“Hey, Gord,” bubbled notorious neighbourhood busybody Randal Kumquat as he high-stepped up my drive slaloming around the broken bodies of drywall, plywood and pink insulation, “doing some renovations?”
Gee, Randy, what gave me away—the band-aids that cover most of my body? The sawdust falling out of all my new worry-wrinkles? The static-cling Styrofoam beads that unintentionally pimped my car? Continue reading →
Man, I weep for my former profession, the once-honourable calling of journalism which coincidentally went all to hell after I left it.
An allegedly responsible TV news show had on one of those shyster mediums the other night and the vacuous baritone host was all overcome gushing in awe as the dishevelled all-seeing-eye dog assured him that a whole bunch of her predictions for 2011 had come true.
You have to question the “gift” claimed by these hooey-mongers from the get-go, calling themselves mediums when this fraud tended toward the extra-large.