I think that the way guys sit in the sauna is reflective of what species of monkeys they evolved from.

For example, the other day there was a guy with one leg up against his chest, heel nearly touching his ass, arm draped across his knee. Bottom lip jutting out at all other sweaty apes in the sauna. I suspect he came from chimps. I imagine him sniffing his heel and falling backwards off the bench and creating an internet meme.

There was another guy laid out flat on his back like a mortician’s dream. From the genus “sloth” I am sure.

I sit there and try to get my belly to touch wood. Not “wood” you sick bastard. I mean bench-you-sit-on wood. That makes me a gorilla.

Sharkboy fiddles with is doodlehootie while he sits there. I think he’s a howler monkey.

…at the Fashion Cares Press Conference with Jann Arden and Pamela Anderson:

Jann Arden: “I’m really not known for anything except, of course, my sex tape that came out a couple of …”

Pamela Anderson: “–Yeah, everyone’s got one.”

Jann: “Yeah, but mine … I was just alone,”

Later, when asked if she’s seen a Bollywood movie, Ms Anderson said: “…when I got here I was like … you spelled Hollywood wrong. What’s Bollywood?”

I love her!

“I have no clue what that is.”

That’s not something you want your doctor to say. Especially when he’s digging around your buttkus. It’s my annual check up 2 years too late. A couple months back, I got a lump down there which I thought was a second “man pooter grape” growing slowly in the soil that is my constant sitting job.

He’s got me over the paper bench and asks me to hold my cheeks apart. I refrain from the old Jim Carrey talking ass joke. He pokes. He prods. He hits it like a punching bag and gauges my reaction. He calls in the receptionist and the janitor and asks their opinion. Negative.

He sends me to the Rudd Clinic of colon probing fun. I kid you not. Rudd. I have a 40 day wait to see a doctor.

In that time every so often the words “cancer!” or “wart!” or even “herpes!” flash across my thoughts like some black and white, 40’s war movie montage. I didn’t sleep well these last few days.

Into the clinic I go. To my astonishment, there’s about 25-30 people in the waiting room and about 7 receptionists. Are bum-clinics always this busy? I’m given a clipboard with about 10000 questions on it regarding where the “problem” is located, complete with small simple anal illustrations where you were to mark an X as to where the Specialists should be looking. I wanted to draw a smiley face. Or a dotted line to a treasure map “X”. I look over stealthily at my neighbour to see where her ails are. She catches me looking over and covers her sheet like it’s grade 9 French class. I return the sheet and settle in with a Toronto Fashion magazine from 2003. I look around the waiting room and the average age is about 65, evenly male and female. There is one other guy about my age and he looks like he’s going to puke. I assume he’s straight and nervous as hell about what was going to happen to him. Thankfully my years of gay anal sex has steeled me to the fact that in a few moments, a stranger will be rooting around my nether-parts. Sort of like a night at the Black Eagle. Ba-zing!

After an hour wait, I am ushered into a room with a plesant East Indian doctor and Rubenesque assistant. And the dreaded paper bench. Trousers off. Face down. Butt up. With me in a Superman position across the bench, it’s raised up to chest height as the two joke about the Doctor’s ability to correctly operate the raising pedals.

In they go.

“Oh yeah,” says the assistant.

“You see?” The specialist says.

“Yup.”

Suddenly a rubberized finger zips so fast into me it brings back memories of my first date.

“Guh!” I grunt.

“Oh sorry. Just inserting a probe to see if you have any more hemmeroids,” the specialist says. Dig dig dig.

“Want me to get rid of that hemmeroid?”

“Will it hurt?” I ask, childlike.

“No.”

“Go for it!”

“I’m done!” he announces after a few seconds of nothing. “I froze it. It will fall off in a few days.”

“And the other…” I prompt.

“Skin tag. Removing that will hurt. Needle, cutting and no stitches. At this point, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Yay.” I croak as the table is levelled. The scary 40’s film montage fades to my bright smiling face with sunbeams behind my head.

I wander out of the clinic whistling Beyond the Sea by Bobby Darin.

“And mummy will pack up all his stuff and put it on the street.” — Woman to her dog at 6am as Sharkboy and I trundled off to the gym.

“The Greeks and the French are the same. We just don’t give a shit.” — Wasn’t sure if he was Greek or French.

Girl: “Are you wearing eyeliner?” Mom: “Would you shut up?” — Mom ‘n daughter bonding moment.

Busty woman to old waiter at The Studio Restaraunt: “Do I look tired to you?” Waiter: (pauses, obviously wondering if this is some sort of trick)”…You do look… a bit…” Woman: “I have been up all night!”

While racing to a meeting with a freelance client, the streetcar I was on stopped to let someone off. A car screeches in front of the front doors and the driver jumps out. He yells at the driver: “I want to talk to the fuck that threw his drink at my car!”

The driver lets this guy and his girlfriend on and they stand at the front, straining to see over the few of us that are standing in the semi-busy car. I look back past the crowd to see who’s got the scaredy face. He starts to yell into the streetcar: “Who did it!?”

The guy advances towards the back, ignoring me since I am nowhere near a window. “Who did it? Who threw their fuckin’ drink out the window onto my car?” He’s a pissed pasty guy in a tank top, his face a vision of red fury. He’s going to pop if anyone says anything.

After a few repeats of “Who did it?!” no one comes forward. “So that’s how it is? You fucks!” and angry driver turns and leaves the streetcar dragging his girlfriend with him.

At this point I wonder: Has the driver used proper conflict diffusement in this situation? Does the driver have conflict diffusement training? Do TTC drivers get this kind of training? He’s allowed a visibly upset (murderous!) guy onto his car to kick the crap out of someone. His only comment being “Find him and I will kick him off so you can talk to him.”

Maybe regular reader “The Busdriver” can comment on this?

With all the shootings within the last few weeks here in Toronto I admit that I have been wary about large crowds. But in this situation I didn’t recognize that I was standing in the middle of an incident that could have been hazardous. Sadly I feel that I have to be concious of things like this these days.

He’s hot. She’s past it. What gives? It’s like a Bizzaro World version of Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher, only he’s hot and she’s not.

Check out those pants!

And while you’re at it, Colin Farrel looks like a Church Street hustler looking for his next john.

(From Hollywood Rag, trashier than E Talk Daily with 100% less fluff)

Today at my office’s pot luck lunch, someone was giving out luggage tags from one of our suppliers. The weird part was that they had the logo for the movie “FLIGHTPLAN” on them, the movie about losing your daughter right out from under your sleeping arm.

A tag for your luggage for a movie about losing your daughter.

Am I reaching here? I thought it was pretty funny.

At 5:45am this morning I had a revelation:

I have never, ever, seen Veronica Lodge’s mother in print.

And there she was, while I sat on the toilet doing my morning purge, in all her white haired glory, looking like a matronly Sharon Stone, smiling like Veronica could do no damage to the world. I thought how weird that I have never seen her before in all my 40 years on the planet. It was a big deal.

And then 20 pages later, there she was again. But this time, typical to the style of Archie comics, Veronica’s mom looked like a fat European opera singer.

I started to wonder about the rest of the missing parents in Archie’s world: Betty’s dad – vapor; Dilton’s parents – glasss; Reggie’s mom ‘n pop – ghosts. But the most worrysome missing parental guidance of all that I never recalled seeing was Jughead’s. Here’s a kid who hates girls, eats waaay too much and seemingly has difficulty dressing himself, wandering in and out of the pages of Archie comics without a hint of Children’s Aid on his tail. I always identified with him because he was such an oddball yet accepted. When I started to wear freaky stuff in high school just like Juggie, I was immediately classified as Art Fag or Theatre fag.

I’m putting too much into this, I am sure.

Proof that you should leave hairy chests alone.

Bored at work? Go vote! I did. Godspeed to all contestants!