Jokes On You Bike Thief: An Editorial

When I was 17 years old I was standing in a bus shelter on Lawrence Ave. near Markham Road in Scarborough. I was drunk and had just been woken up from a lovely, deep, dark sleep from someone who didn't like the idea of a drunk 17 year-old asleep on their lawn at 1 in the morning. I remember that night not only for reasons that will be clear in a second but also because my pack of cigarettes fell out of my coat pocket. I stumbled to a bus shelter and three young men entered. One asked for a smoke. I reached in my pocket but the smokes were no doubt now laying on some anonymous lawn on some anonymous street in Scarborough. Perhaps the homeowner who roused me from my drunken coma was currently enjoying my smokes, perhaps content in the feeling he'd got one over on "those damned teenagers." Anyway, the three guys weren’t really interested in my smokes though I'm sure they would have taken those too. They wanted my wallet for some reason. One tried to kick me in the face but missed, thankfully, as I've got a phobia of boots in the face. They demanded my wallet and I couldn't help thinking it was hardly worth the trouble for $16. They were gone and I was robbed for the first, but not last, time in my life. I remember feeling scared, then angry. Very, very angry. Bloody revenge angry. I wrote reams of teenage poetry about it. Ands I assure you those poems are as good as they sound and will appear on my new blog headupmyownass.blogspot.com
The other morning as I struggled out of the house to be at work for 6:30 am (I just don't understand 6:30 in the morning. I can sort of wrap my head around 7:30 but 6:30?) I noticed my lock dangling from the water meter in front of my house. There was no longer a bicycle attached to it. That's odd, I thought trying to clear the fog in my head, that lock used to hold a bike to that meter. That lock used to lock things and it was no longer doing that. It was now ... pointless. There are two victims here: the bike and the lock.
I can just picture the frantic thief's face as he rides as fast as he can from the crime scene. That's the moment he first hears the incessant squeaking that WD-40 could not quiet. Then there's the first time he tries the back brake and realizes there isn't one. Then frantically clutches the front and goes flying over the handle bars. And then there's the look on the face of the bike chop-shop guy as the thief presents the bike. First, a laugh. Then another look to make sure he's actually seeing what he's seeing and he isn't hallucinating. Under the 20 year-old paint job that has sealed the gears and bolts preventing any real upkeep there's still maybe 5 years of bike before one gets back to conception. The frame is bent and the front wheel sits on a crooked axis. The chop-shop says something like "you'll have to buy me some meth if you want me to take this piece off shit of your hands."
Anyway I didn't write reams of angry thirty something poetry. I didn't have a pen. I just laughed. Why? Because the bike they stole, the bike they risked criminal charges and jail time for, was a piece of shit. Some may say that's not the point. The bike may have been intrinsically valueless - I was half hoping someone might steal it - but it's still a theft. It's still a matter of the violation of private property and person. But if you'd seen my bike, or had the misfortune of having to ride it, you'd be glad to see the back of it too.
A few years after my bus shelter incident I saw one of the guys who had robbed me at the Kennedy Road RT station. The geniuses (or is that genii?) had robbed a friend of theirs a few days after robbing me and he had turned them in. The police matched the description I had given that night to the one the aggrieved friend had given them. (Getting robbed is a great way to sober up quick, by the way)One of the poor guys had to spend 6 months in juvenile hall and he wasn't pleased about it. And he told me so. He wasn't dumb enough to attack me again (perhaps our criminal justice system works after all) he just wanted to swear at me.
I have no clue what the person or persons who stole my bike looks like. And I will admit to being somewhat wistful when I see people glide by on there non-stolen (and non squeaky) bikes. But like that $16 I'm not going to see my bike again. And if I had a choice I'd take the $16.

Canadians Shocked to Learn Mulroney An Asshole

Asshole,
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Canadians were reeling today after learning that their most beloved Prime Minister was, in fact, “an asshole”.
‘Tell me it isn’t true, tell me!!!” screeched an inconsolable Mary Frank of Ottawa after reading excerpts from Canadian star fucker Peter C. Newman’s new book The Secret Mulroney Tapes ( Random House $37.95).
Brian Mulroney, Prime Minister from 1984-1993, was one of Canada’s most beloved Prime Ministers. Old ladies to small, gurgling children to house pets have sung his praises and still do. So the revelations in Newman’s book have come as a kick to the solar plexus to Canadians.
“I haven’t stopped crying since I saw this week’s Maclean’s,” said Nancy Pettirov. “It would have been easier if he’d just died or been assassinated then to go through this … to live with this. I know it’s horrible to say but it’s true.”
Among the revelations in Newman’s new book: he describes former PM Chretien as a “…mean, dirty bastard …” who was “… fucking stupid …”, told former Conservative Leader Kim Campbell to “keep (her) pecker up …” and sarcastically described former Reform party leader as “blessed Virgin Mary …”.
On his predecessor and most reviled of former Prime Ministers Pierre Trudeau, Mulroney said “ …it must be kind of difficult to get up in the morning and look in the mirror and know you’ve seen perfection for the last time all day.”
“The only people who thought Trudeau had any influence in world affairs were the Toronto Star. God bless them for their ignorance.” He also called Trudeau a “coward and a weakling”. He said he felt Trudeau was instrumental to souring Canadians on the Meech Lake accord.
“Mulroney gave us the GST and Free trade,” said Larry Blington of Toronto. “What did Trudeau do for us? Repatriated the constitution? The Charter of Rights and Freedoms? Thank you very much comrade.”

Dion weeps for New Orleans, drowns Vegas

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originally uploaded by Bergkamp13.

Celine Dion’s tears over the tragedy in New Orleans drowned several people at the Vegas Night Club that hosts her show.
“I had to crawl on top of the slots save myself. My new wife of 14 hours was swept away in the torrent,” said a tearful Jim Boots.
“I hear they’re still drying out Larry King,” cracked a possibly dead (we couldn’t be bothered to check) Don Rickles. “We was wetter than a Jew on $2.50 Tuesdays at the water park. What? You can’t take a joke?”
On a related note, Dion’s husband, Renee Angelil (we checked that one with Google!) who ushered in Dion’s musical and sexual awakening while acting as her manager since the age of 14, was arrested for fondling an embryo.
“We taught me to love,” Dion wheeped and wheeped and wheeped.

Pat Robertson has an Up and Down Day

Pat Robertson calls for strategic strikes of firey, firey love,
originally uploaded by Bergkamp13.

Heeding Pat Robertson’s prayers, god personally struck down Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez today.
Witness report God burst into a meeting of the Venezuelan Cabinet holding a pump action double-barreled shut gun with extra rounds strung over his shoulders. He unloaded two quick rounds into the guards then leapt on the Cabinet table, reloaded, stuck the double barrels into Chavez’s mouth and muttered “Say your prayers, mother fucker.” Witness’s say all that was left of Chavez’s head was a smoking stump of vertebrae.
Robertson latter said “that will show all the sodomites out there that their democratically elected leaders are no match for my – I mean our Christian love.”
Robertson’s day quickly turned when he heard about the death Chief Justice William Rehnquist.
“When I said I was praying for a vacancy on the Supreme Court I meant the lesbian baby killer, not ole Rehnny!”
Robertson’s show, the 700 club is watched by many scary people throughout the world.

Pick of the Week: Nemoscene

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Who Is Nem?

Nem has lost his memory. He travels through space and time frantically trying to regain his memory. Along the way he uncovers a plot that could destroy the entire human race. In the process he discovers he may not be the man he wants himself to be. He travels further and further back in time as the bodies pile up and friend and foe alike turn on him. Time is running out, literally. The answer may lie with a young girl searching for her daddy. Or in Nem's own memory. But the girl won't respond and his memory is reluctant to give up its secrets.
Nem needs to find answers or the human race will never be the same. And he wont exist at all ...