Thinning the herd

According to recent statistics, Canada's population is about 32.6 million now. The U.S. population just broke the 300 million barrier.

In seemingly unrelated news, my rent has just gone up.

However, if we didn't have so many goddam oxygen-bandits crowding up this continent, apartment demand would plummet, rent would be lower and the TTC wouldn't be so crowded. I think we need less people.

So, as a starting-off point, here follows my list of totally unnecessary people who we can get rid of first.

I'm not saying these people should be killed. If someone can find a large, inhospitable island to ship them to, that's fine. Or maybe we can build a giant catapult and fling them out into space. That's not really murder, because it's their fault if they can't hold their breath long enough to navigate by the stars and find their way back into Earth's atmosphere.

So, here we go…

Elvis impersonators

Elvis impersonators go to great lengths; they do the voice, grow out their chops and dress in outlandish, rhinestone-studded suits. Unfortunately, none of them ever imitate Elvis's most amusing act: DYING ON THE TOILET.

I heartily encourage all Elvis impersonators to try it.

Entertainment Tonight reporters and their ilk

Sure, you could argue that the money's pretty good, and the sheer braindeaded-ness of the job must make it pretty attractive. But Christ, there really should be limits on how badly you're willing to sell out. I don't understand how these people can go on TV with their shiteating grins and get excited about Paris Hilton's new toothbrush or any aspect of Britney Spears' life. There are reporters whose entire job consists of watching Britney Spears. How hollow and depressing.

These worthless freaks can't possibly have any self-respect. Although the fact that these people haven't killed themselves already proves they have an incredible lack of self-awareness.

The Wayans family

History has its share of infamous families: the Borgias, the Kims in North Korea, those wacky Duvaliers from Haiti… the list goes on.

The Wayans clan is worse than any of them. These hideous beasts have done more to plunge our society back into a cultural dark age than any other factor. Every time a Wayans movie comes out, you can feel the ground shake as the lowest common denominator drops again. A little known historical fact: the Southeast Asian tsunami of 2004 occurred the very second that Marlon Wayans said "Hey, let's make Scary Movie 4!"

I don't know how many of these monsters there are. Keenen-Ivory Wayans, Marlon Wayans, Damon Wayans, Antwaine Wayans, Mary-Kate and Ashley Wayans… Who knows? I just know there are way, WAY too many of them. I also know that their existence, which has allowed their evil conspiracy to make everyone dumber, is absolute proof against the existence of God. Take THAT, theologians! Didn't see that coming, didja?

Every last journalism student who doesn't attend Centennial College (and some who do)

There's too much competition for internships.

So, let's get started with them. If it's still too crowded when they're gone, I can suggest some other folk.

Watch and Learn

Those of you who know me know that I'm pretty much the best person ever. Those of you who don't know me are fools, since you haven't taken the time to get to know me, because not only am I amazingly charming and intelligent, I'm devastatingly handsome and witty.

But beneath my polished and sophisticated façade, I'm hiding a deep, dark secret:

I can't whistle.

The funny thing is, I don't really care. The only reason it bothers me is that people are stupid.

Yes, I suppose that is an oblique line of reasoning. I'll untangle it for you.

For some reason, people in general, especially those who can whistle, cannot seem to comprehend a world in which others lack that skill. So, at least 90 per cent of the conversations I've had about this have gone the same way, except for the opening line.

Not me: "Hey, check that chick's knockers! Let's whistle at her!"

Me: "I can't whistle."

Not me: "Really? It's easy! (starts whistling)

Thanks, genius. Apparently anything can be learned by watching one casual demonstration. Maybe, in the quarter of a century-plus that I've been alive, I've just never seen another human whistling. All I needed was to see you do it once.

Knowing that any idiot can learn anything just by seeing someone else do it had me pretty discouraged. I worried that I might be afflicted with a learning disability, or at least a learning-trivial-skills disability.

Or maybe it's genetic. My mom has the dire affliction of not being able to roll her tongue. She's managed to survive almost 60 years without being able to do this, but it really bothers her for some reason. And you know what? I demonstrated it for her… and it didn't work!

Being stubborn, but determined, I tried learning other things by passive viewing. For example, I was watching Ong-Bak a few nights ago. I sat on my couch stuffing my face with honey-roasted peanuts and watched. And learned.

After I finished watching it, I went for a walk to Jane and Finch with 20 dollar bills hanging out of my pockets. When attacked, I set my pants aflame and employed my arsenal of gravity-defying Muay Thai moves.

They didn't work. I got my ass kicked, but at least I wasn't badly burned because I peed my pants in fear.

I hadn't learned a thing! There must be something seriously wrong with me. Or perhaps there's sometimes more to learning than just watching some dummy demonstrate.

I ain't just whistling Dixie when I say that, either.

The real Korean threat

Duck and cover! WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE! North Korea's got nucular weapons!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Meh.

So the world's all in a tizzy about North Korea having done a nuclear weapon test. Yes, the Hermit Kingdom, as it's often known, the rogue state run by that unpredictable loon Kim Jong-Il, the state that maintains one of the world's largest standing armies, over 1.2 million soldiers, the only country in the world with a dead head of state (Kim Il-Sung, who kicked the bucket in '94, but is "Eternal President") has got the nukes.

Or at least one nuke.

Or had one, and used it.

Again: meh.

As decades of rule under the Kim family have proven, it's that North Korea is a master of brinksmanship, inscrutable bluffing, skulduggery, chicanery and other interesting adjectives. North Korea won't use nukes.

They'll use more subtle methods. In fact, they started years ago. Korea came up with a totally preposterous concept that has somehow caught on and has begun to infiltrate our culture!

I'm talking about kimchi.

What is kimchi, you might ask? Well, I'll enlighten you.

Kimchi is spicy, pickled radish and cabbage. It's marinated in walrus urine for a week, then buried in a landfill for two weeks. After being dug up, it's left to dry on slabs of putrid beef that have been out in the sun for a three days. It's re-hydrated in the vomit of drunken Korean businessmen, then eaten with great relish by every Korean person in the universe.

Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration. But taste real Korean kimchi for the first time, and you'll believe me.

When I lived in Korea, I tried a little experiment. I tried to find one single Korean who didn't claim to love kimchi. I use the word "claim" because I refuse to believe anyone really likes the stuff.

Lo and behold, I couldn't find one. I talked to three-year-olds, kids who hate vegetables, and they call say they love kimchi.

The more people I asked, the more I began to realize the terrible truth.

Kimchi isn't just food. It's part of some sinister program of indoctrination. At birth, all Korean children are temporarily confiscated by the government, and brainwashed for two weeks. As they grow up, they find they have an irrational predilection for spicy fermented cabbage. They know it's terrible, but they can't stop eating it!

The walrus-urine marinade is spiked with psychotropic mind-control drugs that accumulate in the brain and lie dormant until the Korean government decides to launch its sinister plan.

Anyone who lives in Toronto may notice how this evil plan is taking shape over here. Within in the last six months, no less than four new Korean restaurants have opened on just a small strip of Yonge Street, between Bloor and King.

It's all part of well-laid plan hatched by power-mad King Sinch'ang in 1389, and it's slowly coming to fruition.

No doubt some you are saying "Hang on! You were talking about North Korea, but now you're just lumping the South in with it! What gives?"

That's part of their plan, fools! The Korean War was a hoax! The two Koreas are still united, and all of North Korea's nuclear sabre-rattling has been a distraction! Can't you see? Am I the only one who understands?

Don't say I didn't warn you!

The bunny of death

By all accounts, Casey Fish was a "smart, thoughtful" 12 year-old girl. On June 4, 1999, with just a few days left in sixth grade, Casey headed off to school.

She never came home again.

Casey Fish died surrounded by her helpless classmates, choking to death as a wet marshmallow expanded like a sponge, gradually blocking her throat. It's like drowning in quicksand: a slow but sure death, and all the struggling in the world can't stop it. It's probably pretty painless, but it comes with all the desperate lucidity of knowing you're about to die and nothing will prevent that.

Casey died playing a pretty harmless… hell, a downright cute-sounding game called "Chubby Bunny." For those of you who are blissfully ignorant, here's how the game works:

Participants stuff their mouths with marshmallows and the object of the game is to say the phrase "chubby bunny," a phrase that is apparently difficult to say with a gob full of marshmallows. No swallowing or chewing is allowed, and any participant who gags, coughs, or spits is out of the game. The winner is whoever manages to say the expression through the largest number of marshmallows.

Casey Fish broke the rules by swallowing a marshmallow. It lodged in her throat and moistened, expanded, cutting off her air. Her dad later remarked that it would be like "spraying Styrofoam down your throat."

I used to think that the stupidest, most ignominious way to die was being crushed by a vending machine. Sure, I guess breaking your neck while attempting auto-fellatio is probably worse, but I don't think that one ranks because the stats are probably pretty insignificant.

Vending machines are a silent and sometimes delicious killer. A November 1988 volume of the Journal of the American Medical Association documented 15 cases of people killed or severely injured by falling vending machines. Keep in mind however, that these aren't "falling" in the way that safes fall from the sky in a cartoon; they fall because some meathead is tipping them to get free stuff.

Some stats say that the number of people killed by falling vending machines each year numbers somewhere in the teens. There are no stats kept on how many people actually get their free stuff before being crushed to death by a half-ton metal box full of candy or pop.

Death by "chubby bunny" is not yet a widespread enough cause of death to top my list of humiliating ways to die. But the sheer absurdity makes it close. As well, the fact that this bloodthirsty bunny just claimed a Canadian life makes it a phenomenon worth keeping an eye on.

That's right Canadians, stop looking so smug. It's not just an American who died playing this stupid game. And it was a Canadian who's old enough to know better, too. Janet Rudd, a 32 year-old woman from London, Ont., died shortly after participating in the game at a fair.

On a personal level, I'm grappling with whether to feel sorry for them, or shrug this off as natural selection. Sure, call me cold-blooded, but this seems like a no-brainer.

"Hey, let's stuff our mouths full of food, then try to talk!"

"Let's get liquored up and go tightrope walking!"

"Let's tie our arms behind our backs and swim across Lake Ontario!"

I've always felt that marshmallows are inherently evil and mysterious, but that's an entry for another day… presuming I'm not crushed to death by a vending machine in the meantime.

A history of ugliness

Obsolescence isn't always a bad thing. Extinction is regrettable, but sometimes it's for the best. Some things just weren't meant to survive. They're not fast enough, smart enough, or are somehow just lacking a certain something that enables continued existence.

And sometimes, things are just too damn ugly.

Having said that, I can't help but wonder why retro gear seems to be all the rage in some circles. The NBA is the worst offender in propogating this idea that retro clothes can be cool and/or fashionable.

Well, you know what, NBA? There's a reason people don't wear '70s-style clothes anymore: because they're God-awful aesthetic abominations. Don't try to convince use that they're throwbacks to another great era; if those uniforms were so great, people would still be wearing them. If orange and brown were actually a great colour combo, people besides Arby's employees would rock it daily. If wearing a rainbow-coloured jersey that says "Nuggets" didn't make you sound like a gay scat-fetishist, they might still be popular. Clothes from the '70s and '80s suck, and you know it, you greedy bastards.

For the most part, the only people you see wearing retro jerseys are the members of a team that have to participate in a retro night. Poor bastards, but hey, if I had a job where the minimum first year salary was over 300 grand a year, I could handle looking retarded on TV every once in a while.

If the NBA marketing machine that sells these rags had the real courage in their conviction, they'd go full on, and not just sell the jerseys. They'd sell the fruity little short-shorts that went with the jerseys. Oh wait, people won't wear them because they look like dorks? How does that not apply to the jerseys?

And if the '80s, '70s, 60's etc were so great, why only revisit them fashion-wise? Bring back the real 1960s-style NBA! If you're going to slap a 1960s-style jersey on a team, make them historically authentic! Kick all the black guys off the team in favour of five white guys with nicely combed hair and no jump shots! Abandon the shot clock! Let's watch a thrilling 27-26 overtime victory! Best of all, let's watch athletes who made several thousand dollars a year.

Or hell, keep rolling back the history. I'd love to watch some 1920s-style baseball, where you've got guys like Ty Cobb who actually kill a guy, then come to the park and play. And make the Hall of Fame. Drunk the whole time, no doubt. You better believe that would make baseball way more fun to watch.

Make it a double

Ever heard of "The Culture Plan for the Creative City"?

There's something fundamentally wrong with it, and I suspect it's because this city aren't too creative. At least, some businesses in the city aren't.

Case in point: the alarming trend of hugely uninspired, doubled-up store names.

• Szechuan Szechuan (King & York Sts)
• Pizza Pizza
• Roti Roti (Etobicoke)
• Fashion Fashion (Yonge, near Wellesley) – my personal favourite
• Deli Deli (in Vaughan - close enough)
  

Pizza Pizza is doubly offensive, not only because their name is boring, but they splash it all over their garish storefronts in a horrifying, eye-bruising orange checkerboard design that looks like something Elton John would have worn 30 years ago.

If you're going to go boring with your store name, why not just use the name once? It conveys a real confidence about yourself that you don't need a fancy or clever name, because you're just that damn good that people will come anyway. But doubling up on the name, it sounds like you wanted to do something interesting, but you're just dumb.

Of course, I've never been a fan of the place with the buzzing neon sign that just says "BAR," or the dingy-looking rat trap with "FOOD" or "DINER" above the door in peeling letters. They've got a certain sketchy charm, but you can tell that they really just suck.

Anyone who's read Jacob Two-two and the Hooded Fang may recall that the titular hero says everything twice because adults never listen to him. Has this poor boy become a versatile entrepreneur, selling Caribbean food, pizza and clothes?

Perhaps it's just a few frustrated store owners, fed up with people calling and asking what they sell. "We sell pizza! PIZZA! Can't you read, idiot?"

I can only hope that Fashion Fashion's owner doesn't open a store that sells tutus. Personally, I'm hoping for a sex shop that calls itself "Porno Porno" or "Dildos Dildos." That'd be great.