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!

How I Lost My Faith

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

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

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

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

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

The Immoral Minority

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.