Going Out While You're On Top

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...

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:

1. ~(C) {premise (ex hypothesi)}

2. {(A) ^ (B)} > (C) {premise}

3. (Kids) > (B) {premise}

4. (Rabbits) > (A) {premise}

5. (Kids) {premise}

6. ~{(A) ^ (B)} {from (i) and (ii), by modus tollens}

7. {~(A) ∨ ~(B)} {from (vi), by De Morgan’s laws}

8. (B) {from (iii) and (v), by modus ponens}

9. ~(A){from (vii) and (viii), by disjunctive syllogism}}

   Therefore:

10. ~(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

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

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

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)

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)

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

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*

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?

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

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

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)

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

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)

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)

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?

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

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!

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!

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:

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

My First REAL Blog Post

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

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

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?

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...

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!)

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!

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

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?

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

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

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)

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!

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!

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?

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

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!

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)

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

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)

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!