2004/04/29
HEADLINES: Apprentice Loser Kwame Scolded By Al Sharpton For Not Playing The Race Card … Cheney Reminds Bush He’s Making History Every Day: Bush Tries, Unsuccessfully, To Conceal Boner … Tina Yothers Still Irrelevant … Pitt, Aniston To Breed: Experts Predict Spawn’s Awe-Inspiring Hair Might Compensate For Marginal Intelligence … Nortel: What The F*** Was I Thinking?
Dear Sobey’s,
RE: Alternate Ways To Serve Your Deli Counter Customers
Could you imagine my surprise when my rightful place in the delicatessen line was usurped by a tardy customer who had missed his own place in line, ten numbers ago?
Let me set the scene for you: The clerk at your deli counter calls out “84!”. I swagger to the counter, #84 in hand, dreams of mock chicken, in my view the most underappreciated of the processed “meats”, prancing in my fevered brain. Feeling safe, and admittedly a little cocksure in the knowledge it was my turn, my world was suddenly shattered shattered! when out of nowhere, the owner of #75 slid in front of me.
“Yeah it’s actually my turn,” said #75, sounding a little out of breath. Evidently he had been running a fair distance. From the bakery? From Helsinki? I wasn’t sure where he had come from, but safe to say I was miffed, if that’s not too strong of a word.
“Excuse me?” I said, reaching for my gun, then remembering I don’t own one, and reminding myself we don’t live in Deadwood, circa 1893. Sometimes I wish we did, but for the smallpox and the lack of indoor plumbing.
“It’s my turn,” said #75, with a tone of righteousness I found off-putting. “I was in the frozen food aisle, picking up a few things. I don’t have time to just stand here.”
“Seventy-five? Seventy-five?,” I thought to myself. “Good grief man, leaves have sprung from buds since your number was called! Wars have been fought and won since your number was called! A child’s sense of cheery innocence and optimism has turned to the mordant cynicism of middle-aged adulthood since your number was called! …Darn!”
I stood there and waited for him to be served, because I’m meek. I would rather smolder than have a confrontation. That’s not true – I know that if I have a confrontation someday, I will become unhinged and beat some guy to death. With his leg. Which I have chewed off in the melee. Because I’m f***ing crazy. Don’t believe me? Ask the guy I’m holding captive in my basement.
And nobody wants a violent confrontation over cold cuts, except for me, so I die a little inside, every day. But please note I appreciated the efforts of your deli manager, who tried to temper my frustration.
“We’re taking steps to deal with this,” said the manager, who had taken me aside, in the same way a father would speak with his son. It was sort of like that, except I’m 33, and your deli manager appears to be 19.
“Actually, I don’t think you are taking steps to deal with this,” I said, pointing to the interloper from frozen foods. “If you were dealing with this, I’d be putting my mock chicken (shaved, not sliced) into my basket.”
“I know,” said the manager, nodding, and by now he had adopted a sympathetic expression and tone, the kind of demeanor one might assume when putting down their cat.
And with that he walked away, because deli mangers are busy, and they don’t have time to indulge the fears and concerns of the populace. This I know.
I am fully aware that the concept of customer service died long ago, and I know that even if we did dig up its rotting corpse, you still wouldn’t really, truly care about me or my concerns. But let’s maintain the pretense of caring, because delusions are all we have. That, and our cigarettes and our gin.
With this pretense in mind, here are some alternative ways you could serve your deli customers. I offer these four suggestions because it appears, and this is only based on my experience, that you have abandoned the underpinnings of the Take A Number method of customer service:
1. Throw various cold cuts, unwrapped, into the aisle. As you fling it over the counter, yell “Bung Bologna! 200 grams! Sliced!”. That way, people can just sort through the pile and take what they need. I predict you will find some really savvy shoppers cruising the deli, hoping to catch some meat before it hits the ground.
2. Require people to display a talent in order to receive their cold cuts. The otherwise mundane routine of deli work could be enlivened by having your staff judge the quality of each performance, sort of like American Idol. "Good thing you’re not auditioning for Cats, because your rendition of “Memory” really sucks. No toupee ham for you!"
3. Give every customer packages of every cold cut sold in your deli as soon as they enter the store. Customers can take back any and all of the meats they don’t want to buy. You could call it negative option headcheese, negative option kulbassa, etc.
4. Hide the cold cuts throughout the store. Customers will search for their meat using a “cryptic clue sheet” provided as they enter the store. The Montreal Smoked Meat is nestled near a decidedly non-urban item. Translation: It’s behind the freeze-dried country steak patties in Aisle 6.
***Don’t forget to maintain a master list of meats and their locations. You wouldn’t want a customer to find some rotting liverwurst in the shampoo section.
I hope you find these suggestions useful (nudge nudge, wink wink) the next time you review the effectiveness of your deli service (ha ha). I will continue patronizing your fine stores, anticipating the day when I will buy my groceries and leave Sobey’s feeling just a little less underwhelmed by the experience.
Up your dividends,
Randy Rummery
|
Dear Sobey’s,
RE: Alternate Ways To Serve Your Deli Counter Customers
Could you imagine my surprise when my rightful place in the delicatessen line was usurped by a tardy customer who had missed his own place in line, ten numbers ago?
Let me set the scene for you: The clerk at your deli counter calls out “84!”. I swagger to the counter, #84 in hand, dreams of mock chicken, in my view the most underappreciated of the processed “meats”, prancing in my fevered brain. Feeling safe, and admittedly a little cocksure in the knowledge it was my turn, my world was suddenly shattered shattered! when out of nowhere, the owner of #75 slid in front of me.
“Yeah it’s actually my turn,” said #75, sounding a little out of breath. Evidently he had been running a fair distance. From the bakery? From Helsinki? I wasn’t sure where he had come from, but safe to say I was miffed, if that’s not too strong of a word.
“Excuse me?” I said, reaching for my gun, then remembering I don’t own one, and reminding myself we don’t live in Deadwood, circa 1893. Sometimes I wish we did, but for the smallpox and the lack of indoor plumbing.
“It’s my turn,” said #75, with a tone of righteousness I found off-putting. “I was in the frozen food aisle, picking up a few things. I don’t have time to just stand here.”
“Seventy-five? Seventy-five?,” I thought to myself. “Good grief man, leaves have sprung from buds since your number was called! Wars have been fought and won since your number was called! A child’s sense of cheery innocence and optimism has turned to the mordant cynicism of middle-aged adulthood since your number was called! …Darn!”
I stood there and waited for him to be served, because I’m meek. I would rather smolder than have a confrontation. That’s not true – I know that if I have a confrontation someday, I will become unhinged and beat some guy to death. With his leg. Which I have chewed off in the melee. Because I’m f***ing crazy. Don’t believe me? Ask the guy I’m holding captive in my basement.
And nobody wants a violent confrontation over cold cuts, except for me, so I die a little inside, every day. But please note I appreciated the efforts of your deli manager, who tried to temper my frustration.
“We’re taking steps to deal with this,” said the manager, who had taken me aside, in the same way a father would speak with his son. It was sort of like that, except I’m 33, and your deli manager appears to be 19.
“Actually, I don’t think you are taking steps to deal with this,” I said, pointing to the interloper from frozen foods. “If you were dealing with this, I’d be putting my mock chicken (shaved, not sliced) into my basket.”
“I know,” said the manager, nodding, and by now he had adopted a sympathetic expression and tone, the kind of demeanor one might assume when putting down their cat.
And with that he walked away, because deli mangers are busy, and they don’t have time to indulge the fears and concerns of the populace. This I know.
I am fully aware that the concept of customer service died long ago, and I know that even if we did dig up its rotting corpse, you still wouldn’t really, truly care about me or my concerns. But let’s maintain the pretense of caring, because delusions are all we have. That, and our cigarettes and our gin.
With this pretense in mind, here are some alternative ways you could serve your deli customers. I offer these four suggestions because it appears, and this is only based on my experience, that you have abandoned the underpinnings of the Take A Number method of customer service:
1. Throw various cold cuts, unwrapped, into the aisle. As you fling it over the counter, yell “Bung Bologna! 200 grams! Sliced!”. That way, people can just sort through the pile and take what they need. I predict you will find some really savvy shoppers cruising the deli, hoping to catch some meat before it hits the ground.
2. Require people to display a talent in order to receive their cold cuts. The otherwise mundane routine of deli work could be enlivened by having your staff judge the quality of each performance, sort of like American Idol. "Good thing you’re not auditioning for Cats, because your rendition of “Memory” really sucks. No toupee ham for you!"
3. Give every customer packages of every cold cut sold in your deli as soon as they enter the store. Customers can take back any and all of the meats they don’t want to buy. You could call it negative option headcheese, negative option kulbassa, etc.
4. Hide the cold cuts throughout the store. Customers will search for their meat using a “cryptic clue sheet” provided as they enter the store. The Montreal Smoked Meat is nestled near a decidedly non-urban item. Translation: It’s behind the freeze-dried country steak patties in Aisle 6.
***Don’t forget to maintain a master list of meats and their locations. You wouldn’t want a customer to find some rotting liverwurst in the shampoo section.
I hope you find these suggestions useful (nudge nudge, wink wink) the next time you review the effectiveness of your deli service (ha ha). I will continue patronizing your fine stores, anticipating the day when I will buy my groceries and leave Sobey’s feeling just a little less underwhelmed by the experience.
Up your dividends,
Randy Rummery
2004/04/27
HEADLINES: Fate of mankind like, totally depends on selection of next American Idol … Experts predict Go to hell! will be a compliment by year 2010 … Married guy mourning eight years of not getting any … Bush fills out but reconsiders Jeopardy! application form … Dalai Lama picks four correct numbers, wins $10 in last week's Super 7 draw … Sheila Copps running for vacant Canteen Director post at local community club
Musings
True Story: A rural veterinarian who cut off four of his own fingers at his clinic is suing a hospital in Winnipeg for failing to re-attach one of the severed digits.
He’s suing because he will no longer be able to perform several veterinary tasks, including surgeries. He says it’s because he’s missing a finger, not because he’s a hack.
And somewhere in rural Manitoba, a herd of cows heaves a collective sigh of relief.
How do you cut off four of your own fingers in a surgery, exactly? Just like all of us, I’ve accidentally cut off one of my fingers, lots of times, but even I’m not clumsy enough to lose four at one time. I’ve actually cut off one of my little fingers so many times that it now twitches. The doctor says it has something to do with nerve damage from repeated re-attachments. That, and my addiction to huffing spray paint.
I hope you weren't expecting this story to go anywhere...what can you do with a guy who sues the doctor who re-attached his fingers? If it were me getting my fingers back, I'd buy the doctor a nice card, at least. Maybe one of those cool digital desk clocks too, the kind you can buy at the place that cuts keys for you. You can get a nice clock for less than twenty dollars, and that seems about right to appreciate someone who gave you back the use of your hand.
* * *
I spent three days in St. Paul, Minnesota last week. Jesse Ventura was right when he said St. Paul looks like its streets were planned by drunken Irishmen. I felt I belonged there.
So I get to my hotel, and the first thing I do is put on my Minnesota North Stars jersey, then apply my face paint, then pull out my pom-poms. Then I leave my room and run three blocks to the arena so I can buy a ticket for the playoff game. And I was worked up, singing Rock and Roll Part II at the top of my lungs, taking long, harmful swigs off a flask of 151-proof spiced rum, stripping down to my underwear, the better for people to read GO STARS GO!!!, which was painted across my chest, spanning from nipple to nipple, a distance of nearly three inches. Women saw me and cried. I have that effect on them.
But there was no game. It turns out Minnesota didn’t make the playoffs, and if I ever read a newspaper, I guess I would have known that, hindsight being 20/20. And they’re not even called the North Stars anymore, not since, like, 1992. Yeah, they have a new team now, but they’re called the Wildebeasts, or something gay like that.
I felt so foolish standing there at the box office, panting, half-naked, and drunk in my green and yellow face paint and my neon green fright wig, my Dino Ciccarelli #22 jersey tied around my waist.
That’s the thing about me and hockey: I’m so very passionate about the game, and yet I don’t really follow it much at all, even less since The Bachelor’s new season started. I don’t even know how many points Wayne Gretzky got this year. Did Mike Bossy score 50 goals again? What about Gerry Cheever, is he carrying the Bruins on his back once more?
I think I need to re-adjust my priorities.
* * *
As Sydney’s dad, I often wonder if I’m providing her with a suitable male role model.
I do the best I can – teaching her how to apply lipstick and walk in high heels, cultivating her taste for haute couture, storing away my collection of Harlequin romance novels for her future enjoyment – but I feel there’s more I can offer.
So I started thinking about athletic pursuits – what could Sydney learn that would help her understand the beast known as Man? In other words, what could we do that would butch her up a little, make her more like her dad? Scottish hurling? Boxing? Rugby?
And then it came to me: ballet.
So we signed her up for a beginner’s class. As part of my effort to show Sydney my adventurous, dangerous side, I took her to a fairly rough-and-tumble part of town (Osborne Village) to buy her some pointe shoes and a tutu. We barely escaped with our lives, and some fantastic espresso.
When we went to the first class, I realized what a mistake I had made. Ballet has got to be one of the most girly things I have ever seen! All the students were wearing pink body suits, their hair wound into buns so tight they could deflect bullets, prancing around like little fairies.
I have taken her out of ballet, and put her into the sport that any guys’ guy would naturally seek out: synchronized swimming.
Stay tuned.
|
Musings
True Story: A rural veterinarian who cut off four of his own fingers at his clinic is suing a hospital in Winnipeg for failing to re-attach one of the severed digits.
He’s suing because he will no longer be able to perform several veterinary tasks, including surgeries. He says it’s because he’s missing a finger, not because he’s a hack.
And somewhere in rural Manitoba, a herd of cows heaves a collective sigh of relief.
How do you cut off four of your own fingers in a surgery, exactly? Just like all of us, I’ve accidentally cut off one of my fingers, lots of times, but even I’m not clumsy enough to lose four at one time. I’ve actually cut off one of my little fingers so many times that it now twitches. The doctor says it has something to do with nerve damage from repeated re-attachments. That, and my addiction to huffing spray paint.
I hope you weren't expecting this story to go anywhere...what can you do with a guy who sues the doctor who re-attached his fingers? If it were me getting my fingers back, I'd buy the doctor a nice card, at least. Maybe one of those cool digital desk clocks too, the kind you can buy at the place that cuts keys for you. You can get a nice clock for less than twenty dollars, and that seems about right to appreciate someone who gave you back the use of your hand.
* * *
I spent three days in St. Paul, Minnesota last week. Jesse Ventura was right when he said St. Paul looks like its streets were planned by drunken Irishmen. I felt I belonged there.
So I get to my hotel, and the first thing I do is put on my Minnesota North Stars jersey, then apply my face paint, then pull out my pom-poms. Then I leave my room and run three blocks to the arena so I can buy a ticket for the playoff game. And I was worked up, singing Rock and Roll Part II at the top of my lungs, taking long, harmful swigs off a flask of 151-proof spiced rum, stripping down to my underwear, the better for people to read GO STARS GO!!!, which was painted across my chest, spanning from nipple to nipple, a distance of nearly three inches. Women saw me and cried. I have that effect on them.
But there was no game. It turns out Minnesota didn’t make the playoffs, and if I ever read a newspaper, I guess I would have known that, hindsight being 20/20. And they’re not even called the North Stars anymore, not since, like, 1992. Yeah, they have a new team now, but they’re called the Wildebeasts, or something gay like that.
I felt so foolish standing there at the box office, panting, half-naked, and drunk in my green and yellow face paint and my neon green fright wig, my Dino Ciccarelli #22 jersey tied around my waist.
That’s the thing about me and hockey: I’m so very passionate about the game, and yet I don’t really follow it much at all, even less since The Bachelor’s new season started. I don’t even know how many points Wayne Gretzky got this year. Did Mike Bossy score 50 goals again? What about Gerry Cheever, is he carrying the Bruins on his back once more?
I think I need to re-adjust my priorities.
* * *
As Sydney’s dad, I often wonder if I’m providing her with a suitable male role model.
I do the best I can – teaching her how to apply lipstick and walk in high heels, cultivating her taste for haute couture, storing away my collection of Harlequin romance novels for her future enjoyment – but I feel there’s more I can offer.
So I started thinking about athletic pursuits – what could Sydney learn that would help her understand the beast known as Man? In other words, what could we do that would butch her up a little, make her more like her dad? Scottish hurling? Boxing? Rugby?
And then it came to me: ballet.
So we signed her up for a beginner’s class. As part of my effort to show Sydney my adventurous, dangerous side, I took her to a fairly rough-and-tumble part of town (Osborne Village) to buy her some pointe shoes and a tutu. We barely escaped with our lives, and some fantastic espresso.
When we went to the first class, I realized what a mistake I had made. Ballet has got to be one of the most girly things I have ever seen! All the students were wearing pink body suits, their hair wound into buns so tight they could deflect bullets, prancing around like little fairies.
I have taken her out of ballet, and put her into the sport that any guys’ guy would naturally seek out: synchronized swimming.
Stay tuned.
2004/04/08
HEADLINES: Residents Fail To Notice Public Sector Work Stoppage In Newfoundland … Anna Nicole Smith Unprepared For Terrorist Attacks, Peroxide Shortage … Fat White Guy Plans Move To City With More Skinny White Chicks … John Travolta’s Career Officially In Crapper Again … Freddie Prinze Jr. Extends Pact With Devil Through 2009 …
April 7, 2004
Nose Dive!
Air Canada CEO Goes Batshit Crazy At Press Conference
TORONTO - Robert Milton’s meltdown arrived without warning.
The Air Canada leader, clad in a t-shirt reading Come And Get It, Motherf***as!, unleashed an insane barrage of accusations, half-truths, and outright falsehoods this morning at a press conference in downtown Toronto.
Hundreds of airline staff attended the event, jamming a tiny room designed for small media groups. Milton addressed them directly.
“I’m glad you’re here to hear it first hand,” said Milton. “That way you won’t misunderstand the message I’m about to deliver: this airline is f***ed. Get your resume circulating, like, yesterday. Oh wait, you people are totally unqualified for any other work. So I guess you're f***ed too. Bwa hah ha!”
As the room filled with an audible gasp, Milton launched into a delirious, spittle-tinged rant.
“For one brief and shining moment, I thought I could save this airline with the help of Mr. Li,” said Milton, referring to former prospective buyer Victor Li. “But I should have listened to the advice of my grandfather, who said Never do business with Asians, unless it’s your laundry.”
Another gasp filled the room, but Milton carried on.
“Oh, gee, why wouldn’t anyone want this airline? Look at all the things we have going for us: a creaky, ancient business model that includes overpriced flights, horrendous service, and a grossly overpaid, underskilled staff that shows outright contempt for our customers,” said Milton, who earned $378 billion last year, plus stock options. “This airline is a diamond in the rough, if diamond means piece of shit.”
A shocked staff member shouted out “What about our pensions?”
“What about my precious pension? Buh-hoo, buh-hoo,” said Milton, sarcastically wringing his eyes. “The most you have to worry about is replacing your lost pension with 22 years of minimum wage work at McDonald’s, flipping burgers well into your eighties.”
“As CEO of this sinking ship, I have to worry about my reputation, my goddamn ability to generate a twelve-figure income for the rest of my career. Did you know I had a book deal lined up? Well, that’s down the shitter now. So save it, because we’ve all got problems, okay?”
Onlookers were too horrified to move, let alone leave the press conference that had devolved into a disturbing display of one man’s delusions. After a spontaneous breakdancing display scored to 50 Cent’s Get Rich Or Die Tryin’, Milton had one more surprise that finally cleared the room.
“I have a gun, and I’ll use it,” said Milton as he pulled out what appeared to be a 9mm pistol, later confirmed to be a toy stolen from his son’s bedroom. Milton waved the fake handgun carelessly, clearing the room in seconds. He withdrew a flask from his rear pocket, sat down and emptied its contents.
Air Canada’s board declined comment, except to confirm they have extended Milton’s contract through 2010.
|
April 7, 2004
Nose Dive!
Air Canada CEO Goes Batshit Crazy At Press Conference
TORONTO - Robert Milton’s meltdown arrived without warning.
The Air Canada leader, clad in a t-shirt reading Come And Get It, Motherf***as!, unleashed an insane barrage of accusations, half-truths, and outright falsehoods this morning at a press conference in downtown Toronto.
Hundreds of airline staff attended the event, jamming a tiny room designed for small media groups. Milton addressed them directly.
“I’m glad you’re here to hear it first hand,” said Milton. “That way you won’t misunderstand the message I’m about to deliver: this airline is f***ed. Get your resume circulating, like, yesterday. Oh wait, you people are totally unqualified for any other work. So I guess you're f***ed too. Bwa hah ha!”
As the room filled with an audible gasp, Milton launched into a delirious, spittle-tinged rant.
“For one brief and shining moment, I thought I could save this airline with the help of Mr. Li,” said Milton, referring to former prospective buyer Victor Li. “But I should have listened to the advice of my grandfather, who said Never do business with Asians, unless it’s your laundry.”
Another gasp filled the room, but Milton carried on.
“Oh, gee, why wouldn’t anyone want this airline? Look at all the things we have going for us: a creaky, ancient business model that includes overpriced flights, horrendous service, and a grossly overpaid, underskilled staff that shows outright contempt for our customers,” said Milton, who earned $378 billion last year, plus stock options. “This airline is a diamond in the rough, if diamond means piece of shit.”
A shocked staff member shouted out “What about our pensions?”
“What about my precious pension? Buh-hoo, buh-hoo,” said Milton, sarcastically wringing his eyes. “The most you have to worry about is replacing your lost pension with 22 years of minimum wage work at McDonald’s, flipping burgers well into your eighties.”
“As CEO of this sinking ship, I have to worry about my reputation, my goddamn ability to generate a twelve-figure income for the rest of my career. Did you know I had a book deal lined up? Well, that’s down the shitter now. So save it, because we’ve all got problems, okay?”
Onlookers were too horrified to move, let alone leave the press conference that had devolved into a disturbing display of one man’s delusions. After a spontaneous breakdancing display scored to 50 Cent’s Get Rich Or Die Tryin’, Milton had one more surprise that finally cleared the room.
“I have a gun, and I’ll use it,” said Milton as he pulled out what appeared to be a 9mm pistol, later confirmed to be a toy stolen from his son’s bedroom. Milton waved the fake handgun carelessly, clearing the room in seconds. He withdrew a flask from his rear pocket, sat down and emptied its contents.
Air Canada’s board declined comment, except to confirm they have extended Milton’s contract through 2010.
2004/04/01
HEADLINES: The Passion of the Christ II: Double-Crossed! Slated For Spring , 2006 … 40 Year-Old Guy Swears He Has Ass Of 34 Year-Old … Crazy Shit That’s Hard To Explain Up 12% Over This Time In 2003 … Janet Jackson’s Other Breast Hires Publicist … Toddler With Sore Throat Switches To Menthol Cigarettes … Bertuzzi Uses Spare Time To Grow Mullet … Courtney Love Unprepared For Terrorist Attacks, Sobriety: Report
* * *
JUST WONDERING...
NBC has a promo announcing they are airing the Network Broadcast Premiere of The Thomas Crown Affair.
What’s that worth, exactly?
When was that movie initially released, 1994? Are there any people out there who held out through its theatrical run, white-knuckled themselves through its arc on the video store shelf from New Release to Manager’s Special to Free! With Rental Of Two New Releases?
And only now, when the cost of the film can be ratioed to their monthly cable bill and found to cost two and a half cents, only now does it make sense to watch this film?
Wouldn’t these same people actually be more pissed off that the movie is pre-empting this week’s episode of Whoopi? I know I am.
* * *
Telemarketer, 36, Wins Lifetime Underachievement Award
Life of unrealized potential finally recognized
WINNIPEG – When Caelum Voorhies received the news of his Lifetime Underachievement Award, his reaction was consistent with his everyday routine. He shrugged.
“Awards are nice and shit, but there was no cash included,” says Voorhies, a 36 year-old telemarketer with no upside left in his aimless, marginal life. “When the presenters confirmed that all I’d get is a plaque, I was all ‘and I should get off the couch for this because…’? They had no answer for that.”
Voorhies, a Women’s Studies graduate who now looks back at his university years as “a big fat f***ing waste of time”, has seen his life prospects decline steadily since 1990. Fourteen years ago, he was an idealistic graduate with a pending internship at the local newspaper as an assistant to the Arts and Leisure editor. He had plans to travel to Europe with his fiancée. Post-graduate study loomed on the horizon.
“I was totally aiming for a career at CBC Radio, producing the kind of high-brow programming that sparks lively banter at upscale coffee shops and results in dismally low ratings. In other words, I was headed for nirvana,” says Voorhies, who continues to wear black turtlenecks, horn-rimmed glasses, and a now non-ironic bedhead hairstyle.
Trouble loomed beneath the surface.
“I think we might have gotten engaged too soon,” says Voorhies of his whirlwind, senior-year romance with a freshman student from Flin Flon. “I adored her, and I think she was dazzled by my big city ways, by my ability to critique the works of Margaret Atwood from a neo-post-feminist perspective, by my nuanced appreciation of both the baroque and grunge music scenes, and by my collection of porcelain cats.”
In the summer of 1990, the engagement was broken off, as the freshman left Voorhies and dropped out of university to marry a chiropractic graduate from her hometown.
“She wanted babies, a big house, and a second car, your basic patriarchal fantasy,” says Voorhies. “Of course, my nihilistic, passive-aggressive tendency to sabotage our relationship while subtly putting all the blame on her might possibly have also played a part in the demise of our engagement.”
Post-breakup, Voorhies went into an extended hibernation, effectively scuttling all of his plans for school, travel, and work. He made ends meet with fraudulent student loans and money from his parents. Two years later, he embarked, half-assed, on his new life.
“I enrolled at a private vocational college,” says Voorhies. “I paid $9,000 to study retail sales management, but I had to drop put when I failed the practicum.”
Voorhies was the first person in recorded history to flunk out of a private vocational school. The reality of retail employment hit him hard.
“I was employed at a clothing store, and two hours into my first day, I was struck by the ceaseless banality of it all,” says Voorhies. “I ventured to the food court, ordered a Cinnabon, and sat chewing, staring into the mid-distance, never to return.”
Voorhies has not had sex since 1996, and has not masturbated since 2002, saying “it’s not worth the effort”. He now leads a sedentary life that includes sitting for eight hours in a telemarketing cubicle, sitting for eight hours on a futon in his bachelor apartment, and sleeping for eight hours on that futon.
One of Voorhies’ few remaining friends nominated him for the award.
“It’s depressing to see him like this, just playing Crash Bandicoot all day on that old crappy Playstation,” says old high school chum Steven Daniels, a 35 year-old dry cleaner clerk and online porn enthusiast. “But then I think at least I’m not as bad off as he is, and I walk away feeling better about spending all night wanking off in front of my computer.”
The award presentation had been scheduled for next Wednesday, but was called off when the organizing committee procrastinated too long to book a room. Voorhies award will be mailed to him “eventually, okay?” said an anonymous committee member.
|
* * *
JUST WONDERING...
NBC has a promo announcing they are airing the Network Broadcast Premiere of The Thomas Crown Affair.
What’s that worth, exactly?
When was that movie initially released, 1994? Are there any people out there who held out through its theatrical run, white-knuckled themselves through its arc on the video store shelf from New Release to Manager’s Special to Free! With Rental Of Two New Releases?
And only now, when the cost of the film can be ratioed to their monthly cable bill and found to cost two and a half cents, only now does it make sense to watch this film?
Wouldn’t these same people actually be more pissed off that the movie is pre-empting this week’s episode of Whoopi? I know I am.
* * *
Telemarketer, 36, Wins Lifetime Underachievement Award
Life of unrealized potential finally recognized
WINNIPEG – When Caelum Voorhies received the news of his Lifetime Underachievement Award, his reaction was consistent with his everyday routine. He shrugged.
“Awards are nice and shit, but there was no cash included,” says Voorhies, a 36 year-old telemarketer with no upside left in his aimless, marginal life. “When the presenters confirmed that all I’d get is a plaque, I was all ‘and I should get off the couch for this because…’? They had no answer for that.”
Voorhies, a Women’s Studies graduate who now looks back at his university years as “a big fat f***ing waste of time”, has seen his life prospects decline steadily since 1990. Fourteen years ago, he was an idealistic graduate with a pending internship at the local newspaper as an assistant to the Arts and Leisure editor. He had plans to travel to Europe with his fiancée. Post-graduate study loomed on the horizon.
“I was totally aiming for a career at CBC Radio, producing the kind of high-brow programming that sparks lively banter at upscale coffee shops and results in dismally low ratings. In other words, I was headed for nirvana,” says Voorhies, who continues to wear black turtlenecks, horn-rimmed glasses, and a now non-ironic bedhead hairstyle.
Trouble loomed beneath the surface.
“I think we might have gotten engaged too soon,” says Voorhies of his whirlwind, senior-year romance with a freshman student from Flin Flon. “I adored her, and I think she was dazzled by my big city ways, by my ability to critique the works of Margaret Atwood from a neo-post-feminist perspective, by my nuanced appreciation of both the baroque and grunge music scenes, and by my collection of porcelain cats.”
In the summer of 1990, the engagement was broken off, as the freshman left Voorhies and dropped out of university to marry a chiropractic graduate from her hometown.
“She wanted babies, a big house, and a second car, your basic patriarchal fantasy,” says Voorhies. “Of course, my nihilistic, passive-aggressive tendency to sabotage our relationship while subtly putting all the blame on her might possibly have also played a part in the demise of our engagement.”
Post-breakup, Voorhies went into an extended hibernation, effectively scuttling all of his plans for school, travel, and work. He made ends meet with fraudulent student loans and money from his parents. Two years later, he embarked, half-assed, on his new life.
“I enrolled at a private vocational college,” says Voorhies. “I paid $9,000 to study retail sales management, but I had to drop put when I failed the practicum.”
Voorhies was the first person in recorded history to flunk out of a private vocational school. The reality of retail employment hit him hard.
“I was employed at a clothing store, and two hours into my first day, I was struck by the ceaseless banality of it all,” says Voorhies. “I ventured to the food court, ordered a Cinnabon, and sat chewing, staring into the mid-distance, never to return.”
Voorhies has not had sex since 1996, and has not masturbated since 2002, saying “it’s not worth the effort”. He now leads a sedentary life that includes sitting for eight hours in a telemarketing cubicle, sitting for eight hours on a futon in his bachelor apartment, and sleeping for eight hours on that futon.
One of Voorhies’ few remaining friends nominated him for the award.
“It’s depressing to see him like this, just playing Crash Bandicoot all day on that old crappy Playstation,” says old high school chum Steven Daniels, a 35 year-old dry cleaner clerk and online porn enthusiast. “But then I think at least I’m not as bad off as he is, and I walk away feeling better about spending all night wanking off in front of my computer.”
The award presentation had been scheduled for next Wednesday, but was called off when the organizing committee procrastinated too long to book a room. Voorhies award will be mailed to him “eventually, okay?” said an anonymous committee member.
