Perhaps a Vitamin D deficiency prevents me stretching excitedly each new day I’m alive. My limitless rage and annoyance for all other living creatures (not to mention my disregard for human life) can be easily cured by 2000 IU of an over the counter supplement. At least that is the story I will cling to, lest I admit to a likely personality disorder that can only be resolved with psychiatric supervision and liberal applications of ECT. Each day a hoarde of inconveniences leave me longing for the cold kiss of a gun barrel to my forehead. Here are a few:
1. Tim Horton’s Employees
Nothing brings more joy to my heart than seeing such a staunch, rural and, dare I say, white establishment run by a family of dour and unfriendly immigrants. It is all but certain Old Man Horton pirouetted in his grave once the Hassani family bought up a handful of his namesake franchises and proceeded to learn not a word of the menu. I watched from afar as an army of unsmiling Afghanis manned the cash register, short-changing well to do white folk cackling with glee. My smile slowly devolved into a mask of rage by about the 14th time Abdul decided it is too laborious to fasten the lid securely upon my steaming cup of coffee. Because of this man’s indifference, my hand has been scorched and blistered, my fingertips seared to a smooth mound. I’ve spat in the face of every white man who, following a downtown mugging or city bus shoot out, has called for blacks to be returned to the African or every man who has harbored fantasies of sinking every rickety freighter packed to the gills with Hong Kong’s poorest and least educated, but this, my friend, is reason enough to join rank with the bigots and demand stricter immigration policies.
2. McDonald’s Drive Thru
Perhaps it is time to revise the strategy of putting the employee with the least tenuous grasp on the English language on Drive-Thru duty. It is hard enough for two Calgarians to communicate through an oversized plastic menu with a speaker in the center let alone a woman who just last month was living in one of Bogotá’s filthiest shacks. Maybe we should wait until Maria has plowed through a couple Rosetta Stone CDs before we ask her to put on the headset.
3. Omega 3 Pills
Is it so difficult to stop the things from tasting like decaying fish offal left to wither on the pier of the Seattle Marina? Being a man who refuses to ingest any waterborne creäture, I’d be much obliged to the company that makes a pill that does not leave me retching into the wastebasket for an entire afternoon.
4. Homeless People
This is not so much directed at homeless people. I understand it must be difficult making a living while Stephen Harper steals your thoughts each day and although I admittedly do not want to hear about it anymore on my way to work, the blame is not on you. Are we not doing a disservice to these people by allowing them to wander the +15 without aim, days removed from their last hasty shower? Perhaps we should adopt a stray dog policy. If one is found roaming the streets causing the ears of pedestrians to bleed with their endless warnings of the coming race war, send the Crazy Catchers to take him into custody and relocate him to facility where he will be cared for.
Here is my official call for every piece of shit who has ever profited from grieving widows and orphans to be drawn and quartered in a monster truck ring. At what point does the Better Business Bureau step in here? Hey, widow! You cannot buy closure. Your money cannot ward off grief. Assuming it could, the gypsy in the turban, with 3 inch nails, a swath of blue eye shadow, and a stack of playing cards is sure as shit not selling it. Have you noticed that psychics say the same thing when you ask why they are yet to predict the Lotto 6/49 numbers? “It would be wrong to use my powers for personal gain.” Oh, so the $5.99 per minute you charged that housewife in Des Moines to channel her dead father was done solely to lighten her burden of a full wallet, the money being an inconvenience to you. How about donating your lotto winnings to charity or cancer research or as a lump sum to one of those African villages where residents drink from the same pond they shit in. Get fucked, Sylvia Browne.