One of my favourite offshoots of blogging is that people not only write me great comments (and let's face it - the comments are what make this blog worthwhile) but they write me vastly amusing emails as well. And so, with margarita swimming stealthily in my stomach, I share with you the gems that made me smile this week:
Mr. Unedited Meat wrote to me that he too has been enthralled with the Feeling Droopy? soup campaign on Dufferin Street. Sadly, the sign has since been replaced and seems to now focus on some sort of deli meat, and is far less witty. Okay, so soup is a tough sell in 40 degree heat, but corned beef is even tougher on aesthetics alone, and frankly it makes me like the mustachioed, safari-hat spokesman that much less. Mr. Meat was also gaying it up at the pride parade recently, and was astute enough to note that being crushed by fat men in leather thongs is far less exciting when you're sober.
Anthony thought I might need some beer money, and sent me a link to sell my DNA for the low, low price of $5000. Now, I don't know about you, but $5000 sounds good to me. That's a lot of martinis (well, with taxes and tip, about 275 of them, which, frankly, is like, what?, 3 decent benders?). The part that doesn't sound good to me is that some company will actually own the patent to my DNA. So, conversely, the website also encourages me to sell my friends' DNA instead - once it leaves their bodies, it isn't theirs anymore. So potentially the fact that I only wash my sheets once a week means I am sleeping on a goldmine here! Let's start the bidding!
Boris, meanwhile, was kind enough to take my self-confessed shitty poem and tell me how to make it better. Granted, it's called a shitty poem for a reason ( a very good, very cliche-riddled reason), but it's always nice to hear from readers, especially ones that call me "pleasing to the ear", when it did not involve my tongue.
Mike sent me a newspaper clipping involving the sad demise of my own siblings. A big rig tipped over, and more than 240 goats, stacked 4 deep in the back, were killed. Obviously, I don't like to read about so many nice goats meeting their makers, but I was also dismayed to read that the goats were worth $150 each. Frankly, when my time comes, I hope my retail price is not listed in my obituary. And in the meantime, I'm damn glad that as bad as "economy class" is, cramming us in shoulder to shoulder, at least there's not someone prone to nervous shitting stacked over my head. Plus, the peanuts. Those poor goats died without peanuts.
Finally, Sandra gave me a huge reason to smile when she confessed that she landed on my page by actually googling how to kill a goat. That rocks! Of course, I don't really know how to kill a goat, so let me refer you to the 4-H club of Cornell University, who suggests first finding someone who "is used to killing goats." Sounds good to me. Then you stun the goat with a sharp blow to the head, and then cut his jugular. Of course, if by goat you mean me, I would prefer to be sent a case or two of fine Canadian whiskey and a few slabs of bacon. No, that's not enough to kill me, but don't worry, I've had a head start. :)