This plastic kid’s toy sword was found hanging on a wall in a dollar store. Your englishes are have broken!

No, but I could use that fur to knit this sweater I’m working on.

These enormous boxes of Aviv “Passover Matzos” are now on sale at your neighbourhood Costco. Oy vey!

Found in the “Rare Book Room” at Powells, the world’s largest bookstore, in Portland, Oregon.

I drew this on the butcher paper tablecloth at Montana’s, where Kendra and I dined before catching Pirates 3. Kendra wrote the “Ahoy Mateys!” part, and the speech bubble, which are awesome.

Also found in Powell’s, this sticker stands for the cry of artist’s wives everywhere, once they realize that marrying an artist means they will never have money, practical household items, or joy.

This is MY wife, who married a quasi-artist, and who is clearly happy about it.

Lastly, here is a sweet vehicle decal we saw near Revelstoke. “Creating your grandchildren’s heirlooms,” is the company’s motto. Great. As if you didn’t have enough junk of your own, now your grandma’s gonna offload that giant wooden weaving loom that’s been in her attic for 76 years.

• The Trouble With Being Nice
• The Real Story of Christmas
• Disco Fury’s House of Pain
• My Last Day of Work
• My First Day at College

The Birth of Santa

In those days, the Ipsos-Reid Organization conducted a poll to determine the demographics of the entire civilized world. And everyone went to his own town to register.

So Mr. Claus Sr. also went down from the Pole in the North, to America, to the City of Angels, the town of the Governator. He went there to register with Ms. Claus, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She strapped him in swaddling Huggies™ and placed him in a FisherPrice™ cradle in a product display aisle in WalMart™, because there was no room for them in the Holiday Inn™.

The Advertisers and the Agents

And there were advertisers out on the patio of their time-share condominiums nearby, keeping watch over their stock portfolios by night. Suddenly, an agent from upper management appeared to them, and the headlights of the limousine shone around them, and they were terrified. But the agent said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for the entire corporate world. Today in the town of the Governator, a poster child has been born to you; he is Santa the Claus. With his image, you will be free to promote reckless consumption. This will be a sign to you: you will find a baby dressed in Huggies™ and lying in a FisherPrice™ cradle in a WalMart™.

Suddenly a great company of salesmen appeared with the agent, praising Santa and saying “Glory to greed in the department stores, and praise to the profits made by selling excess merchandise.”

When the salesmen had left them and gone into their budget meetings, the advertisers said to one another, “Let us go to WalMart™ and see this thing that has happened, so that we may exploit the baby for our profit.”

So they hurried off and found Mr. and Mrs. Claus Sr., and the baby, who was lying in the Fisher-Price™ cradle. When they had seen him, they started marketing campaigns centered around the image of this child, and all who saw were persuaded by what the advertisers said to them. And many bought unnecessary items and hoarded them in their houses. The advertisers returned, glorifying and praising greed for all the things they had sold to people, who bought exactly what they were told.

The Boy Santa at the Temple

Every year, Santa and his parents would travel to America for the day-after-Thanksgiving shopping extravaganza. When he was twelve years old, they went up to the mall, according to the custom. After their shopping spree was over, while his parents were returning home, the boy Santa stayed behind at the mall, but they were unaware of it. Thinking he was in their Dodge Grand Caravan, watching a movie on their built-in DVD console, they traveled on for a day. Then they began looking for him amongst the plush seat cushions. When they did not find him, they went back to the mall to look for him. After three days, they found him in the food court, sitting among the senior citizens at the lotto booth, jingling his bell and asking for monetary donations. Everyone who heard him was persuaded by his jolliness and his compassion. When his parents saw him, they were astonished. His mother said to him, “Son, why have you treated us like this? Your father and I have been anxiously searching for you.”

“Why were you searching for me?” he asked. “Didn’t you know that if you really wanted to discover my location, you could have purchased this handy GPS tracking system, now available at your local RadioShack for the low, low price of $7999.99 American?” But they did not understand what he was saying to them.

And Santa grew in popularity and stock value, and even had his own holiday started in his honour. It would be a season for people everywhere to get further into debt, acquire more and more superfluous possessions, and they would call it Christmas.

The Temptation of Santa

Santa, filled with the Holiday Spirit, returned from his stint in the Macy’s Day Parade, and wandered out into the McDonald’s parking lot, where for forty seconds he was tempted by the delicious pictures on the menu. He ate nothing during those seconds, and at the end of them he was very hungry.

The delicious pictures on the menu said to him, “If you are truly Santa the Claus, go buy that Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese. And Super-Size-It.”

Santa hesitated for a moment, then answered, “It is written: why the heck not?” And he did.

The Calling of the First Little Helper

One day as Santa was sitting in his display sleigh in the mall, with the children crowding around him requesting iPods and Pokemon cards, he saw at the food court’s edge a shopping cart, left by a shopper who was visiting the restroom. Santa went to the cart, which belonged to a man called Wishlist, and when he re-emerged from the washroom, asked him to push it through the store again. Then they went down every aisle and put something from each aisle in the cart.

When they finished shopping, he said to Wishlist, “Go for another lap of the store, and get one of everything.”

Wishlist answered, “Santa, we’ve shopped all night and haven’t bought anything we actually need. But because you say so, I will go for another lap around the store.”

When he had done so, they had gathered such a large number of goods that the shopping cart began to snap. Then Santa said to Wishlist, “There is no such thing as having too much. Do not be afraid to overconsume. From now on you will be shoppers of mass proportions.” So he pulled his shopping cart up to the till, bought everything and followed Santa.

The 12 Little Helpers

One of those days Santa went out to the Olive Garden, and spent the night eating never-ending pasta bowls and breadsticks. When evening came, he called his little helpers to him and chose twelve of them, whom he also designated apostles: Wishlist (whom he named Greedy), his brother Needy, Shopper, Dropper, Miser, None-the-Wiser, Advertiser, Spender, Lender son of Splendor, Credit who was called the Swiper, Debit son of Convenience, and Cash, who became a traitor.

The Passion of the Claus

The stories of Santa’s ministry are as numerous as they are inspiring – indeed, this one account of his deeds and words do not hint at half the light Santa brought to this world. Thousands more tales can be told of Santa’s life. I could tell of the Woman at the WalMart, the parable of the unstuffed stocking, or the story of the Last Christmas Dinner.

I could tell you of how Santa generously bestowed PS3s unto all the unimaginative, inactive children of the world, or of how he cured the world of conservative spending limits. And if only I had the time, I could tell you the most important story of all: of how Santa was betrayed by his little helper, Cash, and was then hung from a Christmas tree to pay for our obsessions, but rose again while listening to Third Day (one of the artists featured on the soundtrack to the major motion picture, the Passion of the Claus). But we’ll save that one for Easter.

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“If anyone would come after me, he must deny his self-control and take up his charge card daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save his money should spend it, but whoever spends his money for me will own tons of stuff. What good is it for a man to save some cash, and miss out on gaining the whole world?”
The Gospel of St. Nicholas, 9:23-25

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by Kevan Gilbert

• Pictures of Things I Saw in Different Places
• The Sleepwalking Roommate Story
• ‘Tis the Season (For Weird Diseases)
• Penguin vs. Lemur
• Thanksgiving & The History of Canada

Academic essay
Class: Research in the Information Age
Grade: A+
Note: No plagiarizing, please. Feel free to share this, Digg this or talk about it, but please don’t pass it off as your own work. This essay has been research and written by Kevan Gilbert, and has already been submitted as an academic research paper. Plagiarism will result in a general ill feeling in your abdominal area, as well as a possible disciplinary action from your school (and from my foot). Thanks!

Who Would Win In A Fight Between a Penguin and a Lemur?

by Kevan Gilbert

Many researchers in the past have endeavored to observe and analyze the behavior and characteristics of almost all species in nature. However, it is not clear if researchers have ever attempted to put their encyclopedic knowledge of the inner and outer workings of these creatures to the test. Therefore, hoping to push existing boundaries, this paper will put the accumulated knowledge of two animals to the ultimate test, in an attempt to answer the age-old question of who would win in a fight between a penguin and a lemur.

   Despite the apparent simplicity of this question, there is actually a considerable amount of information to synthesize before coming to an intelligent conclusion. Since we cannot physically let these animals fight without the animal rights activists getting on our case, we must stage this fight on paper. The first thing we must do is choose the location of the fight; one equally advantageous for both parties. Secondly, we must choose which species and sex of penguin and lemur will represent its class. Thirdly, we must discuss each creature’s physical composition, weaponry and fighting style, and how the opponent might defend itself against the attacker. Finally, we need to account for any other factors that might influence the outcome, such as group support.

   The first item to discuss is the location of this battle. As with many things in life, the outcome depends on the context. As stated in Huntingford and Turner’s book Animal Conflict, “animals often adapt the form and intensity of their agonistic responses to the context in which an encounter occurs”. [1]  In a fight to the death between two entirely different classes of animals, it is important that the location for the fight to be equally advantageous for both parties involved. For instance, while the penguin is most comfortable in cold environments, the lemur has an extremely uneven body temperature, greatly affected by its environment. For the lemur, “when the environmental temperature is low, so is the body temperature, indicating decreased metabolic activity.” [2] Were this fight to take place in the penguin’s home territory, the lemur’s ability to perform at his best would be affected by the cold climate. Contrarily, penguins are “highly specialized for marine existence”, and, on land, are “handicapped by the position of their short legs, set far back on their bodies.” [3] It was thus be unfair for the fight to take place entirely on land, as the penguin would be at too much of a disadvantage.

   After a little investigation, it becomes clear that there is no geographic location in which lemurs and penguins coexist in nature anyway. All lemurs occur on the African island of Madagascar [4]– however, the closest that penguins get to that particular location is the coast of south Africa, a distance of just over of 1000 miles. [5] This means that the fight will have to take place in an environment orchestrated by man; we will have to create the scenario ourselves.

For our purposes, we will stage the fight in a zoo, one in which the cages have been broken and the animals are loose.  This way, there will be both trees and ice, water and dry land – this way, both creatures can hold the advantage at some point. However, despite now being in the same physical area, the penguin and the lemur still have no real reason to fight. As stated in Animal Conflict, “fierce, damaging fights are most likely to occur when the resource in question is very important for the fitness of the animals concerned”.[6] As lemurs are primarily vegetarian[7], while penguins feed on a diet of mainly krill[8], the two creatures would never be in direct competition for any food-related resource. However, two interesting personality quirks in each creature would provide reasonable grounds for a violent exchange. Penguins tend to be quite territorial, getting rather upset when intruders visit their nesting grounds, or when their young are threatened by any sort of potential predator. [9] Lemurs, incidentally, are rather “skittish and short-tempered.” [10] Female lemurs, in particular, will get into “instantaneous squabbles over a specific action or object, such as a right of way” [11]

Let’s imagine that after our fictional zoo’s fictional “zoo break”, the penguins were all too comfortable to bother leaving their display. The lemurs, however, have run amok, delighting in the opportunity to jump freely through the branches of the trees dotting the entire zoo.  Seven lemurs in particular have migrated to the other side of the zoo, to a tree right above the outdoor penguin display.  This wouldn’t be unlikely, as lemurs almost always use the same means of locomotion – that is, they “jump from the extremity of one branch to another,” [12] and also tend to travel in groups of 5-25 [13]. Using its highly developed sense of smell[14], one of the lemurs notices an apple core that has fallen onto one of the “ice floes” in the penguin display, and hops down to investigate. The other lemurs remain in the tree. However, in order to get to the apple core, the lemur must first walk through a colony of nesting penguins…

Before we go any further, let’s discuss the particular species of lemur and penguin we’re dealing with. In the lemur’s corner, it seems likely to choose the ring-tailed lemur as our contestant. The ring-tailed lemur, scientifically known as Lemur catta, is the “classic” lemur most people think of when they consider lemurs. It is cat-like in both body proportions and graceful movements, has a white face with dark nose and eye patches, and a distinctive black and white ringed tail, from which it gets its name.
[15] The ring-tailed lemur is one of the only diurnal lemurs, [16] allowing him to interact with the similarly day-active penguins. Although more than capable in tree-top locomotion, the ring-tailed lemur prefers ground movement, which would lead to a more likely encounter with the penguin. [17] The ring-tailed lemur is reaches a height of 18 inches, and weight of 7.5 pounds.

   In choosing a penguin combatant, it is a natural impulse to select the Emperor penguin, due to its size – they can reach 3 and a half feet in height, and 82 pounds in weight.[18] However, despite being the biggest of all penguins, the Emperor penguin “is probably the only bird on earth that almost never sets foot on bare land.” [19] An Antarctic enthusiast has described Emperor penguins as “the most placid animals ever”[20], suggesting there wouldn’t be much excitement were this creature to actually become involved in a spat. Rather than the Emperor penguin, then, it would seem to be a wiser choice to select the Adelie penguin. The Adelie penguin is also the “classic” of its kind, sporting the ‘gentleman-in-a-tuxedo’ image so common to our perceptions. It’s the most common of all penguins in Antarctica, and also the most aggressive. [21] Being the most common, the Adelie’s fighting tactics are best documented and most observable, thus most easily applied to the lemur attack. Adelie penguins can reach 61 centimetres in height (24 inches), but can weigh only 12 pounds at most. [22] While not exactly a heavyweight compared to the Emperor, the Adelie still outweighs the ring-tailed lemur by 5 pounds.

   One more thing about the penguin: they can toboggan on their stomachs. They “propel themselves over the smooth ice in snow-toboggan fashion, using their flippers as paddles, helped along by the piston-like thrusts of their feet.”  [23]

   Let’s also assume it is mating season for both penguin and lemur. Due to the displacement of both creatures from their natural habitats, this overlap may be possible, since neither creature would be sticking to their traditional ‘schedule’. The lemur’s natural mating season is from August through to September [24], while penguins breed between October and March [25]. However, penguins and lemurs raised in captivity would have adapted to the North American climate, and likely synchronized their mating seasons.  This is pivotal because aggression is heightened in both species during mating season. For lemurs, “at [mating time], social order collapses in an uproar of howling, chasing, and mating” [26]. For penguins, breeding time in a crowded rookery can lead to “serious fights” among individuals. [27]

    Back to our ring-tailed lemur trying to get to her apple core. She pads across the man-made ice floe to where it meets the bottom of the brick containing wall, down which was dropped the apple core, out of the hands of some environmentally ignorant zoo-goer. Suddenly, a tobogganing penguin slides in front of the lemur, crashing into the wall right next to the apple core. The lemur, perceiving the penguin to be competing for her food, becomes upset and approaches the penguin as if to attack. The penguin, seeing the approaching lemur, begins to harbour intense distaste for the lemur’s intrusion into the penguin’s territory.

   As stated in Huntingford and Turner’s Animal Conflict, “how animals fight depends on the physical equipment they have at their disposal.” [28] As this fight gets underway, let’s take a look at what weaponry, defense mechanisms, and fighting styles each creature possesses.

   We’ll begin with the Adelie penguin. This bird’s flippers are very hard, comprised of flat bone with only skin and thin feathers on top. The Adelie penguin is also the owner of a particularly sharp beak. [29] It attacks by biting the opponent fiercely, and using its thick, strap-like wings to beat him furiously. Dave Houston, an Antarctic researcher who was once attacked by a penguin, says that “the closest thing to being beaten up by a penguin is being grabbed with a pair of needle-nosed pliers and beaten with sandals!” [30]

   For protection, “their stiff, close-packed feathers grow thickly all over the body”. These feathers form “a thick insulating mat with a smooth, shiny surface”. However, because of the way their bodies are, on land, they are forced to stand upright and hop, or to waddle clumsily with short steps. [31] Their defense mechanisms involve “loud braying calls, threatening attitudes (body moving side to side)”. [32] Penguins are also very social creatures, residing in colonies that can consist of up to 200, 000 penguins. In these colonies, penguins rally together to defend and flee from attacks by leopard seals, their main predatorial threat. [33]

   The ring-tailed lemur, unlike the clumsy penguin, is exceptionally agile. Its hands and feet are adapted for grasping, and it has “flat nails on all digits except the second toe, which instead has a long claw.” [34] It attacks noisily, making loud, rapid grunting noises, and will pull the hair on the top of its opponent head. [35] Other than these things, the lemur doesn’t seem to possess much fighting skill. Its fighting style is quite unique, almost to the point of being disappointing. The Dublin Zoo describes the ring-tailed lemurs fighting style like this:

“Rather than having a physical fight that could result in serious injury, they fight with their personal smells. Male ring-tailed lemurs have special scent glands under their armpits and on the inside of their wrists. They pull their tails under their arms and rub their wrists onto the tail and when they have collected enough scent they wave their tails at their opponent, sending their smell to him. We assume that whoever has the strongest smell, wins!” [36]

   This fighting style, however, is more ritualistic, and takes place primarily between fellow lemurs, not outsiders. It remains possible that a lemur might be able to deviate from its ‘stink fight’ in the face of a more dangerous opponent. While the lemur seems to possess the capacity to be a stronger aggressor, its ‘physical equipment’ is used mostly for climbing and gripping the trees it inhabits. Lemurs are vegetarian, feeding on plants and fruit, rarely even killing insects for food. Their inexperience with aggression against other animals is extremely limited, thus making it seem unlikely that it would know how to deal with an aggressor.

    Down by the apple core, the Adelie penguin and the ring-tailed lemur are facing each other head-to-head. The lemur begins to rub his tail inside his armpits and over his wrists, while the penguin stands up and begins braying loudly, waddling towards the lemur. The lemur becomes upset, and his grunts turn into a loud cry of “crou-crou-cou-crouou-crouiiiii!” [37] The penguin reaches the lemur, and strikes out with its beak, delivering a glancing blow to the lemur’s face. The lemur’s cry is stopped short, and he flicks his tail about angrily. A trickle of blood runs down his cheek, and the lemur backs up a little. In doing so, he bumps into another penguin nearby.  This second penguin stands up to its full height of 2 feet, and now two penguins loom on either side of the lemur, who is growing increasingly more frightened. He strikes out a claw at one of the penguins, but the claw merely sinks into its thick layer of feathers, without even touching skin. The first penguin begins to beat him rapidly with its flippers, causing the lemur to scream loudly. The other six lemurs in the tree above him have noticed, and have begun screeching at a similar volume. In the excitement, all six of them jump down from the treetops, and surround the two penguins. They begin grunting and crying in unison, tugging on the feathers of the penguins with their hands, and biting into fistfuls of it. The two Adelie penguins, becoming more and more provoked, have started braying even louder. More penguins in the display are waddling over, and before long, the penguins outnumber the lemurs again, 10 to 7. Unable to withstand the pressure of such rapid flipper movement against their small bodies, the lemurs reach the point of desperation. Of the seven, three are already bleeding from wounds sustained from the sharp penguin beaks. Only one penguin is bleeding, its white fur stained red from a claw that managed to penetrate its layer of feathers. More penguins are waddling over, some swimming through the nearby water channel and diving onto the land where the battle is taking place. The lemurs have lost focus and now begin frantically trying to escape. A branch hangs over the penguin enclosure, just within reach. The seven lemurs scramble for the branch, one after another. As the last lemur dives for the branch, he clambers over the head of one of the penguins, accidentally clawing into one of its eyes with his foot. The penguin catches the same lemur’s leg in its beak and drags it back to the ice. He is surrounded, and after a flurry of flippers and beaks pummeling his body, collapses to the ice. The force of the penguins attacking him pushes him to the brink of the ice, and he falls into the icy water. Unable to swim, and with no fellow lemurs to rescue him, he flails about as penguins swim up beneath him to peck at him from the water. Within minutes, the lemur is dead.

Bibliography

Allen, Thomas B., The Marvels of Animal Behaviour, New York: National Geographic
     Society, 1972.

Austin Jr., Oliver L., Birds of the World, London: Golden Press Inc., 1961.

Australian Antarctic Division (2003). Adelie Penguin Biology and Breeding Cycle.  
     Retrieved March 28, 2004 from http://www.antdiv.gov.au/default.asp?casid=2943.

Busch Entertainment Corporation (2002). Animal Bytes: Ring-tailed lemurs. Retrieved
     March 28, 2004 from http://www.seaworld.org/AnimalBytes/ring-tailed-lemur.htm.

Dargaud, Guillaume (1994-2000). Antarctic Penguins. Retrieved March 28, 2004 from
     http://www.gdargaud.net/Antarctica/Penguins.html#Emperor.

Devore, Irven, Primate Behavior, New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1965.

Dublin Zoo (2002). Ring-tailed lemurs – stink fighters! Retrieved March 28, 2004 from
     http://www.dublinzoo.ie/come_pick_lemurs.htm.

Eimerl, Sarel and DeVore, Irven, The Primates, New York: Time-Life Books, 1965.

Houston, Dave (1997-2003). Frequently asked questions. Retrieved March 28, 2004
     from http://www.penguin.net.nz/faq/faq.html.

Huntingford, Felicity A. and Turner, Angela K., Animal Conflict, New York: Chapman
     and Hall, 1987.

Richard, Alison F., Primates in Nature, New York: W.H. Freeman and Company,  
     1985.

Rolling Hills Refuge (2001). Rolling Hills Refuge – Wildlife Conservation Center – Ring-
     Tailed Lemur. Retrieved March 28, 2004 from
     http://www.rhrwildlife.com/theanimals/l/lemurringtailed/index.html.

Singapore Zoological Gardens Docents (2000). Lemurs in General (Lemuridae).
     Retrieved March 28, 2004 from http://www.szgdocent.org/pp/p-lmgen.htm.

The Wild Ones (2000). Lemurs. Retrieved March 28, 2004 from  
     http://www.thewildones.org/Animals/lemur.html.

Wilson, Don E. and Burnie, David, Animal: The Definitive Visual Guide to the World’s
     Wildlife, New York: DK Publishing, 2001.

by Kevan Gilbert

• Disco Fury’s House of Pain
• 6 Rules for Online Fundraising for Non-Profits
• The 10 Most Amazing Performances of the 2007 Calgary Folk Music Festival

Trevor MC used to work for at TWU’s cafeteria, run by Sodexho – he was the grill guy. He had a face like a spatula and a personality to match. His voice was like Barry White without the sex appeal, and when he laughed, it was like a Beavis and Butthead episode was playing from speakers in his throat. He’d take your order like you just interrupted a serious game of Mario Kart: “What do you want?”

Trevor MC (pronounced hip-hop style) was called that because his last name was McWaytoolongforhisnametag. My then-girlfriend (now-wife) Kendra and I became regular customers of Trevor MC; even if we weren’t ordering burgers, we’d at least take the time to chat with him. Why not? He always looked so serious, like maybe he needed some cheering up. But even though we spoke fairly regularly, the most personal we’d ever get was Trevor talking about his car. So I guess that’s what made it a little weird when Trevor invited himself to breakfast with Kendra one morning. “It’s my birthday this weekend,” he told her. “I was wondering if you and Kevan wanted to go to a movie or something.”

I was a bit surprised when Kendra told me we were going on a date with Trevor MC. It didn’t seem real until he pulled up in his pimped-out maroon-coloured ’92 Ford Tempo later that week. It was missing a muffler but equipped with a subwoofer, and what the car lacked in awesomeness it made up for with its rank stench and sheer volume. We couldn’t hear each other talk, so we just sat in silence, making our way to the cheap theatres for Trevor MC’s 19th birthday.

It took Kendra and I both a little while to notice that we weren’t actually on our way to the theatre at all. Trevor was taking us down some dark, out-of-the-way residential street. “Trevor,” I said. “Uh…where are we going?” No response. There were no streetlights on this street, and it was lined with menacing-looking trees which loomed over the road like giant demons. We drove on, and the street became darker, more deserted, and little creepier. Finally Trevor spoke. “I think we’re lost,” he said. “I’m just gonna turn around in one of these driveways.” He took a right, and began driving up a dirt road, this one even darker. We passed one driveway. He didn’t turn in. We passed another. He still didn’t stop. We passed one more, and he began to slow down…

When we were talking about this afterwards, Kendra and I discovered that at this point, both of us were fairly certain that Trevor MC was about to murder us. Possibly with an axe. Maybe a chainsaw. Whatever the weapon, it seemed inevitable that we were the next menu item up on Trevor’s grill. So who knows what changed. Maybe God heard our frantic prayers, or maybe Trevor lost his nerve. But instead of stepping out of the car and removing a bow-staff from his trunk, he turned the car around, and we drove back to the theatre.

I kinda wish he’d at least dragged us out of the car and left us tied to a tree or something, because then we wouldn’t have had to sit through “Sum of All Fears”, which is a movie about Russians and presidents and how Tom Clancy is a boring and formulaic storyteller who sucks. Trevor had already seen the movie 6 times. Kendra and I almost died watching it once.

I try to be nice to store employees. But you know…sometimes it’s just not worth it.

by Kevan Gilbert

• Pictures of Things I Saw in Different Places
• My First Day at College
• ‘Tis the Season (For Weird Diseases)
• How Cher Broke My Heart
• The Sleepwalking Roommate Story

I opened my eyes and blinked into the gloomy 4 am gloom, which was distinctly gloomier than most glooms I’ve seen. I couldn’t figure out where those words had just come from. Could it be my own mouth, mouthing off without my knowledge or consent? Or was this the night-time voice of a God? I would have continued to wonder, but just then something from below me said “Mmmmnnng.”

I squinted my sleep-deprived eyes and peeked over the edge of the top bunk. On the bottom bed, Luke was still out cold, but he swung his arm as if he was trying to attack an invisible piñata. “You can’t make me,” said Luke. Of course, I agreed with him, but this was neither the time nor the place for assertions like that.

“Luke!” I whisper-shouted.

“Tim?” he mumbled back.

It may have been 4 am, but even I had the sense to know that my own name was not Tim. I was about to correct him, but Luke continued talking.

“Tim, you frickin’ loser,” he said. I was a little taken aback. I wasn’t quite sure who Tim was, but I certainly didn’t appreciate being mistaken for this quote-unquote “frickin’ loser.”

I decided to tell him so: “I’m not Tim!” I said.

Luke began clumsily pulling his blanket away from him, trying pathetically to untangle himself from his bedding. Finally he freed himself and swung his legs slowly over the side of the bed. “Now we’re gonna be late for the basketball game, you idiot.”

I was stunned. If I had known we had a basketball game to get to, I would have gotten up earlier. And there was no need for him to keep calling me names like that. “You were supposed to meet us downstairs,” Luke mumbled, trying to jam his shoes onto his feet. Backwards. With his eyes still closed. “Tim, where’s your towel? Tim! You’re such an idiot!”

I was really starting to not like this Tim guy, whoever he was. I was less offended though, because by that time, I realized that Luke was not fully aware of his words and actions. It was the middle of the night and Luke wasn’t really in control of his mouth or his body. Indeed, as you too might have guessed, I realized that Luke’s body had been possessed by the spirit of Al Borland from Home Improvement.

[Please note: that part about the spirit of Al Borland isn’t true. No need to write me e-mails asking for clarification. In reality, I bet it was actually the spirit of US Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice.]

Luke gave up trying to jam his shoes onto his feet and was now lumbering towards the door, clad only in his boxers. I was a little worried. If he was indeed off to a basketball game, I feared he would probably upset a few people. If they didn’t kick him out due to his questionable choice in clothing, they’d probably punch him out for calling everybody Tim. But Luke walked right out the door.

He re-entered the room a few minutes later. I looked at Luke. Luke looked at me. “What?” he said.

“You, uh…are you going to the basketball game?” I asked.

“What are you talking about?” he responded. “Kevan, it’s 4 am. Go back to bed. You’re talking in your sleep.”

by Kevan Gilbert

• The Trouble With Being Nice
• How Cher Broke My Heart
• ‘Tis the Season (For Weird Diseases)
• The Real Story of Christmas
• My Last Day of Work

Seriously, is this some kind of sick joke? Am I missing something? Did some new low-budget smash-hit movie just get released where the nerdy main character always says “What happened to your face?” and now everybody thinks its hip to quote it? Because if that’s it, it’s not funny and you should stop it. Gosh.

The truth is, you don’t want to know what happened to my face. If I tell you, you won’t want to be my friend. This has been scientifically proven through a series of controlled experiments conducted throughout the week. On average, 8 out of 10 people, upon discovering what’s “wrong” with my face, will perform the following four-step reaction: 1) Stop smiling, 2) Step back, 3) Say “Oh”, “Ew” or “That’s disgusting, get the heck away from me you disgusting piece of crap,” and then 4) Turn and run as far away from me as possible. I am becoming the campus leper, exiled and invisible in your very midst. Friends (soon to abandon me) and strangers (soon to avoid me), let it be known: I have ringworm.

It’s on my chin, perched there like a miniature Jabba the Hutt, grunting and oozing with infectious joy. I have no idea how I contracted it. I consulted my trusty friend The Internet, and he informed me that “Ringworm is a contagious skin infection very common among cats and high-school wrestling teams”. You’d think these criteria would immediately rule me out, but apparently I am a cat. Or maybe a 16-year-old wrestler. Or maybe a 16-year-old wrestling cat. With ringworm. On my chin.

Doc Hitchman tells me it’s a “fungal infection”. Although the idea of mold and mushrooms growing on my face isn’t very appealing, it’s a relief to know that “ringworm” does not mean there are actual worms in my chin, squirming with parasitic delight. However, in my most reason visit, the Good Doctor made the disturbing revelation that my fungal infection was starting to be taken over by “colonies” of bacteria.

The colonization of my chin started sometime last week, when bacterial settlers traveling from Europe on the Mayflower came ashore directly above my goatee. Currently, they seem to be celebrating Thanksgiving. Memos from the colonial governor inform me that they have established contact with the local natives, and have already started to trade goods. And by “trade goods”, he means “Violently attack my chin with machetes o’ fire”.

I’m really hoping they pack up their ships and sail back to the motherland pretty soon. In the meantime, I still gotta put up with the questions. No matter who I talk to, somebody taps their own chin with a finger and looks at me curiously: “Whatcha got there?” Hey, it’s ringworm, okay? It happens. To cats.

Maybe this is a stretch, but I think everybody has ringworm. Not literally, of course. It’s a metaphor. Ever screwed up in the midst of friends & enemies? Ever lapse into autopilot as your faith fails you? Experienced failure, weakness, despair? It’s called making mistakes. It’s called being human. And for some reason, it’s like walking around with a big swollen rash on your face. We’re never gonna really find out what this “authenticity” thing means until we can acknowledge that every single person around us is just as infected as we are. As Jesus once said, “How can you talk about the zit on your brother’s face when you’ve got ringworm on your chin? Go join a high-school wrestling team or something.”

by Kevan Gilbert

Update: Three Years Later

The affliction described above was taking place on my face in February of 2005. I wanted to respond to the comments below with an official update: yes, the ringworm went away — I don’t have it anymore. It took about a month to subside, and a little while longer for the scab to go away. The doctor prescribed a cream called Lamisil, which is an anti-fungal, and there were some oral pills involved too, to deal with the bacterial infection. For those of you wondering where the ringworm infection was on my face, I’ve included a picture below. And if you’re wondering what it looks like now, in 2008, there’s only minor scarring, which is only visible from really close-up (check out the picture for delightful proof).

• Disco Fury’s House of Pain
• My First Day at College
• ‘Tis the Season (For Weird Diseases)
• The Trouble With Being Nice
• My Last Day of Work

But that’s not what happened. When I arrived at work this morning, the first thing I noticed as I approached was that my name was missing from my cubicle. I thought to myself, “Perhaps the custodian needed to remove the sign in order to vacuum the wall fuzz?” But then I noticed that there was somebody sitting at my desk. I’d never seen her before in my life (but from the looks of it, she was a thirty-six year old Caucasian woman of German ancestry, a former schoolteacher but recently divorced, with ambitions of owning her own consulting business from home). She had papers provocatively strewn over my desk, her bag was slouched on the floor like a bored thirteen year old, and she was typing at my computer like her fingers were on fire. She looked up at me as I came in.

For that brief moment as we made eye contact, I realized I was faced with a choice. I could drop my bag right then and there and challenge her to an office duel. This would involve the two-step stapler draw, which could get messy. Or, I could choose the less honourable option and simply thwack her over the head with my briefcase and reclaim my cubicle. I felt I had a right: after all, this strange woman had invaded my rightful territory. But then I have to figure out what to do with the body. So instead I decided to play it cool: I simply smiled at her and strolled right past my desk, as if I had known perfectly well all along that there would be some strange woman in my cubicle when I arrived at work today. I went upstairs and sat down next to my supervisor.

“Oh hi, Kevan,” he said, without looking up. “We thought you’d gone back to BC already.”

“Um, I, ah, I…nope,” I responded. “I’m still here.”

“Oh, okay. Well, we threw away all your stuff already.”

“Um…okay. That’s cool, I guess.”

“So when’s your last day?” he asked, and finally looked up.

I thought about it for a bit. What could this question mean? Technically, Thursday was my last day. Right now it was Tuesday…I did the calculations in my head and realized that Thursday was still two days away. For those two days, what would I do? Where would I sit? Or more appropriately, how would I discretely dispatch and dispose of the woman in my cubicle? I figured it would be wise of me to simply take advantage of the opportunity before me.

“Today,” I said, improvising. “Today’s my last day.”

“Okay,” he replied. “Well, keep in touch.”

As I headed back down the hall, I held my breath excitedly, waiting for all my colleagues to jump out of the coat closet or from underneath my desk and yell “SURPRISE!” and then there’d be that donkey piñata and a giant “WE CAN’T BELIEVE HOW MUCH WE’LL MISS YOU KEVAN” banner and a tray of egg salad sandwiches and also some fruit punch. But all there was was an e-mail from my boss a little later on. He sent it to me from his Blackberry, which is a like a handheld laptop for people without attention spans. It said: “kevan. thanks u’ve done good work. best of luck @ everything. keep in touch.”

I imagine graduation will feel a little like this. Sure there’s a little more advance notice, and people are usually nice enough to throw parties, and you get to write your little yearbook quote…but perhaps the sensation is similar. The one when you realize that it’s time to move on, even if you don’t know where, and even if you can’t tell if you’ve made a difference at all. If there’s one thing we can learn, it’s this: make the most of the time you’ve got, because you never know when your cubicle will be fiendishly taken over by strangers.

by Kevan Gilbert

• How Cher Broke My Heart
• The Trouble With Being Nice
• The Real Story of Christmas
• The Sleepwalking Roommate Story
• My First Day at College

Two Christmases ago, I had conjunctivitis (commonly known as pink eye). On Reading Break, I had ringworm – you might remember the story. I was vomiting on Valentine’s Day, and last Halloween, I broke out in hives. On Easter, I had an ear infection, and as luck would have it, I was having coughing fits on Canada Day. Last Christmas I was spared, but unfortunately once New Years came around, I found myself experiencing a fascinating batch of spontaneous nosebleeds.

By now, you may have noticed the strange pattern that I mentioned. It took me a while to notice it myself, since I was the one experiencing it. I guess it never occurred to me cross-reference the medical names of the various conditions I was suffering from and compare them to the holidays on which I had them. But as time went on and I started telling stories about my diseases, I realized the bizarre trend that was happening: for every holiday that came around, my body was locating and contracting ailments that started with the same letter as the holiday! *

[My Conjunctivitis Christmas was probably the worst of them all. For all possible holidays to schedule pink eye for, why would our benevolent God choose Christmas? There are plenty of other holidays to alliterate with that are less dependent on a functional set of eyes. I mean, what’s wrong with Columbus Day?

Let me offer a quick pink-eye primer for the unacquainted. There are two main components to the conjunctivitis infection. First, while you are sleeping, your eyes get entirely glued shut by an alien substance that appears to be a mixture of nasal fluid and that stuff on top of your mustard bottle. After you’ve scraped that away and pried your eyelids open, your pupils are then jabbed by fifty-million mean-spirited men wielding red-hot barbed machetes. Literally. The men actually visit your house and jab you. After they leave, your pupils continue to feel this way each and every time you walk past a light bulb, or any other bright object, such as the sun. Then, your circle of friends ostracizes you out of fear of contagion, and because you look like you’re completely baked out of your mind. After a number of weeks, you may or may not get better. Nobody knows.]

As you can imagine, after my Conjunctivitis Christmas, my Ringworm Reading Break and all the other infections that have infested my festivities (Festivities? More like “Festivitis”), I’m a little apprehensive about the whole “holiday” idea. I mean, who knows what cleverly alliterated disease is just around the corner? Rabies on Ramadan? Yellow fever on Yom Kippur? Maybe gonorrhea on Groundhog Day? Or maybe even…Venereal disease on Valentine’s Day?!

So please, you must forgive me if I’m a little scared of Thanksgiving. What really freaks me out about this particular holiday is that it has to happen twice at our school, thanks to the blessed Americans. And there are so many terrifying diseases that would pair up so nicely with Thanksgiving. Like Thalassemia? Who knows what that is. Thanatophoric dwarfism? That sounds positively freakish. Thrombosis, thyroid infections, Thymoma, Thesaurismosis…? The “th-“ section of the Disease Book (yes, there is one) reads more like a list of Brutal Diseases That Have Ravaged Mankind Since The Formation of Earth.

It’s more than a week past Thanksgiving now, so I should probably let you know was the results were. Sure enough, I didn’t get just one malady, but two. The first one was a lisp (somehow, I totally chomped my tongue), and the second one was sinusitis. I know sinusitis doesn’t alliterate with Thanksgiving, but “thinuthitith” sure does. Does that count?

People always ask “What did you get for Christmas?”, but then seem surprised when my answer is “cryptosporidium”. I guess they expect me to name my presents. But no matter; the Yuletide season is still months away. Before that, I get to contemplate what sickness I might get this coming Halloween. That’s the one with the candy and the witches and the razor blades in the apples. The easy way out would be to acquire a little Hysteria to blend in with the spookiness motif. Personally, I’m a little worried that I’ll be stuck with hypochondria again…

• Thanksgiving & The History of Canada
• The Real Story of Christmas
• The Sleepwalking Roommate Story
• How Cher Broke My Heart
• Lord of the Ringworm

So it was back in the primitive days of 2003, when Langley, BC was primarily an uncharted, unexplored polar expanse of ice and tundra. Kendra (my then-girlfriend, my now-wife) had been borrowing her RA’s rustbucket car for back-and-forthing to hockey practices. Unfortunately, one night, she accidentally snapped the ignition key in half while starting the car. This was where it all started.

Understanding the extent to which some lenders can carry the borrow-break-die rule, and not wishing to see my girlfriend suffer, I took possession of the key and vowed to have it repaired. The next day, I asked my friend Harrison to give me a ride into town to get it fixed, thinking that somehow, it would actually be that simple.

For some reason, somebody had once told Harrison that in order to fix a broken key, the skills of a blacksmith will be required. Personally, my knowledge of blacksmithery is rather limited, but it seemed like a reasonable suggestion. Probably, the local blacksmith would…heat the key in his raging forge and then hammer the pieces back together or something. We were willing to try it out. In the rustic, rural town of Fort Langley, we were sure we could locate a decent blacksmith.

After a lot of researching, calling, and driving around, it became clear that blacksmithing is no longer a very popular trade. But then I had a flash of brilliance: maybe a horseshoeing shop could perform the same services – they probably have blacksmiths working for them, hammering out hoof-wear for local horses! We got in Harry’s car again and took off, but we were so stoked about the idea of getting to visit a real blacksmith that we ended up getting completely lost.

Instead of finding the horseshoe people, we found ourselves in the shadow of a shady warehouse just off 64th. There was a sign outside, and in neon green letters it said: “Welcome to Langley’s very own underground wrestling federation: the HOUSE OF PAIN!” We got out of the car and stood in the parking lot, gazing up at the building. It was a castle-like construction, built of stone and covered with graffiti. The complex was surrounded by pick-up trucks and discarded championship title belts. The Rock was passed out over by the dumpster. Although we couldn’t have known it then, the House of Pain’s official website tells us that, “The building is excellent for training with a high ceiling so we can teach you all of the high flying moves you want to learn.”

How sweet is that? I don’t know about you, but I can think of at least fifteen “high flying moves” I’ve been dying to learn, since like, forever. I knew you’d be excited too, so I did you all a favour and found out where you can sign up for training camp. Their highly qualified instructors – such as “Vance Nevada”, “Scotty Mac”, and the legendary “Disco Fury” himself – will turn you into “a well rounded wrestler, teaching you something from every aspect of the field of wrestling, including the art of creating a character”.

We left the wrestling warehouse and found our horseshoe shop. It smelled faintly of Alabama and other misfortunes. After we explained our situation, the man at the counter loudly informed us that we were complete idiots (“D’you see any keys in this shop? Huh? We make horseshoes! Do you even know what horses are? Get out of my shop!”), while the lady beside him sweetly suggested that maybe we should look for a locksmith. Not a blacksmith.

We saved the locksmith visit for the next day (after we had spent the night wallowing in self-pity and trying to recover from our overwhelming feelings of shame and hatred for ourselves.) During that night, while I was sleeping, I had a dream that House of Pain wrestling guru Disco Fury (in a neon-green spandex wrestling outfit) visited me and said, “If you don’t get down to my wrestling school and start learning some high flying moves, I’ll make your life a HOUSE OF PAIN!”

I think the message is unmistakably clear.

by Kevan Gilbert

• Lord of the Ringworm
• My First Day at College
• The Sleepwalking Roommate Story
• The Real Story of Christmas
• How Cher Broke My Heart

Upon receiving the email, I hadn’t actually heard the song yet. It was brand new on the radio, so all I had were the words, detached from their peppy and empowering musical context. For those of you unfamiliar with the song, let’s experience it together.

In the first verse, we find out that Cher is: “So sad that you’re leaving / Takes time to believe it / But after all is said and done / You’re going to be the lonely one, ohh oh.” We go on to experience verse 2, in which she states: “I need love to feel strong / ‘Cause I’ve had time to think it through / And maybe I’m too good for you, ohh oh”.

These verses are punctuated by the chorus, during which Cher asks if you believe in life after love, because she feels something inside her say, she really doesn’t think you’re strong enough now. The song culminates in a brutal (yet catchy) victory cry, where Cher and my ex-girlfriend join together in a triumphant duet, proudly declaring: “I don’t need you anymore / Oh I don’t need you anymore / I don’t need you anymore / No I don’t need you anymore!”.

In the days following, I tried very, very hard to imagine what might have inspired her to do this to me, but I’m still a little stumped. The best I can up with is she was probably doing aerobics in her house, jazzercising around her room in sync to Cher’s peppy little pop tune and thinking to herself, “I feel empowered! I’ll break up with Kevan! Yeah! And I’ll do it by sending him the lyrics from this vicious and cold-hearted break-up song!”

I bet that synthetic whoosing sound in the intro and modulated auto-tune thing really made it seem like a good idea at the time, huh? Well, guess what: it wasn’t. Especially when the only thing accompanying the lyrics were the shattering sounds emanating from within my chest. Jeez, it’s been like, over 8 years since it happened and I still get all misty-eyed when I hear Cher’s digitally manipulated voice telling me she doesn’t need me anymore.

I guess I just wanted to advise you all to be careful. Whenever you feel that maybe a quote from a song might express your emotions better than you can, you are wrong. There are many songs out there which seem like nice songs when you first listen to them, but were actually composed by Satan himself in his special studio on the bottom level of hell. These songs include Justin Timberlake’s “Cry Me A River,” that song “Too Little Too Late” by Jo-Jo (because I know one of you was thinking of using it), and pretty much anything sung by Bright Eyes or Chris Carrabba. As Bambi’s mother said, if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t expect the lyrics from some pop song to say it any more tactfully. And good grief, don’t say it over e-mail.

by Kevan Gilbert

• My Last Day of Work
• My First Day at College
• ‘Tis the Season (For Weird Diseases)
• Disco Fury’s House of Pain
• The Real Story of Christmas

As most Canadians know, the first-ever Thanksgiving dinner took place on October 9, 1823, exactly one year after Captain Louie Riel and his fleet first went ashore on the sandy beaches of Dieppe, Nova Scotia. The feast consisted of roast turkey, mashed potatoes, fresh Atlantic salmon, and poutine, and was enjoyed not only by the colonists, but also by the convicts they had transported for imprisonment on PEI. This day also marked the opening of the Canadian Pacific Railway, which was completed in only one month by Prime Minister John Howard and his crew of hard-working Iroquois natives. Thanksgiving is also a time to celebrate the birthday of the famous military general Pierre Trudeau, who led his rag-tag team of settlers to beat Manchester United on the Plains of Abraham in 1812.

This year, I celebrated Trudeau’s birthday in Lethbridge, which is definitely one of the most Canadian cities available in the country. They have a highway called “Whoop-up Drive,” and a whole suburb called “Indian Battle Heights.” When I was walking past Chippewa Crescent on the weekend, I came across a discarded pay-stub belonging to a guy named “Kirby Many Fingers.” It occurred to me that the best thing about Canada may just be the crazy names we’ve inherited, thanks to our innovative native culture. It got me thinking…just how many fingers does Kirby have? The man’s gotta have more than just your standard ten fingers to earn a name like that. And if he had, say, specifically 15 fingers, they’d call him “Kirby Fifteen Fingers,” because of the alliteration. But if he had, like, 62 fingers, they’d just call him “Kirby Enormous Freaky Hands.”

Where was I? Oh yeah…Thanksgiving in Lethbridge. It was a bit of a shock when it came time to leave for the weekend. October, with its girl-guide-knocking-at-my-door tactics, always catches me when I’m totally not prepared. There I was, enjoying my feelings of being totally overwhelmed and completely stressed out, ready to spend the long weekend wallowing in textbooks and self-pity. What do I do instead? Skip town to eat turkey. How am I supposed to get burnt out if this holiday keeps interfering with my blind, feverish pursuit of fulfillment through grades?

So far this semester, I’ve fallen asleep in class at least eight times, stayed up past 4:00 am three times to get different assignments done, and even spent a couple weeks under the influence of the common cold. No all-nighters yet, but I’ve come close. Admittedly, it could be worse…but that was only September. I think that maybe Canadian Thanksgiving is a special reminder to students – even our American friends – that sometimes it’s important to distance yourself from the haze of school in order to make like Kirby, and use your many fingers to count your many blessings. If we keep on blindly blazing forward without taking time to look around or back, we’ll only end up with our hearts and minds more tangled than the history of Canadian Thanksgiving.

by Kevan Gilbert

• ‘Tis the Season (For Weird Diseases)
• My Last Day of Work
• The Trouble With Being Nice
• The Real Story of Christmas
• The Sleepwalking Roommate Story

My first day at college! Well, “university”, I guess, but that sounds too elegant to get excited about. Hometown kids returning from the big city used to spout stories of their time away at college – but from those guys, there are really only two First Days at College stories: the one about beer, and the one about feeling horribly awkward. I’d never heard the one about being surrounded and engulfed by a raging sea of forcefully helpful people in Hawaiian shirts, so I guess that’s why I was a little surprised when Cathy Chapplow led her squadron of SOS leaders to my van, battered the doors down and started carting my belongings away, like an ant colony with guerilla tactics.

Stepping out of the van was like stepping into the Moulin Rouge, except instead of can-can girls and Ewan McGregor, there were a bunch of people in flowery t-shirts telling me how to get to “RNT”. I believe these people were trained to speak only in acronyms. All I really wanted to know was “Where’s my room?” and “Where can I store my boxes?”, but it was like trying to talk to C3PO. They’d all answer my questions with indecipherable strings of nonsense syllables, saying things like: “Go to RSC and ask your RA or SOS leader to get the RD to FUBAR the BQQ with the FHQWHGADS.”

For every new Confused New Person (“CNP”), there were at least three Helpful Happy People (or “HHP”’s, as I believe they prefer to be called), making it impossible to get to know anybody without accidentally being assisted with something. All us freshmen and freshladies got to wear these fancy laminated name-cards ( “FLNC”s) around our neck (“NECK”), which allowed us to introduce ourselves without even speaking out loud. This didn’t stop people from asking questions, though. By evening, I was hoarse from non-stop question-answering, but the only things I’d said all day were my name, major and hometown, repeated over and over again, like I was some strange mix between Jacob Two-Two and that guy from the Aviator.

It took a few weeks, but after a while, we all started to settle in. By “settle in”, I mean we started feeling confident and comfortable enough to complain about things freely. We all tried our hardest to make other people see and comprehend who we were and why we mattered, struttin’ around like chickens with our heads glued on, finding dorms and d-groups and teams and parties and girl/boyfriends and other means of proving we were all grown up. The funny thing is – and this is the part that you don’t find out till later – with motives like that, it all only proves the opposite.

Explanation: one day, second year, I visited the Career Centre (I think the actual acronym is CFLCACD) for some help with my resume. Of course, my rez. included a little info on what high school I went to. The lady helping me took one look at it, glanced up at me and said, “Honey? I hate to tell you this, but…high school doesn’t matter anymore.” And with that, she took her black Sharpie, slashed it across the page, and thus obliterated my entire secondary school experience.

So it’s like that. High-school’s done, and so are all the games you needed to play. It’s not that this place is forcing you to change or grow up, it just means you can start again. University’s a new life, and maybe you can take the chance to figure out the person you actually are, rather than just being what people told you to be. Make less time for proving yourself and more time for listening and learning and changing. Or as we like to say around here, “MLFPYAMTFLALAC.”

• ‘Tis the Season (For Weird Diseases)
• Lord of the Ringworm
• My Last Day of Work
• The Real Story of Christmas
• Disco Fury’s House of Pain