Trot dot dot dot

In place of turkey:


My mother doesn't like making turkey because it takes forever and leaves no time for anything else. She was always distraught when my brother and I won the local Turkey Trot (this really wasn't much of a feat - few middleschoolers want to run around cornfields and up muddy hills, so those of us who saw the opportunity for food cashed in) because it meant she had a giant turkey foisted upon her. Since they don't give out free turkeys at university, tonight I'm having delicious chicken, drinking champagne, and watching Little Big Man and MIT open lecture matrix algebra. Life is grand.

In place of (pro)creation, procrastination

is what I've been doing lately.
Expect posts eventually, my few devoted readers.

In the meantime witness a blurry catfight:

and in it an uncharacteristic declaration of sentiment.

He had a pair of shaggy eyebrows which gave his eyes a piercing look which was not at all the sort of thing a fellow wanted to encounter on an empty stomach.
-P.G. Wodehouse

Betting on a three-legged horse with a beautiful name

The longer he wrote the faster the complexes and illnesses subsided, and when at last he finally screamed his primal victorious laugh into the night -haHA!- the tense wrinkles relaxed, the maniac sparks subsided and the working day came to a close only to continue in other planes of delirious sleep and larger than life dreams.

-Bohumil Hrabal
(translation: me)

Klein for your little guy

So outside of the gates to my venerable institution of higher education is an ad. It features two airbrushed beauties in jeans and what appears to be Crisco locked in a passionate, if strangely agressive, embrace. If we ignore all the standard neofeminism about body image and subconsciously fuckedup sexuality, which I do, because to be honest if one was to protest every distorted image that bombards the senses through advertising in public space we'd never get anywhere, there remains the fact that usually when I see this ad, it's 8 am, freezing, I haven't had coffee but have had calculus and the last thing I want to do is put on jeans and Crisco and pose awkwardly with a guy with gelled hair and a I-could-be-looking-sexily-resolute-or-I-could-just-be-pissed-off expression. I don't particularly want to see other people doing the aforementioned, but whatever, and I always enjoy the dichotomy of the down-jacketed Montrealers and the crisco-wearing Eva Mendez on a billboard outside the bike station. Witness an element of my morning:



However, when I was researching the topic (read: finding a photo of said ad online), I discovered this article about the product being sold (jeans, not crisco). The premise of these jeans, apparently, is to add sexy curves to your presumably unsexy body. For women, this means a padded butt, which has been done before, but for men, apparently, it means a padded crotch in case one needs help in that department.

So, apparently, we now live in a society which feels the need to subtly enhance male junk size using designer jeans. Pretention and pretending and pose have always been a part of our world, but, seriously? To me this is both frightening and fairly funny.

No word yet on how all this relates to Crisco.