It was more a difference of opinion really; I thought it was okay to sleep with her best friend, and she didn't agree. I kid, I kid. No one cheated on anyone. In fact, it was a completely mutual and amicable parting (and if you believe that that's even possible, then I have twelve magic stones I'll like to sell to you...only thirty pounds each!) Anyway, when added to Sophia and Bertha, that brings the total number of break-ups last year to three, which if you're keeping track, is a new record for me. But don't worry, I'm not resting on my laurels; this year I'm aiming for six! Which brings me to my first lesson learned:

I've learned that chances are she's just not that into you when you're talking to her on the phone and she says she has to go because there’s a telemarketer on the other line.

I've learned that after a breakup, most women expect from you at least two weeks of depression before you hook up with someone new, though they also consider going into counselling and lifelong celibacy nice gestures.

I've learned that when you’re in a foreign country it is always the little things that get you, like the missing ‘American Standard’ label on the tank of the toilet.

I've learned that when it comes to politics, the facts tends to exceed the American public's curiosity, and while everyone loves a good Armageddon every now and then, the rapture just isn't an exit strategy.

I've learned that Christmas just isn't as Christmasy when you're away from your family. (Though I suppose it couldn't be worse than opening presents on Christmas morning two thousand years ago at Jesus's house: “a pair of socks, thanks…you know I’m dying for your sins right?”)

Last, but not least, I've learned that it is always a good idea to keep your friends and loved ones close by, especially when you foresee needing to burrow money in the near future. It is for this reason that, this year, I aim to be the kind of friend that is always there when he needs you.

Happy New Year and all the best for 2007!!

P.S.: Checks should be made out to the “Give Nubian Nerd money just for the heck of it foundation”.

Going Out While You're On Top

2006-11-27T22:22:00.000Z

So, I just learned that my blog was awarded the prestigious “Bestest Blog of the Day” award!! This is more awesome than if scientists discovered that chocolate was a vegetable! Well, almost.

Anyway, I'll just like to thank the Academy (a.k.a., Bobby) for this award. Naturally, this honour comes as a complete surprise (but luckily, I just happened to have this little speech prepared). First off, I would just like to thank my Lord and Eternal Homeslice, Jesus, for making this all possible...thanks dawg! Then special thanks goes out to Lizza, for her most excellent review on Bestest Blog! Of course I simply have to mention L>T, who has been the most rediculously awesome blog buddy a cerebrally inclined, mildly misanthropic, phallically gifted philosopher could ask for! (That's right Lizza, I do say so myself!) A special shout-out to mist1, a woman whose wit rivals that of the gods. Then there is the uncanny mizfit, the cynics (both cheery and cheerful), and a scientist that's funnier than you. I must also express the sincerest gratitude to my beloved, and recently retired, warya. As far as writers go, you're a goddess among men, and you'll be sorely missed. Let's see, have I forget anyone. Oh yes, there is also anonymous. I'm not sure who you are, but you've left several comments on my blog and I'm greatful for each one. Finally, to all my many regular visitors (real or imagined) who were too coy to leave a comment, I'll like to say: "Go screw yourselves!" I kid I kid. This would not have been possible if it wasn't for you. (Actually, it would have, so I guess your sorry arses never really made a difference at all, but I still love you nonetheless.)

And now that I've said my piece I'm ready to announce my retirement. But don't worry, it is only temporary... I'll be back at the dawn of the New Year (with my traditional New Years message of course). I just need some time to finish up the first draft of my dissertation and deal with the return of my recurring nightmares in which I'm attacked by a gang of rabid Canadian Koala bears (I knew they were Canadian because of the way the top of their heads flopped up and down when they talked). In the interim, I invite you to catch up on the archives. Lizza said that if you don't, she'll come over there and kick your arse! Okay, so maybe I just made that last bit up...but are you really willing to take that chance?

Finally, let me address the question on everyone's mind. What business does an atheist have giving thanks to Jesus? Well, to you I may be an atheist, but to God I'm just playing hard to get (and that really turns him on).

See you next year.

~N. Nerd

Silly Rabbit...

2006-11-23T06:42:00.002Z

Okay, so its been a while. Missed me? Truth is, I've been busier than a pair of jumper cables at a used car dealership. Let's see, there have been trips to the Scottish highlands, a visit to the Netherlands, beginning chapter 3 of my dissertation. And let's not forget my discovery of the Higgs boson, successful formulation of a grand field theory and, most importantly, my proving conclusively that Trix really are for kids. And in case you're wondering, the formal proof looks like this:

~(C) {premise (ex hypothesi)}
{(A) ^ (B)} > (C) {premise}
(Kids) > (B) {premise}
(Rabbits) > (A) {premise}
(Kids) {premise}
~{(A) ^ (B)} {from (i) and (ii), by modus tollens}
{~(A) ∨ ~(B)} {from (vi), by De Morgan’s laws}
(B) {from (iii) and (v), by modus ponens}
~(A){from (vii) and (viii), by disjunctive syllogism}}
Therefore:
~(Rabbits) {from (iv) and (ix), by modus tollens}

It's all quite complicated really, and I wouldn't want you troubling your pretty little head about the details. The conclusion of the formal proof is in line (x) which clearly states ~(Rabbits), which (in English) means “no-Rabbits”. (So you can go ahead and make out that Nobel Prize to Nubian, that's N-U-B-I-A-N, Nerd. Thank you very much.)

All Alone

2006-11-01T09:33:00.001Z

As you may have already guessed, I got into philosophy primarily for the money and women. But why didn't someone warn me about just how solitary the life of a philosophy postgrad could be. I don't think I've felt this lonely since elementary school. Back then, my only companions were my two imaginary friends, Elma and Capt. Amazing. What's worse, they only played with each other.

But at least I still have my books. Ah, my books.

Making Baby Jesus Cry

2006-10-30T08:47:00.000Z

So, I finally received my first Christian hate-mail (see second to last comment). Well, it's about bloody time! I mean, really. I've been working hard for over a year now to make this blog as religiously intolerant and offensive as I could, with descriptions of atheists eating the flesh of Christian babies to blasphemous references to Jesus's milkshake bringing all the boys to the yard. And yet, not a single outraged reader has commented on what a sick twisted f*ck I am...that is, of course, until now. Okay, so maybe I'm overstating things a wee bit. The person in question (though her identity shall remain anonymous) was very polite and respectful (like any true child of God should be), and simply wished to voice her reservations about my frequent references to sex on this blog. Naturally, I have no clue what she's talking about. Me, make reference to sex?

Okay, so maybe the words “penis” and “vagina” have appeared on my blog a couple times, but is that any reason to call me obsessed? Why that's like labelling someone a misanthrope because they generally hate people. I mean, come on! Now usually, such benign criticism wouldn’t warrant much by way of a response on my part. However, I thought I should use this as an ~~excuse~~ opportunity to ~~vent~~ share a few ~~things that piss me off~~ carefully selected thoughts. What concerns me about my "anonymous" Christian Reader (and others like her) is that she's apparently so locked into her own worldview, that she's unable to appreciate the fact that other people don't share the values she does. Now for those of you who have never been very religious, you may not get a great deal of what follows. But as a former church minister myself (yes it's sad, but true), let's just say I've been there. So please bear with me as I take a few moments to have a brief heart to heart with my sister in the Lord.

Dear Anonymous Christian Reader,
I hope you’re sitting down, because what I’m about to say may shock you: Everyone does not believe the same things you do! Yes, I know this may be difficult for you to understand at the moment. But I’m going to go through this slowly…try to keep up.

You see, the world is more varied, complex and nuanced than your own blinkered worldview may sometimes make it appear to be, and many members of this varied, complex, nuanced world have beliefs and values (that’s right, values too) quite different from your own. As such, criticising them based on your values (values they may not themselves share) is like trying to convince someone who doesn't believe in the Koran (for example, you) that the Koran is the divinely inspired word of Allah by quoting passages from the Koran. In short, it just doesn't work! If you're going to persuade someone to accept your position, you first have to meet them where they are; just as the apostle Paul did in Athens when he preached to the gentiles about the “unknown god” (Acts 17:23). So, if you're really trying to win me for Jesus, I suggest that you begin by first removing your top...and we'll see how things go from there.

Now we may have our differences of opinion: You see sex as sacred while I see sex as the filthiest, most degrading act that two people who genuinely love and care about each other can share. But why can't we put aside these petty differences and focus on what's really important: Cheesecake! Because at the end of the day, sitting down and enjoying its rich artery-clogging goodness is all we really have.

Marriage...In the Abstract

2006-10-19T10:10:00.002+01:00

Now I have no problem with abstract entities such as numbers, goodness or God. In fact, as a professional philosopher I pretty much spend most of my time explaining to people why the first two exist and the last one doesn't. Moreover, some of my best friends are abstracts (like my psychic ex-girlfriend who broke up with me two months before we met). But when it comes to making practical life-changing decisions, mere abstracts have little place. For example, I've often heard single women talk about how much they want to get married. They don't have any specific candidate in mind, but they simply want to get married...in the abstract. There's just something about the concept of marriage, that makes them want to spend the rest of their lives trying to attain it (very much like the way I feel about vaginas). Of course, I should hasten to add, the desire to get married is certainly not limited to women. Why, King Solomon was a man and he pretty much holds the world record for number of marriages; I mean, the bloke had like seven hundred wives! (But can you imagine being the one girl he dated and didn't marry? Auch!)

But I digress. The point I'm making is that given the high incidence of divorce, and the equally high amount of unhappy marriages, the desire to just get married (in the abstract) seems, at best, ill-advised, and at worse, down right masochistic. A much more prudent approach, in my not so humble opinion, would be to focus on developing wholesome, fulfilling relationships. And if one of those relationships should lead to marriage, then so be it. But if not, then at least you won't be one of those sad blokes trapped in a union they wish they could get out of. But simply deciding that you want to get married (in the abstract), when you haven't even learned how to have a successful relationship is a bit like deciding to jump out of a plane and then worrying about whether your parachute works. In short, it's putting the cart before the horse, the target behind the gun, the regret-filled hangover before the night of tequila shots and the ill-advised phone call to your ex.

But I know what you're thinking: Get off the bloody soapbox Nubian. You're just another guy who would prefer not to commit and you're trying to justify your own fear of commitment by spouting a whole lot of high sounding BS. Well hello, professional philosopher here; spouting high sounding BS is what I do. And as for the allegations that I have commitment issues, I would have you know that I have joined a fear of intimacy support group (though I'm seriously considering dropping out because the members are getting way too close). And yes I admit that I happen to be a big fan of casual sex, especially since you don't have to wear a suite. But that's really all besides the point. The truth is that I someday hope to meet someone I can spend the rest of my life with, and if I did, marriage would seem like a good idea. But “getting married” is definitely not on my list of things to do just for the sake of doing it. Now, urinating off the top of the Eiffel tower and watching the golden droplets soar through the Parisian air until they reach their designated targets, that's something I would definitely do just for the sake of doing it (which perhaps explains why I'm not married and won't be for some time to come.)

Hans Landsteiner (Part 2)

2006-10-16T17:39:00.000+01:00

Stop: If you have not already read All About Edwin Longwickle's Friend, Hans Landsteiner (Part 1), you should do so before reading the present instalment. Failure to comply with these instructions may give rise to confusion, dizziness, vomiting and impotence.

However, tragedy struck when Hans’s biological father dropped by for a surprise visit and was promptly accosted, covered in cheese and eaten by Han’s roommate. The unfortunate eating deeply affected Hans, who vowed from that day forward to fight in defence of vegetable rights. Odd enough, it was also around this time that Hans developed an acute allergic reaction to cotton. His psychiatrist prescribed pills for his condition, but he could never seem to get them out of the bottle. This proved to be a great inconvenience, particularly since Hans's aunt Betty (on his father's side) was a cotton plant. Every time she came over for a visit, Hans would turn red and swell up like a turnip (and on more than one occasion witnesses say he actually became one).

Despite his difficult childhood and many handicaps, Hans was determined to succeed. In a memoir he wrote: “I’d literally kill for a Nobel Peace Prize!” When he later relocated to Britain, his life-long goal of becoming a Nobel Laureate seemed on the verge of being realised after he single-handedly arranged a peace accord between carrots and the Cheshire Vegetarian Society. However, things took a turn for the worse at the dinner celebrating the accord when all of the carrot delegates were rounded up, juiced and served as the evening beverage. This sparked the violent 1978 parsley protests that culminated in the gruesome Gourd Massacre of April 18^th; a day on which, according to noted historian Dame Veronica Wedgwood, “carrot and pumpkin juice flowed through the London streets like water!”

Because of the catastrophic failure of his human and vegetable reconciliation efforts, Hans was passed over for the 1979 Nobel Peace Prize. Instead, the prize was ultimately awarded to an Albanian nun, who Hans described in his journal as “that pretentious little bitch, Teresa!” It wasn't until many years later, after inventing an animal-based vegetable alternative, that Hans came into his own. He was then promptly removed from his own and placed in someone else's.

All About Longwickle's Friend, Hans Landsteiner (Part 1)

2006-10-07T09:20:00.001+01:00

No less fascinating than the life of Edwin Longwickle, was that of his best friend and colleague, Hans Landsteiner. Hans was born in the small town of Fucking in Upper Austria (I swear that’s the name of an actual town, I’m not making this up), and is generally believed to be the son of Hanna and Jonas Landsteiner. As a child, Hans was both a bed-wetter and sleep-walker; urinating in up to twelve different beds in a single night.

A local psychologist diagnosed his chronic bed-wetting as stemming from childhood trauma, no doubt suffered when he accidentally walked in on his mother having sex with a head of broccoli. Things only grew worse shortly thereafter when his mother announced at a family gathering that Jonas Landsteiner wasn’t Hans’s real father. Hans, who already faced the challenge of being half Jewish in an era plagued by anti-Semitism, was now forced to come to terms with being half vegetable as well.

The revelation shocked all in attendance, prompting Jonas's infirmed mother to faint and his senile father to ask for a second helping of cake. Furious, Jonas kicked Hans and his mother out of their Fucking residence and they were forced to move in with Hanna’s botanical lover. A year later, Hans was sent to a boarding school in Petting, Bavaria, where he majored in Herbology and International Vegetable Affairs; hoping to reconnect with his lost family heritage. Hans also demonstrated an aptitude for languages and by the age of sixteen he was already conversant in seven, including Latin, Esperanto and Jamaican Creole. He was also elected president of his school's French club, whose weekly meetings consisted of reading the works of Madame de Lafayette and surrendering to the German club.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Happy Birthday To Me

2006-09-28T11:34:00.001+01:00

Birthdays are when we all celebrate the fact that we’ve made it another twelve months without dying. It should therefore come as no surprise that I consider the birthdays of blacks a much more impressive accomplishment than that of whites. Why, just this morning I was listening to the weather report and it predicted clear sunny skies; except if you were black, in which case you could expect thunderstorms, flooding and a freak tornado.

When I was younger, I would always wish I could live to be the oldest person on earth. But that was before I learned that the title is actually cursed. Haven’t you noticed that every time someone is declared the oldest person on earth, they die like within a year!

Now that I’m only two years short of three decades old, I’m crossing that ephemeral line between young adult and adult adult. (That’s where you still want to eat fruit loops, but at the same time you're concerned about its fibre content.)

Shout-Out to My Homeslice, L-Nizzy*

2006-09-26T23:02:00.002+01:00

So I’m finally back in kilt country. I know for a while it seemed like I wasn’t coming back, but I had some biz-nez to take care of. What kind of biz-nez you ask? Well, none of yours.

Unfortunately, I was so excited to be back that I forgot my luggage on the plane. I can’t begin to tell you how embarrassing it was walking through the airport with all my clothes and things in my hands. Then there is the utterly depressing ritual of changing my US currency to pounds. America may be the only remaining superpower on the planet, but the dollar is still the pound’s bitch.

Finally, as I exited the Edinburgh airport, I was greeted by the shrill cacophony of the McCloud Bagpipe Band; a clan of twelve skirt wearing men who derive sadistic delight from musically assaulting hapless passengers exiting the terminal. Naturally, this immediately took me back to my days as a wee lad growing up in the Caribbean islands (it is a little known fact, but bagpipes have long been a central part of Caribbean culture; along with ice-fishing and Bobsledding). But as you may have already guessed, I’ve never really fancied Scottish music; though I have to admit that it is much better than it sounds.

But I know what you’re thinking: "wow Nubian, you mean to tell me that you’re not only brilliant, funny and unforgivably sexy, but you’re West Indian too?" Yes, yes, it’s true…I’m just all kinds of awesome. (But I swear, if you ask me to say "feelin' eiree mon" just to satisfy your perverse desire to hear an exotic accent, I won't hesitate to slap you!)

*For some background on the L-Nizzy reference, see my Pulitzer prize winning post: Break out the Kilts

Pfizer's New Penis Advertising Campaign: Got Dick?

2006-09-13T22:36:00.002+01:00

Ladies,
Are you anxious? Do you have problems sleeping? Are the many stresses of life getting you down? Then perhaps it’s time to try Penis.

Clinical studies have shown that women who regularly use Penis lead longer, less stressful and more emotionally fulfilling lives. Penis has been shown to trigger the release of oxytocin (also known as the ‘cuddle chemical’), which heightens feelings of affection and the production of mood enhancing endorphins. Other benefits of Penis include improved sense of smell, cardiovascular health, increased amounts of immunoglobulin antibodies that ward off disease and (if used strategically) lifelong financial security.

Penis now comes in a wide variety of shapes, sizes and flavours—including French vanilla, butter pecan, hazelnut and dark chocolate. All Penises are specially designed for easy insertion into the orifice of your choice.

Negative side effects of Penis may include guilt, regret, unwanted pregnancy, or the person the Penis is attached to. Use caution when driving, operating machinery, or performing other hazardous activities.

Penis is not for everyone. If you are a lesbian, you may find Penis aesthetically unappealing and the very sight of Penis may give rise to uncontrollable laughter. Laboratory tests suggest that for most males, Penis can seriously impair judgement, be a constant source of embarrassment when in the company of women, and in certain extreme circumstances (such as prison) be a literal pain in the arse. Penis is not approved by the FDA for use by children. If you are over 60 the use of Penis is still warmly encouraged, especially since the unwanted side-effects of Penis tend to sharply decrease with the onset of menopause.

Please consult your doctor to determine if Penis is right for you.

Penis: is it in you?

Sorry Dude, but the Rapture is Not an Exit Strategy

2006-09-11T10:59:00.001+01:00

It’s been five years since 9/11 and there still hasn’t been another major terrorist attack on US soil. What greater evidence do we need to show that Bush's strategy of sending our men and women to die 'over there' so they won't have a chance to die 'over here' is working? We would also do well to remember that there hasn't been another devastating hurricane in the United States since Katrina; no doubt further evidence of the success of Bush's war on terror!

So what if Bin Laden is still free? So what if Iraq is a complete disaster, with upward of a hundred civilians dying every day? Oh, and don’t you dare call it a civil war! Why, that would be like calling a woman a prostitute just because she slept with men for money! You can’t believe everything that guy Webster tells you, you know!

Statistically, One out of Every One Person will Die

2006-09-07T17:23:00.001+01:00

So the results from last week’s check-up are finally back and it turns out I’m going to die. (Not necessarily anytime soon, but it’s bound to happen eventually.) And thus ends my long futile bid for immortality. Now there is no need to worry, I’m not ill and the doctor assured me that I’m in normal physical condition for someone my age. But that’s precisely the problem. Since most blokes my age are mortal, being normal (i.e., just like them) means I must be mortal too. I realise this may seem like a trivial matter to many, but I’ve long had my fingers crossed that somehow the first law of thermodynamics didn’t apply to me. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I think I’m special or anything; it’s just that I happen to be severely allergic to dying.

Unsurprisingly, this has put me in a rather sour mood. I feel grumpy, hungry, sleepy… hell, I’m all seven dwarfs combined! And since I don’t believe in a hereafter, being dead would pretty much ruin my sex-life. (Then again, if we were judging from my sex-life, you would probably conclude that I’ve already crossed The River Styx. You hear that Diane! Dead man talking!) But seriously, I don’t ask for much…all I want is the sweet sweet loving of a good woman and to live forever. (Oh, and sharks with freakin’ laser beams attached to their heads … that would fucking rock!)

All About Edwin Longwickle (Part 3)

2006-08-31T16:22:00.002+01:00

Stop: If you have not already read All About Edwin Longwickle (Part 2), you should do so before reading the present instalment. Failure to comply with these instructions may give rise to confusion, dizziness, vomiting and impotence.

Longwickle is perhaps best known for his attempt to use Hubble’s theory of an expanding universe to explain why it is so difficult to locate one’s car in a supermarket parking lot. But what really put Longwickle on the scientific map was his two hundred page opus in which he argued that strange quarks were not so much strange as they were misunderstood.

Unfortunately, these views rendered Longwickle persona non grata in the eyes of a myopic scientific community that had little tolerance for novel ideas. Estranged from the British scholarly establishment, Longwickle relocated across the pond, where he became an active member of American intellectual and political life. Quickly distinguishing himself as part of the Manhattan intelligencia, Longwickle contributed several articles to a high-brow cerebral quarterly dedicated to the post-modern neo-Marxist interpretation of the gestation of Chinese poodles.

During this time, even Longwickle’s social life began to experience something of a renascence. After more than ten years living in sin with his own right hand, he decided it was finally time to do something decisive in his love-life…and so, on February 16th, 1963, he and his right hand were married. Unfortunately, their union proved to be anything but happy and just six months after the honeymoon, Longwickle’s right hand filed for divorce, citing emotional neglect and self-abuse.

Brokenhearted, Longwickle turned to drinking; regularly imbibing copious amounts of bottled spring water and unsweetened grapefruit juice. This apparently took quite a toll on his immune system; for shortly thereafter, he contracted a debilitating disease that left him unable to say the word ‘lobster’ without giggling. The end clearly in sight, Longwickle sought reconciliation with his estranged right hand; and though it had already remarried, the two eventually became close friends and remained such until Longwickle’s death five years later. At his funeral, Longwickle’s right hand is reported to have declared through bitter sobs, “he was the best body a hand could ever ask for!”

But it is not the many intrigues of Longwickle’s personal life that calls him to the forefront of our collective consciousness today. Rather, it is his lifelong insistence that, as far as he was concerned, there were only eight planets in our solar system (a pronouncement that would prove to be prophetic). In a 1967 interview with the Herald Press Longwickle was asked why he did not consider Pluto a real planet. Years ahead of his time, he is reported to have replied enigmatically: “because it’s fucking gay!”

Fucking gay indeed, Longwickle. Fucking gay indeed.

How I’m Not Bringing Sexy Back

2006-08-27T23:05:00.003+01:00

My doctor asked me if I engaged in sexual intercourse in the last seven days. I explained to him that it wasn’t my birthday for another month. My girlfriend, Diane, doesn’t really have a problem sleeping with me; it’s just the sex she can’t stand. Apart from our love-life, Diane is perfectly content to be with me. She said that her only regret, as far as our relationship is concerned, is that she wasn’t dating someone else. Things were much better when I was dating that Chinese girl from across the hall; the only problem was that every time I went down on her I would need to go down on her again like an hour later.

All About Edwin Longwickle (Part 1)

2006-08-25T18:53:00.000+01:00

Little is known about the early life of the noted astronomer and scientific maverick, Edwin Longwickle. But this much is certain: Longwickle was a person who came from a long line of people. Originally named Benjamin Rupert Longwickle, after his grandmother, he eventually changed his first name to Edwin, in honour of his chief scientific inspiration, Edwin Hubble. When he was only four, Longwickle’s father died under mysterious circumstances shortly after being run over by a lorry. A two-year investigation was conducted by local law-enforcement, but the exact cause of his father’s death remains unknown.

Widowed at the tender age of twenty three, Longwickle’s mother, Elizabeth Longwickle, was forced to raise young Edwin and his twelve siblings on her own (a task that remained quite difficult even after she donated six of the children to scientific research). However, from entries in her private diary it is now clear that Elizabeth Longwickle later came to regret her decision to give away four of her beloved children. On September 15th, 1948 she wrote: “Why did I give away six of my dear wee ones when I could have sold them all for a handsome profit?” Elizabeth Longwickle’s words were a harbinger of things to come, for only two months later she sold her remaining seven children (including Edwin) to the Circus Royale, which happened to be touring near their home in Manchester. Always the shrewd business woman, Longwickle’s mother then invested her entire life savings in a brand new pair of breasts, lost fifteen pounds, and married a wealthy banker from South Kensington.

TO BE CONTINUED...

All About Edwin Longwickle (Part 2)

2006-08-25T14:00:00.000+01:00

Stop: If you have not already read All About Edwin Longwickle (Part 1), you should do so before reading the present instalment. Failure to comply with these instructions may give rise to confusion, dizziness, vomiting and impotence.

Longwickle always dreamed of becoming an astronomer, but lacked the financial means necessary to pay for his education. However, in an unexpected stroke of luck, Longwickle won a full tuition scholarship to Cambridge for his uncanny ability to chew gum, juggle three bowling balls, and dance the Macarena, all at once.

While at Cambridge, he befriended an Austrian by the name of Hans Landsteiner, who like Longwickle had a childhood full of the kind of hard knocks that gangsta rap lyrics are made of. One day, after his father left for work, young Hans walked in on his mother having sex with a head of broccoli. It was then that his mother divulged the awful truth that Mr. Landsteiner wasn’t his real father. Hans, who already had to deal with being half Jewish in an era plagued by anti-Semitism, was now forced to come to terms with being half vegetable as well.

Perhaps it was Hans Landsteiner’s own intimate acquaintance with being an outsider that initially drew him to the equally reviled Edwin Longwickle. Even after Longwickle was denied entrance into the Royal Society for his outlandish scientific views and his uncompromising stance against bathing and personal hygiene, Landsteiner remained the Robin to his Batman.

TO BE CONTINUED...

What's Up With the Comment Moderation?

2006-08-22T10:15:00.000+01:00

Unfortunately the comment moderation is a necessary measure given all the women that try to post nude pics of themselves on my blog in a desperate attempt to win my affection (and quite frankly, pork will become the other white meat in Iraq before I stand for that kind of thing on my blog!).

Hey, stop snickering…it could happen! (sigh)

The Truth About Werewolves

2006-08-18T17:11:00.001+01:00

Larry:
We have on our show tonight, Kevin P. Howard. Kevin is the grandson of the famous werewolf, Scott Howard, on whose life the movie Teen Wolf was loosely based. Kevin is an outspoken preternatural rights activist and founder of People Against the Defamation of Lycans. Welcome Kevin.

Werewolf:
Thanks Larry, I’m glad to be here.

Larry:
Now, unless I’m mistaken, you’re just one of the thousands of werewolves now living in the United States. Is that correct?

Werewolf:
Yes. But we prefer to be called Lycan-Americans.

Larry:
Oh, my apologies. So, you insist that werewol…Lycan-Americans are greatly misunderstood.

Werewolf:
That’s right Larry. Thanks to the negative portrayals of lycans by the media and news outlets, Hollywood horror-films, and the smear campaign led by vampire supremacists, we lycans have been receiving a bad rap for centuries! However, the stereotype of lycans as bloodthirsty beasts that engage in deviant criminal behaviours, such as howling at the full moon, going from town to town devouring people and overturning the neighbour’s trashcans late at night, is simply not accurate. The truth is, Lycan-Americans are no different from anyone else. [begins to scratch behind his ear with his toes]

Larry:
You mentioned vampire supremacists. Who are they?

Werewolf:
Well first let me be clear that most vampires are decent people. Sure they may enjoy the coppery taste of warm pig’s blood every now and then…but who doesn’t? However, there are a few vampires—underscore a few—that believe that the undead are the only preternatural creatures deserving of respect. We suspect that these so-called vampire supremacist have played a fundamental role in the negative press that lycans have received over the years.

Larry:
What about the sexual harassment lawsuit that was brought against you three months ago? I know the charges were eventually dropped…but I’m sure it must have been a very difficult time for you.

Werewolf:
[becoming visibly upset, almost to the point of tears] I have to be honest with you Larry, those allegations were more painful than a silver bullet through the heart! I mean, I have a wife and three cubs…you have no idea how much suffering that fiasco caused my family and I. Those charges were just another example of the type of ignorance I was referring to earlier.

Larry:
How so?

Werewolf:
You see, we lycans lack sweat glands…panting is the only way we can keep cool, and there is no need for me to remind you just how hot it has been this summer. My co-worker, Mrs. Stevenson, mistook my panting for a lewd gesture. But I have nothing but the utmost respect for women and I would never deliberately engage in behaviour that would make a female co-worker uncomfortable or that could be interpreted as misogynistic.

Larry:
Well, having met you face to face it is hard for me to believe you would. [Pats the werewolf on the shoulder] I must express how sorry I am that you and your family had to undergo such an awful experience…and all due to a simple misunderstanding!

Werewolf:
[sighs] Well, what can I say? It was just snakes on a plane Larry… snakes on a plane.

That's Mr Big Stuff to You!

2006-08-14T14:47:00.000+01:00

I’ve been posting on this blog for almost a year now and no one pays any attention. But I make a single reference to the enormity of my phallus and suddenly everyone thinks I’m a comedic genius on loan from God! But did it occur to anyone that that was not supposed to be a joke? One of the few positives of being a black male today is the luxury of having one’s genitalia likened to that of certain members of the equine family…so please don’t take that away from me!

(And now that I’ve pushed the struggle against racial stereotyping back 40 years I can return to working on my college-level math problemset....Damn, where’s an Asian when you need one?).

Guns Don't Kill People, Liquids Do!

2006-08-11T00:03:00.000+01:00

Despite the combined efforts of Jesus (See: Jesus's Match.com Profile) and our beloved president, the terror alert level has once again been raised to orange. About two dozen terrorists, with alleged ties to al-Qaeda, were stopped in Heathrow carrying enough gatorade to bring down a Boeing 747! Now the Department of Homeland Security has issued a list of items not allowed in airline carry-on:

All sports drinks and containers with liquids (with the exception of baby bottles and lactating women)
Hairsprays, hair gels and flammable hair extensions
Electric toothbrushes and other battery operated vibrating instruments (sorry ladies, but you have to leave the rabbit at home)
Toiletry items including toothpaste, mouthwash, concentrated hydrochloric acid and French percussion grenades.
Muthafuckin snakes!

My First REAL Blog Post

2006-08-07T16:02:00.000+01:00

A number of individuals have been demanding that I post more frequently (okay, so maybe it was more like one person…but who’s counting?) and what can be a greater affirmation of one’s self-worth than to learn that someone actually wants to hear more about your day-to-day life (apart from being told what a freakishly large penis you have)? However, I never intended for this blog to feature daily confessional postings because that would only make it start sounding like its some sort of…blog! The truth is that I secretly detest the burgeoning new blog culture (yes, I’m a self-hating blogger) and I would like to think I have much more fun sophisticated things to do besides rattling on about the banality that is my life. Is that a contradiction? No. (Don’t argue with me, I’m a philosopher.)

And now, here's something we hope you'll really like.

Jesus's Match.com Profile

2006-08-01T09:53:00.001+01:00

Tagline:
Hey Ladies, I’m the answer to your prayers…literally!

I am: ~~Man~~ Son of God
Seeking: Woman
Between ages: 19-23

About Me:
First name:
Jesus

Last name:
Christ

Middle initial:
H.

Ethnicity:
Middle Eastern

Languages:
Aramaic, Hebrew, Spanglish

Body type:
A few extra pounds (after the resurrection, it was pretty much down hill)

Height:
5'5" (165.1cms)

Religion:
Formerly Jewish (recent convert to Scientology)

Body art:
Piercings

~~Exercise~~ Exorcise habits:
3-4 demons per week (usually into a nearby herd of pigs)

Daily diet:
Loaves and fish

Drink:
Social drinker, mostly at weddings

Smoke:
The chronic baby (how do you think I came up with all those awesome parables)!

Interests:
Dining out, Walking on water, Movies and art exhibits, Looking fabulous, Being thanked by gangsta-rappers at award shows.

Favourite TV Shows:
Rescue Me, Smallville, House (I guess you could say I have a bit of a saviour complex)

Occupation:
Carpenter, the Alpha and Omega, part-time White-house advisor

Living Situation:
With roommates (St Peter, Moses, and my pet lama Mr. Diddles)

Something you don’t know about me:
The ‘H’ in my name stands for ‘Henry’.

What I’m Looking For:
After my short stint in rehab, I’m finally off the painkillers and ready to settle down with that special someone. What am I looking for? Well, the last woman I dated turned out to be a prostitute (that's rigth lil' miss Magdalene, I know all about your little late night "prayer sessions"), so I wouldn’t say the bar is exactly high. I just want a woman who is confident, mature, independent, and open-minded sexually. Between answering thousands of prayers, managing my dad’s furniture store, and working alongside President Bush to make the world a full colour-value safer, I’m really quite busy. But I also know that all work and no play makes JC a dull deity. Consequently, I’m looking for someone fun and adventurous who could add a little spice to my life. And to Gabriel and the other playa-hating angels who said JC has no game, all I have to say is: yes, my milkshake is better than yours!

Breakfast Cereal 101

2006-07-28T10:17:00.000+01:00

This morning, while I was pouring myself a bowl of multi-grain Cheerios, I made a tragic mistake; in a brief absent-minded moment I miscalculated the ‘float-factor’! What is the float-factor you ask? The float-factor refers to the phenomenon where, as you pour milk into a bowl of cereal, the cereal rises, concealing the milk, and consequently making it difficult to accurately determine whether one has achieved the correct milk-to-cereal ratio. The upshot is that one may unwittingly find oneself in violation of Article 114 of the International Cornflakes Convention (ICC), the prohibition against eating cereal with a disproportionate amount of milk.

Many of my readers may be unfamiliar with the ICC (or what has come to be called the ‘Cereal Code’), so let me briefly spell out the essentials. Most breakfast cereals fall into two classes. First, there are the flake-type cereals, which manifest low milk-displacement relative to their mass. As a result, flake-type cereals have comparatively low float-factors. Second, there are the puff-type cereals which have lower density and therefore displace a much greater amount of milk relative to their mass. Consequently, puff-type cereals have very high float-factors. Cheerios, which falls into the second class, exhibits a mind-blowing level 5 float-factor, thanks in no small part to their buoyant life-preserver shape. This makes Cheerios a particularly dangerous brand of cereal for those seeking milk-cereal equilibrium.

Despite what one might think given this morning’s poor performance, I’m no tyro when it comes to creating a well-balanced breakfast bowl. However, it had been a while since I worked with a variety from the puff group. Combine my lack of practice with the fact that I was slightly distracted by the Power Rangers episode that was showing on the telly, and you’ve got a recipe for morningtide disaster! Needless to say, I was completely flummoxed when, thinking all was well, I pressed my spoon against the top of my General Mills medley only to witness the milk swirl up and swallow the entire oat, barley and wheat pasticcio. It was truly a sad moment, one that would have made John Harvey Kellogg weep … if he wasn’t so busy being dead and all that.

Those who don’t know better would attempt to remedy such a situation by simply adding more cereal. But as every seasoned cerealneer knows, once one has missed the initial window of opportunity, one can never again attain the delicate balance needed for genuine milk-cereal homeostasis. One inevitably finds oneself stuck in an endless cycle of adding more milk then more cereal then more milk (and so on) until in exasperation one is forced the throw in the spoon. Of course one could avoid all of this by pouring the milk first and then adding the cereal, a practice that many self-professed flake-o-philes engage in. However, this practice goes against every fundamental principle of proper breakfast cereal protocol and is certainly not something that any self-respecting connoisseur of the antemeridian arts would adopt.

Superman: Illegal Alien?

2006-07-19T01:49:00.001+01:00

By Nubian Nerd
BBC News

WASHINGTON, DC—The recent Whitehouse crackdown on illegal immigration has called attention to perhaps the most arrant illegal alien of them all: Superman! Fleeing his home planet of Krypton, the soi-disant ‘Man of Steel’ crash-landed somewhere in the heartlands of rural Kansas. However, as Senate Majority leader Bill Frist observed before the House on Wednesday, “Superman crossed our galactic borders without going through the proper legal channels. He was never issued a visa or green card and it is believed that he continues to reside on American soil without appropriate documentation. We consider this conduct anything but super!”

“Superman threatens the livelihood of local superheroes,” complains a livid Captain America. “He’s stronger, faster and tougher than everyone else, and now he’s putting us all out of work!” The Flash, who was recently relieved of his position in the Justice League after receiving a memo saying he had been rendered obsolete by the equally fast red-caped wonder, also protested the outsourcing of domestic crime-fighting responsibilities to the extraterrestrial. “Two days ago he took a bullet to the forehead and didn’t even flinch!” notes the disgruntled speedster. “How are we supposed to compete with that? Trust me, you just can’t get that kind of invulnerability from being bitten by a radio-active spider or exposure to gamma-ray radiation! It’s just not fair!”

But long time friend, Batman, insists that Superman only takes the jobs that other superheroes don’t want to do. “Did you see the X-men running to save the world from that Texas-sized asteroid that was threatening to destroy the planet three months ago?” remarked the cape crusader during a recent Larry King interview. “I think not! And you want to know why? Because they’re simply not up to the challenge! But Superman is always ready for that kind of thing; he’s there to take the big jobs that other superheroes shy away from.”

Both House Democrats and members of the Krypton Survivor’s Guild argue that Kal El (Superman’s Kryptonian name) is protected by the 2005 Comprehensive Immigration Reform Act introduced by Representative Sheila Jackson Lee. But Republican officials insist that Superman is insidiously undermining the foundations of American democracy.

“He says that he stands for truth, justice and the American way,” President Bush acknowledged at a press conference on Friday. “But if he really respected our way of life, he would also respect our national borders!” Moreover, the National Security Agency (NSA) has also been investigating rumours that Superman may even be using a false identity, a very common strategy employed by individuals residing in the country illegally. “Thus far, our investigation has failed to yield any leads”, admits Lt. General Keith Alexander, director of the NSA. “But we suspect that he may be using some sort of elaborate disguise, such as a mask, a prosthetic nose, or perhaps a particularly unsightly pair of black-rimmed glasses.”

Why My Face Hurts...

2006-07-02T12:12:00.001+01:00

Lately, I’ve been feeling as anxious as a cat’s tail in a house full of rocking chairs. But the strange thing is that I’m not sure why. My therapist said that we philosophers tend to be very insecure. I suspect it may have something to do with how we are socialised. One of my colleagues said that his family has a longstanding tradition according to which the favourite son would become a doctor while the least favourite son would study philosophy. Can you imagine what growing up in such a home environment would do to one's self esteem? Fortunately my parents are equally proud and supportive of all their children. (Or at least that's what they told me the day my older brother graduated from medical school.)

Nevertheless, I still find myself with about as much confidence as a 40-year-old ex-nun on her wedding night. Perhaps that explains why I tend to be so indecisive. Just this morning Diane wanted to know if I would prefer eggs or pancakes, and I simply couldn’t make up my mind. Irritated, she complained if it would kill me to be decisive for once? I said maybe, but that I wasn’t sure. It was at that point that the frying pan accidentally slipped from her hand, flew across the room, and hit me in the face.

How PBS Changed My Life (For the Worse!)

2006-06-24T10:19:00.000+01:00

My eyes were glued to the television as I watched what was supposed to be a depiction of actual events. He approached her like an animal, like a predator stalking its prey. Then, when she seemed to least expect it, he jumped out from behind the bushes and knocked her to the ground. She struggled and tried to scream, but all her attempts to resist were futile. In minutes he had her by the throat, not with his hands (like any sane man) but with his mouth. Sinking his teeth into her neck, he severed her jugular artery. She struggled for a few seconds in a vein attempt to maintain her hold on the mortal coil. But slowly the life drained from her eyes and then, suddenly, her body went limp.

But this was not a horror flick I was watching, a mere work of twisted fiction. This was a PBS documentary; and even at the age of six I knew the difference between ‘make-believe television’ and ‘real-life television’. It was then that the awful truth came home to me. The truth that tigers routinely killed and ate Bambi! And so, at a tender age my long held belief that tigers were loveable, friendly animals that enjoyed eating breakfast cereal and that encouraged kids to do the same with a resounding “they’re grrrrreat!” was forever dashed to pieces. From that moment forward, the world became for me a hostile, dark and lonely place.

My memory of that dreadful day, when my innocence was forever cruelly snatched from me, now fuels my passionate opposition of Public Television. Children deserve to grow up in a world free of harsh depictions of the Darwinian struggle for life. If we want to have a moral peaceful society then it is imperative that we keep prayer in school, evolution out of our science textbooks and (most importantly) educational programming off the telly!

Scientists Discover Eating is Good for You!

2006-06-11T10:00:00.001+01:00

By Nubian Nerd
London Sunday Telegraph

Zürich, CH—Swiss and German scientists have recently discovered that eating food is nutritionally beneficial. “Members of the scientific community have long assumed that eating is important for life” remarks Joseph Goldstein, winner of the1985 Nobel Prize in physiology and medicine. “But no one has ever demonstrated experimentally that this is so—that is until now!”

The groundbreaking study, lead by biochemist Albert von Hohenheim and medical researcher Katherine Müller, took the form of an elaborate controlled experiment that utilised three sample groups, composed of twenty subjects each. The first group was provided with three balanced meals per day while the second group was provided with no meals and were carefully monitored to ensure they didn’t eat anything within the thirty-day duration of the experiment. Hohenheim and Müller were surprised to discover that while the members of the first group remained in good health, those belonging to the second group grew physically weaker, experienced progressive weight lose and regularly complained that they felt hungry.

In order to ensure that the difference observed between subjects in the first and second groups was nothing more than a fluke, the third group was given a regimen of placebo meals, composed of authentic-looking but nutritionally empty plastic fruits, ceramic bread and papier-mâché meatloaf. The two researchers were amazed to find that though subjects in the third group believed they were enjoying real food, they manifested the same symptoms as those given no food, but with the added side-effect that their stool took on the consistency of blue silly-putty.

"The evidence is overwhelming", said Müller, chewing on a ham and cheese sandwich. "It's almost as if food is supposed to be eaten!" In fact, the researchers suspect that eating food is so essential that complete and prolonged abstinence from food may even be fatal, a medical condition that Hohenheim calls ‘starving’.

However, the so-called ‘food study’ is not without its naysayers. "The experimental evidence remains inconclusive," says Kun Huang of Ohio State University’s Department of Biomedical Informatics. "Sure there was an observed difference between those that ate food and those that didn't. But we haven't ruled out the possibility that there may be some other variable responsible for this difference which the researchers have failed to control for." Johann Heinrich, professor of pharmocological studies at Geneva University, also criticised the study; calling the claim that food is essential for life “unsubstantiated” and “alarmist handwaving”.

Despite some remaining opposition, most of the biomedical community has embraced Hohenheim and Müller’s findings. “I believe the ‘food study’ will go down in history as one of the great scientific triumphs of our age”, opines Goldstein. “These results are no less astonishing than the discovery that what goes up must come down or the invention of the nail clipper.”

Bolstered by the success of the food study, the two maverick researchers have now set out to prove experimentally that breathing is necessary for life. "Are we crazy?" Hohenheim asks with a mischievous grin. "Many of our collegues think so…but we sincerely believe it can be done!" Like the 'food study', the proposed ‘breathing study’ will also take the form of a controlled experiment in which subjects won’t be allowed to breath over a thirty-day period. Says Müller, “we can only wait in eager anticipation to see what surprises the upcoming ‘breathing study’ will yield”.

Financial Woes

2006-05-30T12:33:00.001+01:00

My financial situation has been growing exponentially worse. Diane thinks it may have something to do with my gambling problem. I explained to her that I didn’t have a ‘problem’ since I could stop anytime I wanted. She didn’t believe me so I asked if she was willing to make a small wager. As if my economic problems weren’t bad enough, yesterday my therapist threatened that if I don’t pay him soon he’ll let me go mad.

¿Cinco de Mayo?

2006-05-05T17:28:00.000+01:00

Cinco de Mayo: A day when Mexicans and Americans can come together in peace, harmony, and their mutual hatred of the French!

On second thought, forget the peace and harmony bit.

¡Viva Mexico!

Nietzsche's Platform

2006-05-02T09:34:00.001+01:00

God says he loves humankind, but over the last four hundred years more people have died from “acts of God” than from all the wars (and other acts of violence) perpetrated by human beings throughout history combined. God claims he is just, and yet he prescribes infinite punishment for a finite number of wrongs. (Whatever happened to punishment commensurate with the crime?) Isn’t it time we had a deity that was true to his word?

The time has come to take the next step in human evolution. The time has come to put aside the Son of Man and embrace the Superman! Vote Antichrist!

I am Nietzsche, and I approve this message.

(Paid for by The Society for a Better Deity)

The Categorical Imperative of Shagging

2006-04-08T22:08:00.001+01:00

Shag so that your shagging may always be taken as an end in itself and not merely as a means to an end. This penetrating truth (no pun intended) represents the Copernican Revolution in Coitus, and is rooted in the fact that unlike other creatures that engage in sex simply for reproduction, humans are capable of enjoying sex as an end in itself. But the Categorical Imperative of Shagging takes the form of an imperative because we often find ourselves using sex for purposes other than sex. For example, many of us use sex as a means of gaining love. But as the common saying goes, you cannot use sex to buy love—particularly given the present rate of inflation. Another common misuse of sex is as a means of punishing your partner. However, the bedroom is not the place to get even or to play the role of the victim or victimiser. (A much better place would be at Ballclamp's House of Bondage on the corner of West 96th Street; they have premium quality studded whips and the absolute best leather harnesses in town.)

We all have a duty to enjoy sex; and that involves knowing what we want and asking for it. But sadly, many of us are so out of touch with our own bodies that we have little idea what would bring us genuine sexual fulfilment. Then there are those of us who are aware of what they want, but are afraid to ask for it. Such individuals fall into two categories:

First, there are those of us who are afraid to ask for what we want because we fear that our partner would not only refuse but that he or she may condemn or ridicule us for our desires. However, sexual fantasies are like religious convictions, they are perfectly fine to have so long as we don't try to force them on others. Moreover, it never hurts to share your sexual fantasies with your lover since the worse that can happen is that they'll say no (or perhaps send a chain email to all your friends and family telling them what a sick, twisted f*ck you are!). But the risk is worth it when you consider the possibility that they may actually say yes and you'll finally be able to act out that one fantasy involving a pair of tweezers, cooking oil and a box of kitty litter (don't be coy, you know the one I'm talking about!).

Second, there are those of us who refuse to ask for what we want in a passive-aggressive attempt to spite our partners. (Passive-Aggression 101: First assignment, don't tell your partner what you want and when you don't get it, resent him or her for not being able to read your mind. Bonus points allotted for manifesting your resentment in totally unrelated contexts, especially disputes related to television remotes, credit card purchases or toilet seats.) When asked what they want, the connoisseurs of passive-aggression often reply with pouted lips: "even if I told you, you wouldn't give it to me!" (You can just tell I've been there, can't you?) But the truth is that these self-pity-party purveyors often only fail to get what they want because they refuse to ask for it.

Other misuses of coition include using it as a means of manipulation and control, using it as a means of displaying ownership or possession and using it as a means of paying off one's burgeoning student loans after making the mistake of entering a humanities discipline that offers little promise of financial self-sufficiency. But what all these misuses of sex have in common is that they all involve taking sex as a means to some desiderated end. But if Kant was right about anything (and chances are, he wasn't) then it is that an action can only be considered 'good' when our interest lies in the action itself and not in its anticipated consequences. Only then are we truly acting from duty.

Doing your sexual duty means taking responsibility for your own sexual fulfilment. This admonition should not be taken as a standing invitation to become citizens of Wanktopia. (That's what the discipline of analytic philosophy is for!) Rather, it is an invitation to recognise that sexual gratification must be taken as an end in itself, and not as a means to some end. It is an invitation to recognise that you (as a sentient sexual creature) deserve to experience sexual fulfilment and should therefore have the balls (or ovaries) to ask for what you want. It is an invitation to recognise that your partner (as a sentient sexual creature) also deserves to experience sexual fulfilment and that you have a duty to do what you can to ensure that they do. (And should you find yourself unable to do your duty, you may have to seek alternative measures, such as little V-shaped pills or a regimen of tongue exercises.) In sum, it is only when we choose to enjoy sex for its own sake that we fulfil our sexual duty and realise our full potential as members of the Shagdom of ends!

On Male Fidelity (or the lack thereof)

2006-04-01T15:45:00.000+01:00

Almost every woman has had (or will at some point have) the unfortunate experience of discovering that her boyfriend is cheating on her. This has led many a young inamorata to view all men as no good creeps. However, it would be a mistake to assume that just because the guy you’re presently dating (along with all the men you’ve dated in the past, whether you’re aware of it or not) has cheated on you, that every man you date in the future will also cheat on you. (That’s almost as absurd as assuming that just because the sun rose every morning in the past that it will…eh, you get my point.) Anyway, in order to dispel some of the paranoia of my female readers I have come up with the following signs that your boyfriend might be unfaithful. While none of these are guarantees that your beau is watering someone else’s flowers, they all justify serious suspicion:

1. You come home from work early and find him in bed naked with your best friend.

2. Whenever you suggest sex, he asks how your diet is coming along.

3. You find a coupon for the Old Navy Mail Order Bride discount special in his back pocket.

4. Your suggestion that perhaps you should both begin seeing other people is greeted with cheers, girlish laughter and excited phone calls to his friends.

5. He has a tendency to check the box next to ‘male’ when filling out survey forms.

If your sweatheart displays one or more of the above tendencies then there is a good possibility that he may be cheating on you.

This message has been brought to you by the Carol Gilligan Society for the Advancement of Lesbianism and by the valuable contributions to your local PBS station by readers like you.

Freewill Tastes Like Chicken!

2006-03-10T21:55:00.000Z

Few philosophical puzzles have proven to be as intractable as the question: are we truly free? (Other equally perplexing quandaries include how did the universe begin, is space infinite, why do I get aroused whenever someone mentions the planet Uranus, and does this fact make me gay?) Immanuel Kant demonstrated that freewill is a necessary prerequisite for being a rational and morally virtuous individual, thereby proving conclusively that French women don’t have souls. Kant also complained that although our minds are free, we are still required to make an initial twenty-five percent down-payment on our bodies. But the question remains, could freewill be nothing more than our ignorance of the true causes of our thoughts and actions? Could we all just be automatons programmed to think that we are thinking, when in fact there actually aren’t any thoughts being thought? Now there’s something to think about! But I suppose that the real question on everyone’s mind is what does this guy have against French women anyway? Well, let me put it to you this way: if a woman is willing to allow the hair in her armpits to grow wild like a berry bush then there is no telling what other evils she’s capable of!

Why? Because Orange Juice Saves Lives!

2006-02-07T15:04:00.000Z

As I was leaving the library this morning two young ladies stationed just outside the main doors asked me if I would like to make a contribution to the Women’s Rugby team. I gracefully declined, pointing out that I wasn’t a supporter of rugby or women. In fact, I believe both the sport and the gender should be banned. Now you may find it strange that I want to ban women (especially given my obsessive fascination with boobs), but it is only because of my even greater desire for world peace. Why is it that men go to war? For power and money, right? And why do men desire power and money? Why to impress women of course! Thus, it logically follows that if we got rid of all the women then there would be no reason for men to desire power and money and hence no reason for war! It’s just that simple. Of course, the human race would go extinct shortly thereafter, but I trust we could all agree that none of the other species on the planet would really miss us. (Well except for dogs, but everyone knows that dogs are pandering sellouts! Which is just another reason cats rule.) And if you’re wondering what any of this has to do with the life-saving power of orange juice then welcome to the club.

To Chad or Not to Chad?

2006-02-01T16:40:00.001Z

Today I learned that Diane’s friend Chad has a past more colourful than a "Pride" flag. His list of criminal offences include: shoplifting, driving under the influence, marijuana and drug paraphernalia possession, and hurting a mall security guard’s feelings. But Chad’s past isn’t all bad. For example, I was surprised to learn that for a long time he aspired to become a Shakespearean actor. Affectionately referred to as the ‘Asian Othello’ by his colleagues for his most notable role, Chad began what by all appearances would prove to be a successful career as a thespian. However, his dreams of worldwide acclaim were crushed when, during one dramatic enactment of the noble Moor’s epileptic seizure, he began having an actual seizure. Later, his doctor informed him that his condition wouldn’t allow him to fake having a seizure ever again! Since then, Chad has been regularly visited by attacks of the dreadful disease. What’s worse, the ailment would always seem to show up at the worse possible times, such as while he was hosting a dinner party, on the loo, or during the tie-breaking round of a particularly intense game of charades.

Finding Your Purpose

2006-01-23T22:27:00.001Z

You never know when a philosophical breakthrough will occur. For instance, this one came to me while I was sitting on the loo flipping through my handy second-hand copy of the Encyclopædia of Dangerous Sexual Positions. I was reading about a particularly tricky technique called ‘The Norwegian Nuptial Nutcracker’ (trust me, you don’t want to know), which is just one of the many positions featured in my favourite chapter ‘Sex, Sensuality and Switchblades’. Then, in a sudden (and totally unrelated) burst of insight I became aware of the answer to a question that has haunted generations: ‘what is my purpose in life?’ This question has stumped seers, sages, and soothsayers (not to mention my parents) since time immemorial. Why all these great thinkers have sought to uncover the purpose of my life, I am not quite sure (but it may have something to do with my habit of aimlessly wondering around gift-shops without ever making a purchase). But whatever explanation lies behind the search, this much is clear: though the answer seems forever nearby, it continues to elude us, like a name we know but can’t recall. That is of course, until now.

But I’m not going to disclose the answer to the question ‘what is my purpose in life?’ here, because quite frankly it is none of your business. I will, however, offer you a recipe for finding the purpose of your own life. The answer can be summarised in two words: reverse engineering. Reverse engineering (RE) refers to the act of taking some unfamiliar device or piece of technology apart in order to figure out what it does and how it works (pretty much what Sony does every time Panasonic comes up with something new!) What I recommend is that you perform a little RE on yourself. Think of yourself like some new, unfamiliar piece of technology (though I would recommend against trying to stick batteries or power cables up any orifices). Instead, examine your penchants, passions and proficiencies (for example, I clearly have a thing for alliteration). Once you have identified what these are you should be able to infer what is your true purpose in life. It pretty much works like this: the fact that carburettors are good at mixing air and petrol (thereby facilitating combustion in your car’s engine) and bad at providing a home for a six-year-olds cute pet hamster (oops, sorry about that Muffy) tells you what carburettors are for. Likewise, figuring out what you enjoy and are good at (two things which hopefully go together) will tell you what you were made for—i.e., your raison d'être.

Now everyone knows about my secular outlook on life, but this advice applies even if you’re part of the god-fearing majority of the human species. In fact, if you’re a believer, it seems natural to believe that God would design you in such a way that you optimally fulfil the purpose for which you were made. (That is unless God is Bill Gates, in which case you’ll probably be slow, experience lots of annoying pop-ups and crash every five minutes!) The key to figuring out your purpose, then, would be to figure out what you’re good at, since what you are good at suggests what you are designed for (whether you believe your designer is God, Bill Gates or a complex matrix of social, psychological and Darwinian forces).

Postpartum Depression: The Video Game!

2006-01-16T07:58:00.000Z

Without doubt, the most coveted role-playing game presently on the market is ‘Perinatal Perils’ from PlayStation. You are Molly, a 25 year old suffering from schizoaffective disorder that has just given birth to twins. The object of the game is to steer Molly through 12 emotionally charged levels (each representing one month following parturition) in which you must cope with symptoms ranging from run-of-the-mil ‘baby blues’ and restlessness to full-blown postpartum psychosis and obsessive worrying about your children’s safety. In the fight against peripartum depression you wield several weapons, including Talk Therapy, Lithium and trying to take naps when the babies are napping. This game is rated M (Mature) for violence, excessive prescription drug use, and engendering feelings of guilt and utter worthlessness in the player.

The What and Who of Love (Part Deux)

2006-01-11T09:20:00.001Z

The first instalment of ‘The What and Who of Love’, with its self-help feel-good tone, proved to be a big hit with my female readers. But, I figured I should throw a bone to all the guys by providing them with a brutal but honest recipe for genuine, enduring commitment and contentment:

Personally, I have often found myself torn between the “what” and “who” of love. On the one hand, I want to love someone who is deserving of my love (which rules out hookers, gold-diggers and the French Nation). On the other hand, true fulfilment and emotional commitment comes from loving someone for the singular individual that they are, not simply for the qualities they possess. Admittedly, no one wants to feel that they’re settling for less than what they want, or at least less than the best they can get (which, incidentally, may turn out to be vastly different things). The challenge is how to find that balance necessary for true fulfilment in our romantic relationships.

Fortunately, I have managed to find all the qualities I’m looking for in a mate, just not in the same person. Specifically, everything I’ve been searching for is embodied in three individuals: First, there is Diane McDougle, who overflows with the type of reality-warping originality and off-the-wall unexpectedness that always keeps things fresh and exciting. What’s more, her sense of excitement extends from the golf-course all the way to the bedroom (and I’m neither talking about sports nor sleep). Truth is, when it comes to sex, Diane takes experimentation to levels that Einstein, Rutherford or Sir Karl Popper never dreamed of! In fact, Diane would be perfect if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s completely nuts and I (and I know this is going to make me sound really shallow) have this basic need to be with someone sane every now and then.

Sanity is provided by Bertha vos Savant, who boasts an unsurpassed sense of style, refinement and class. Fluent in four languages, conversant in all facets of culture and the arts, and blessed with a level of intellectual curiosity that would slay half a dozen felines; Bertha is the stuff that Mensa wet-dreams are made of! In fact, every time she shares one of her bon mots I experience the cognitive equivalent of ten orgasms. On the downside, Bertha has (let’s see, how can I put this tastefully) a body that resembles the hind quarters of a bull walrus and a face round like the south-end of a north-bound gas-truck. In short, when it comes to her spirit, I’m so very willing, but the sight of her makes my flesh weak (…or is that limp?)

But this problem is easily remedied by the third object of my affections, the femme fatale Sophia Orgon. Admittedly, Sophia is about as bright as Alaska in December. However, with the constant distraction of a body like hers, no one would be able to pay attention to her mind anyway. (In fact, Sophia’s simmering sex-appeal makes her the single exception to my ‘No French People’ rule.) Sophia’s beauty is of the dangerous variety (think tiger rather than dove). Have you ever heard the expression ‘looks to kill’? Well, Sophia brims with enough libidinal electricity to kill a horse, bring it back from the dead, and then make the poor beast jump up, click its hooves together and neigh.

In sum, I have discovered that the true obstacle to fulfilling romantic relationships is monogamy. Now that I’ve dispatched with this outmoded nuisance, I’ve finally found my perfect match; a feminine trinity of balminess, brains and beauty. At long last enduring happiness and complete contentment is mine. Now, the only trick is to successfully keep each woman’s existence hidden from the others. [Shhhh… It’ll be our lil’ secret!]

Diane’s Friend Chad

2006-01-07T17:06:00.000Z

Today, Diane introduced me to her best friend Chad. He wore flip-flops, a pair of torn jeans, and a shirt with the words ‘The Department of Redundancy Department’. I couldn’t help but notice that he bore a striking resemblance to Ernest Hemingway, if Hemingway were Asian, clean-shaven, weighed less than 95 pounds and walked around strung out on marijuana. Chad was a man of impeccable logic. Every time he flew on an airplane he hid homemade explosives in his bag because he read that the probability of two random passengers sneaking a bomb unto the same plane was infinitely small.

Chad wowed Diane and I with his sailing adventures. During his most recent voyage he smashed his sailboat into a large rock in the middle of the English Channel, a feat that required great skill considering there aren’t any large rocks in the middle of the English Channel. Later, Diane asked me what I thought of Chad. I told her the truth; that he seemed quite clever, although I wasn’t sure I agreed with his claim that no painting could be considered art unless the painter wore polka-dot socks at the time of its composition.

Happy New Year! (2006)

2006-01-01T15:58:00.001Z

To my loved ones (and not-so-loved ones),
It has been said that if you can’t be a good example, you’ll just have to settle for being a horrible warning. With this adage firmly in mind, I offer a brief word of admonition as we embark on the New Year.

Let’s face it, New Year resolutions aren’t the easiest things to keep. At the beginning of last year I vowed to exercise more. However, as the year came to a close I found myself sadly out of shape. Why, just this morning I walked up a single flight of stairs and my chest felt tighter than the economic conditions of blacks in America. Having learned from past mistakes my only New Year resolution this year is not to make any. (Though chances are, I’ll probably fail at that one too…bloody hell, I think I just did!)

Anyway, last year was definitely chuck full of novel experiences. My ex and I broke up (only to get back together, only to breakup again, only to get back together, only to breakup again), I finally became a full-fledged citizen of Trinidad and Tobago (wohoo!), and I relocated to Kilt-country; the land of bagpipes, bar-fights and beer-bongs.

But last year is now behind me and I stand, pen in hand, ready to make my mark on a brand new page of history. The single lesson I take with me into the New Year is always walk with an eraser. There are, Darwin willing, several mistakes I hope not repeat this year; like displaying the ‘I heart Saddam’ bumper sticker on the back of my car or telling distasteful dead-baby jokes.

But one mistake I’m actually glad I made this year was keeping you folks around (blame it on my deep-seated masochism). You all have been a constant source of inspiration and amusement (usually unintentional) and for that you’re forever in my gratitude. Some of you have also been an occasional source of pain and frustration, but as Nietzsche once said, what does not kill me…fills me with an overwhelming paranoia that something else will (or something along those lines).

Anyway, to one an all I say: Happy New Year!

P.S.: So there is this chubby-cheeked three-month-old sitting behind a parked fourteen-wheeler with a ‘I heart Saddam’ sign on its bumper…okay okay, I’ll stop!

How I Lost My Faith

2005-12-16T11:34:00.000Z

Several people have been asking me to explain how I came to lose my faith. I feel like I've told this story a thousand times, but I've finally decided to put it in writing. After this, anyone who wants to hear my deconversion story can piss off!

Like all really good stories, mine begins with a young man in love. Except that the object of my affection was eternal, all-powerful and (I would eventually discover) completely imaginary. In fact, I was so in love with God that I decided to major in Theology in college, with the intention of entering the ministry. However, at the beginning of my senior year, I had a crisis of faith. No, I didn't have a traumatic experience - i.e., nobody in my family died, my girlfriend didn't leave me, and I didn't find out that I had an incurable STD - that all happened later. Simply put, I spent a lot of time studying the Bible (perhaps more than I should have) and I began encountering many inconsistencies and inaccuracies.

I know you're going to want an example (they always do) and so I'm going to give you one (and only one). Jeremiah 28:9 states that if a prophet makes a prediction that does not come to pass, then that prophet is not of God. Now, it so happens that in Matthew 16:27,28 Jesus predicts that his Second Coming (in glory and power) would take place within the lifetime of some of the people in his audience. Naturally, all the folks in his audience are now dead and Jesus still hasn't returned. (There’s not even a Yahoo emoticon that captures such a let down!) In brief, since Jesus' prediction didn't come to pass we have to conclude he is a false prophet. Oops.

But like I said, I came across dozens of instances of the kind just described. At first I simply assumed that I was just misunderstanding these passages or that there was some explanation for these "apparent" problems. (Damn, I knew I shouldn't have smoked that peyote before my Bible Study class!) However, after reading and re-reading many of the problematic passages - often in the original Greek and Hebrew - I could no longer deny the obvious: reading is much easier when you're not high, especially since the words don't move about the page as much. I realised that I only pretended not to understand what were clear inaccuracies and inconsistencies because I was unwilling to accept that the Bible was not the infallible word of God. But it soon dawned on me that I was not only lying to myself, but also to my church members. (I was actually a ministerial intern at the Hosanna SDA church in Trinidad at the time). Finally, I decided that I couldn't go on living a lie; burgundy ties are not fashionable, no matter what the Deacon says! With new-found determination, I tore off my burgundy tie and walked out of the church, never to return!

Admittedly, for a short time thereafter I did dabble in a few moderate versions of religion - a little Unitarianism here and a little Buddhism there - you know, nothing too hardcore. But ultimately, it all boiled down to a matter of faith - or more aptly, my rejection of it. In brief, I am convinced that faith is merely the excuse we use to believe things we want to believe but have no good reason for believing. Now that's all well and good, except that if we're all simply entitled to believe what we want, then I would much prefer to believe in a heaven filled with large breasted women wearing nothing but fishnets and knee-high boots whose sole ambition is to enjoy the endless delights of sodomy.

So there you have it folks, the ‘short’ story of my deconversion. And no I don’t hate God (given the inherent difficulty of hating someone who doesn’t exist) and I’m not on a crusade to convert all Christians to atheism (If I'm not going to be an evangelist for God, I see no reason to be one against him either). I believe everyone should simply live their lives honestly and in harmony with their own convictions (except if your convictions include doing naughty things to farm animals, in which case I think you should be taken outside and whipped).

The What and Who of Love

2005-12-07T19:12:00.000Z

The French philosopher, Jacques Derrida, distinguishes between the “what” and “who” of love. When we first meet someone, we typically love him or her for what they are – i.e., the various archetypes we believe they embody. (For instance, I personally prefer women with wide hips, large breasts and without a penis.) However, it is also possible to love someone for who they are; that is to love them as singular individuals.

The “what” of love almost invariably fades when we discover that the object of our love is not what we took him or her to be (like in the movie The Crying Game where the guy discovers that his lady-love didn’t fulfill the “without penis” rule). In fact, most often the “what” of love is our own construction, representing what we want someone to be, rather than who they really are. But eventually we find ourselves unable to runaway from the truth; that his three-inch monster isn’t really three inches and her ability to recite the entire alphabet in a single burp isn’t as big a turn-on as we let on. There’s simply no running away from it. In time you’ll have to stop pretending that the reason the woman you’ve been dating for the last three years refuses to accept that you’re a couple is not simply because she’s playing hard to get. (Rather, it may have something do with the fact that you haven’t seen each other in five years and she lives over two hundred miles away with her husband and four kids.) Thus, we inevitably come to realize that those we love do not really embody all the qualities that caused us to fall in love with them in the first place. This makes the “what” of love, at best, transient.

But the “who” of love refers to the act of loving someone, not because they fulfill a list of criteria on a checklist, but as the singular entities they are. For example, growing up I had a dog by the name of Bubbles. She was pot-bottom black, with white patches of missing fur, one eye, a broken nose and a bad habit of chasing after cars (except that she did it while they were still parked; which, incidentally, explains the missing eye and broken nose). In short, Bubbles was the most unsightly and inane mutt I’ve ever come across. However, I still loved Bubbles more than any other dog on my block for the simple reason that she was Bubbles. The difference between the “what” and the “who” of love is the difference between loving shaggy dogs because they are shaggy and loving Bubbles simply because she is Bubbles.

Dinner with the McDougles

2005-12-02T15:51:00.001Z

Diane’s parents are visiting St Andrews this week and they’ll be coming over to my place for dinner tomorrow evening. I’ve been so nervous about meeting them that this morning I accidentally got my earring caught in a coat hanger. (That makes three times in the last 72 hours.) I’ve been trying to decide what to prepare for dinner. At the second-hand bookstore on Market Street I found a 600-page cookbook that explained how to make rigatoni from scratch. But the cookbook was much too detailed for my tastes. The first chapter began with a complex quantum-mechanical explanation of how to create matter using nothing but a spatula, a baking sheet and a lepton.

I’ve always got along well with the mothers of the women I’ve dated—perhaps sometimes to a fault, like that time I got my fiancée’s mom pregnant. Oops! But it is Diane’s step-father that I am concerned about. He, after all, is white, Irish and Catholic, while I’m black, West Indian and irreligious. Consequently, I’m worried that he would find my low tolerance of alcohol unacceptable. However, I take consolation in the fact that despite whatever differences we may have, there is something we all share as human beings. Deep down inside of us all there is something that has no name, and that something is … Like I said, it has no name.

Security Alert

2005-11-22T04:42:00.001Z

Today, the St Andrews police (i.e., the real Scotland Yard) reported that someone was rubbed by a gang of ruffians somewhere on campus. They therefore warned students to be extra careful when walking home late at night from the ‘library’ (which is one of the many Scottish words for ‘pub’). Try as I may, I can’t bring myself to take their admonition seriously. Can you imagine leaving Harlem, New York only to be mugged on the mean streets of…Fife? How would I ever be able to look at my own reflection in the mirror knowing that I was held up by three men wearing plaid skirts? But let me not make light of the affair, since gang violence of any stripe is always a serious matter—especially when kilts and bagpipes are involved. What’s worse, according to the police reports the entire ordeal took much longer than was necessary since halfway through the mugging the assailants had to break for tea, returning to finish up the crime a full twenty-five minutes later. This was of course a great inconvenience to the victim, who had to wait the entire time in the cold dark alleyway until the bandits returned. But at least one of the hoodlums was thoughtful enough to bring the muggee back a scone as a token of apology for making him wait.

Prudent Omissions

2005-11-15T19:15:00.000Z

There are many things that are better left unsaid. For example...

The Immoral Minority

2005-11-09T18:45:00.001Z

It’s hard being the minority, especially since one often finds oneself outnumbered. This is no less true in the sphere of religion; and when it comes to the flock of God, atheists are clearly the black sheep. But I haven’t always been a member of the god-hating atheist minority. On the contrary, I was actually quite religious as a child. When I was only six years old I decided to enter the priesthood. Of course my parents assumed that it was just a childish phase I was going through, especially when I began holding mass for my Lego blocks and G.I. Joe action figures. But I approached my ministerial aspirations with the determination of a wine stain on a silk blouse. At once I implemented a strict spiritual dietary regimen consisting of the Old and New Testament scriptures, the writings of the church fathers and Veggie Tale videos. My bedroom wall boasted a signed pin-up poster of Mother Theresa and next to my closet stood a life-size cut-out of the pope. Each morning the sun peeked over the eastern horizon I could be found at my desk, wrapped in earnest prayer, bible study and mediation. I became so well known for my piety that in my school yearbook I was voted most likely to move to the Midwest, found an ascension cult and die in a shootout during an FBI raid of the cult compound.

However, things took a turn for the worse when I began asking sceptical questions for which I could find no satisfactory answer. Questions like: if God is benevolent, why is there so much suffering in the world? Or, if we believe there must be a God because everything must have a cause, then who caused God? And most perplexing of all, how could a merciful God allow Madonna to put out another album? I grew disillusioned. Unable to find the answers I was looking for I turned to a life of debauchery. Soon I was experimenting with drugs, imbibing copious amounts of alcohol and waking up each morning next to a different woman. Then I turned seven years old and I decided that enough was enough. There must be some intellectually honest way of relating to the world, a way of living that does not involve telling yourself lies like there is a life after death and Jared really did lose all that weight by just eating Subway sandwiches. It was then that I discovered atheism—a faithless belief system that emphasized personal responsibility, open rational inquiry and the eating of the raw flesh of Christian babies. (Of course I’m only kidding about the last bit; we atheists prefer our Christian babies steamed with asparagus in a light vinaigrette.) Ever since my conversion (or is that unconversion?) to atheism, I have grown to appreciate that the world really is as fucked up as it appears. No more cheerful fairytales about Baby Jesus, the Virgin Mary, Big Foot and the other fanciful characters of Christian folklore. Now it was just nature red in tooth and claw, or sometimes white depending on who’s your manicurist. Now, thanks to atheism, I have no problem admitting that life is unfair: that sometimes good people do suffer, sometimes wicked people do prosper and yes, video really did kill the radio star.

Diane Revisited

2005-11-07T20:03:00.000Z

Diane and I have been going steady for a month now. However, it turns out that she has several faults I was not aware of, the chief one being that she is much too pretty to be seen with in public. Whenever we’re seen walking along hand in hand, onlookers typically sport a “how does a guy like that get a girl like her” look on their face. I expressed my concern about this fact to Diane, but she glibly brushed it off by saying she didn’t care much for penguins or people’s opinion of them. Which brings me to Diane’s second fault—she never seems to care about the things that are really important. Personally, I live and die by other people’s opinions, especially when they have to do with the various species of aquatic birds. Diane says she likes me mainly for my mind. But this comes as little consolation since I recently overheard her telling her best friend how silly she felt dating a guy who didn’t speak English. Basically, she assumes that all my utterances are either unintelligible gibberish or some private idiolect I’ve invented—but as of yet she hasn’t determined which. I tried to explain to her that I did speak the Queen’s language but she just nodded her head and smiled in the same manner one would when listening to a non-Native speaker one couldn’t understand. I contemplated breaking up with Diane, until I learned that she has ties to the Scottish Mafia and that she had a hit put out on the last sorry bloke that broke up with her. I can see the newspaper headlines now: "Death by haggis!"

Mademoiselle Sophia Orgon

2005-10-31T00:16:00.001Z

Much to the delight of the menfolk (and chagrin of the womenfolk), the city of St Andrews was graced by a busload of scantily clad “French tarts” over the weekend. However, there was one French tart, Mademoiselle Sophia Orgon, who stood out from the rest like a Scandinavian prostitute at a Chinese whorehouse. She sported a skin-tight mini-skirt and legs that went all the way up to her arse (unlike the other French tarts whose legs, as far as I could tell, stopped halfway). Her face shone with the smooth youthful vigour that 21-year-olds usually boast and for which 31-year-olds resent them. However, it was clear from her manner—the way she artfully negotiated the sidewalk in her six-inch stilettos, the way her hips rocked from side to side as she walked, the way her breasts inscribed small arches over the top of her dangerously low blouse—that this was no young ingenue. This was the type of woman that made a living breaking men’s hearts, wiping her shoes with their tongues and convincing them each time they saw her walk by that they had left their pants crotch in the dryer too long.

Her given name, Sophia, actually means ‘wisdom’; a very fitting title since she looked like she was plucked right off of the tree of knowledge of good and evil—but when good knowledge was out of season. Her last name, Orgon, comes from the Latin word for when a man needs to use the toilet really bad but is forced to wait impatiently at the back of a long queue. He finally does get to the head of the line and happily relieves himself. But once done, he zips up his trousers too fast and gets his Johnson caught in the thread. (O’ boy that smarts!) Later the wound gets infected, but the sorry bloke is too embarrassed to get it looked at until it becomes badly swollen and gangrened. When, barely able to walk, he finally does check himself into the hospital the doctor informs him that the infection has spread too far for his penis to be saved. Prognosis: free willy! Naturally the man becomes disillusioned at the prospect of going through the rest of his life urinating through a straw. Eventually, he decides that there is no point to living, not with his pecker gone, and so he purchases a gun, rents a motel room, watches one final episode of Friends, puts the revolver to the side of his temple, and plasters his brain against the motel walls. Then at his funeral a mysterious woman dressed in black, who no one has ever seen before, throws herself on his coffin as it is being lowered into the ground. Through gut-wrenching subs and moans she declares: “Yes he was a jerk, and yes he probably did deserved to die. But for heaven’s sake, he didn’t deserve to have his penis chopped off! No man deserves to have his penis chopped off!”

Unless I’m mistaken, ‘Orgon’ comes from the Latin word for that. And boy does Mademoiselle Orgon live up to her name!

I Hate Mondays

2005-10-25T20:30:00.001+01:00

This morning, as I was getting out of bed, I tripped over a stapler. (Luckily, my nose broke my fall.) A few minutes later I accidentally stuck myself in the eye with a telephone cord. It was turning out to be a bad day. The bus I usually take to work pulled into the stop promptly at 9 o’clock and the driver got up from behind the wheel, exited through the side door and never looked back. When midday rolled around and the bus driver hadn’t yet returned, there was no doubt in my mind that I wouldn’t make it into work for 9:30. Mr. Weinstein was going to be furious. But I can’t say I would blame him since Mr. Weinstein, a character in a novel I was reading, is only two pages from finding out that his wife has been having an affair with his brother for the last 15 years. He first suspected something was wrong two weeks ago when in the middle of a heated argument his wife announced that she had been having an affair with his brother for the last 15 years. But still, nothing could prepare him for what he was about to discover. But enough about Mr. Weinstein; what’s even more worrisome is how upset my boss, Mr. Davies, would be when I came strolling into work a full three hours and a day late. I’m afraid I cannot deny it. Yesterday, when my alarm clock went off at 8:30am, I hit the snooze button and it didn’t go off again until 8:45 this morning. Can you imagine the embarrassment of showing up on the first Monday morning of a new job at 12:30 in the afternoon on Tuesday? I’m no pessimist, but I have a sneaking suspicion that this would significantly compromise my chances for that promotion next month. Then again, it doesn’t hurt to remain hopeful.

That Girl, Diane

2005-10-02T17:17:00.001+01:00

Today I met a toothsome Scottish lass by the name of Diane. She had hair the colour of glazed almonds, skin as pale as lily petals, and the kind of hips that would make you deliquesce right out of your kilt. We were both waiting in line to use the loo, when in a moment of mind-numbing randomness she blurted out: “I believe that brevity is the soul of wit!” Caught off guard by her non sequitur, I thoughtlessly responded: “then you should find my performance in bed very amusing”. She erupted in snortful laughter and simmultaneously we recognised in each other the same penchant for the random and absurd that resided in ourselves. It was one of those wonderful moments when mutually insane minds meet—a cosmic connection that laughs in the face of reason. Soon we were seated on the floor next to the toilet having a lengthy conversation about love, life and the silver paper used to make chewing gum wrappers. She went into detail about how she and her father fought constantly, particularly over his stubborn refusal to let go of his prostate cancer. The feud between father and daughter continued until he finally succumbed to the disease. Diane was so upset by her father’s death that she refused to talk to him again. I encouraged her to make reconciliation with her deceased progenitor, to which she responded by suggesting that we make love instead. Twenty minutes later we were both rolling around in a nearby park wearing nothing but our socks and scarves, our bodies entwined like a black and white barbershop pole. Tomorrow we are planning to have a picnic on the green of the St Andrews Old Golf Course where we will sip sherry, dodge oncoming golf balls, and discuss the long forgotten fashion trends of Tsarist Russia.

A Day in the Life of a Philosopher

2005-09-28T17:13:00.000+01:00

Today my self-esteem hit an all time low when my logic professor proved that I didn’t exist. I’m quite distressed. Perhaps this explains why my jeans are so loose-fitting. What’s equally upsetting is that I learned that non-existence does not exempt one from local and federal taxes. But if anything could be said for my new status, it is that I now belong to same category as many famous non-entities—such as unicorns, Bigfoot and US military intelligence.

Break Out the Kilts

2005-09-14T17:07:00.001+01:00

Yes folks, it's true. I've moved to Scotland - the home of golf, the 5pm hangover and the Loch Ness monster (better known by his rap name, L-Nizzy). A few minutes ago - on my way to the computer lab - I saw a burly man with tattoos, shaved head, and a camouflaged army coat, wearing a skirt (sure, you can call it a fancy name if you like, but it's still a skirt!) Needless to say, I'm quite enjoying myself, though judging from most folks' facial expression upon first meeting me I would guess they aren't very used to seeing people of my pigmentation. Well, either that or they find my newly acquired habit of spontaneously bursting into "Don't Cry for Me Argentina" while hopping on one leg to be something of a novelty. Either way, it is clear that I'll be one of the most recognizable faces on campus. The only question that remains is: will I use my newfound celebrity for good or for evil? Decisions, decisions.