Friday, October 29, 2010

Multi-tasking: It's Harder Than You Think

As is both my wont and daily ritual, I was multitasking on the toilet by simultaneously handling my business (minds out of the gutter, please) while handling other business (I repeat: minds out of the gutter, please).  While preparing a truly Homeric tweet teasing out the disparate threads connecting critical methodologies of neo-imperial belly flopping to the hermeneutical challenges of contemporary semiotics in the context of Kenyan oligarchic rule, all within a paradigmatic framework of post-anarchofeminist epistemology, I paused to power squeeze and lost consciousness.'s vector drawing depicts the lurid details for your amusement.
The resulting concussion has left me unable to tweet or post until Monday.  I apologize for yet again disappointing your fledgling optimism in this blog, thank you for reading today, and wish you the best of Trick-or-Treating this weekend.


The Clog

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Employment: Nice Work If You Can Get It

After watching Ford's rosy face dawn on Toronto yesterday morning, I was immensely pleased to learn that I will in fact have a job for the next four years.  Pundits and political cartoonists clinked more crystal on Monday night than the entire Ford victory party (That's not saying much though, as Ford's party was hardly a classy affair).

That's not sweat he's bathed in; that's glory.
I was initially amused by Toronto's reaction to Ford's victory.  Countless Torontonians, like typical white people, began making vague threats about moving elsewhere, and so on.  This is just posturing, however, because privilaged white people don't have the cobblestones to follow through on fashionable threats like that.

As I read more and more expressions of anger, frustration, and grief, however, I was truly moved to compassion.  Though I may be a misshapen clod with a crippling fear of paper clips, I am not heartless.  I tried cheering up Toronto by pointing out the fact that Rob Ford's so-called reign of terror will follow the usual template of political activity:

  • Will keep less than half of his promises
  • Blame the previous administration for screwing things up so badly that they can't be fixed in four years and will consequently need another term
  • Begin to putter with complacency
  • ...and then culminate in a flurry of last minute changes to create the illusion he's been productive. 
This did not appear to assuage any of the grief that Torontonians still seem to be feeling.  To that end, I offer this observation: Toronto didn't become a pulsing, throbbing, and surging hive of activity, change, and progression because of politicians.  It became a destination because of the individual people who inhabit, embrace, and change it with their contributions.

Politicians are parasitic to the process.

Leave sitting around on the Internet like an idiot to professionals like me and go do something awesome!

Friday, October 22, 2010

Got Sense?: Unbridled Entitlement & Fixies

When the mind ruminates on subject matter of great import, it's best to take lengthy walks to aid reflection and clear the mind.  Practitioners of the peripatetic tradition such as Aristotle and Immanuel Kant achieved great progress this way.  Consequently, when my mind was overborne with the heady and perplexing quandary of whether or not I did in fact have milk, I set out on foot to purge my mind of distractions.

While plodding out my front door, I abandoned my usual stroll along the Pathway to Enlightenment because I sought not enlightenment but quietude.  One would think that out-of-doors in Toronto's core would be a poor place to seek solitude, but being a rank and malodorous clod, I part crowds of people like a sidewalk Moses:

AJ Jacob's models the Old Testament line in BikeSnobNYC's 'hood.
Strolling thusly, I was alone to chew my mental cud for some time till I stopped for a red-light at an intersection.  [Here, I regretfully must pause and make a brief description of what I'm talking about for Toronto's cyclists, since the vast majority of them don't seem to understand what they are:

A red light.

A red light is a traffic control device meant to interrupt traffic flow to allow for crossing and merging traffic to enter the traffic flow.  By stopping, users of the road allow for a safe and predictable crossing and merging of other traffic.]

Standing silently on the street corner pondering various methodologies of dairy product ownership, my subconscious fault-finder began frantically clanging resounding alarms about a metaphysical disturbance in the fabric of my immediate surroundings and that I should, as a person of good sense and will toward self-preservation, take a step back.

I glanced over at west-bound cyclist enter the intersection and instead of turning north or south continued on, at the Urban Repair Squad's insistence, against obviously on-coming traffic.  However as this cyclist did so a cyclist heading north along the sidewalk rode through the red light into the intersection into the path of the west-bound cyclist.  Not to be outdone, a south-bound cyclist also skipped the red-light without looking for cross-traffic and also rode into the path of the west-bound (and now salmoning) cyclist.

The confluence of idiocy: you can't make this stuff up.

The stunning confluence of idiocy was enough to create a black hole-like vortex into which the universe suddenly and precipitously teetered for a brief moment before some well-timed swerving and an exchange of wrath-laden glares and other bits of nerd rage righted the universe back to normalcy.

Shaken and stirred to new heights of pessimism, I pondered various aspects of the indelicate ballet I had just witnessed: Does stupidity have mass?  If so, would it explain why some people seem to be Stupidity personified?  Did the sudden confluence of stupid mass create a sucking black hole that caused all three cyclists to gravitate towards each other uncontrollably?  Could you roll stupidity in to a ball and push it down a hill?  Is that how Rob Ford's campaign gained momentum?

Certainly, no real harm had been done because no accident occurred.  And certainly, Toronto cyclists had embarrassed themselves awfully, but no one was really surprised to see cyclists ride down sidewalks, run red lights, and salmon down one-way streets.  Ruefully, this is all regrettably common in Toronto.  Truly, the only real consequence of the incident was an entrenchment of negative stereotypes of Toronto cyclists.

Having realized the incident was insignificant, I wondered whether something was wrong with my subconscious fault-finder?  Hearing the irksome sound of a hipster skidding, my attention regrouped with fresh annoyance and immediately grasped his lack of adequate foot-rention for riding brakeless effectively, thereby reassuring me that my subconscious fault-finder was in fact working perfectly.  Moreover, it also reminded me that there's only one more sleep till Tom Mosher's Hell Track 3, an attempt to create sustainable entertainment for Toronto's hipsters by doing the same thing over and over again, but differently.

[Yet more laps around the school at Bickford Park?  What is that?  Gym class for hipsters?!]

Fortunately, it appears that it will rain tomorrow evening.

The weatherway courtesy of The Weather Network.
This is fortunate because rain terrifies sissy cyclists and will keep them from spoiling Mosher's event with their sissyness, which will help apply a convenient veneer of dedication to those who are willing to endure the savage beating of raindrops on their skin for the sake of glory.  However, having been force-fed my fill of stupidity for the week, I won't be attending.

I have more important things to think about.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Hehlmeht Woehrse: Dutch Logic Assassins

Fearing more threats against my life by the Dutch, I have become hyper sensitive to my environment.  A swatch of orange fabric makes me cower in fear, the smell of potatoes induces nervous sweating, and the clomping of wooden-soled shoes on the pavement shatters my concentration like a gunshot.  To protect myself, I have prepared flash cards for study purposes and placed them in various and sundry places about my hovel and place of work so that I may spot the enemy on site and flee:

Being keen and crafty, the Dutch can strike at any time, so I believe that my paranoia is warranted.  Indeed, I recently found proof of what I consider to be a subtle Dutch plot against my life in an article penned by serial proselytizer, David Hembrow, hosted by Momentum Magazine.

Hembrow, by means keen and crafty, data mines injury and fatality statistics to argue that survival rates of Dutch cyclists are not improved by wearing a helmet.  To further stigmatize helmet wearing, Hembrow data mines the rich statistical data documenting British children dying in--wait for it... waaait for it... --car crashes to demonstrate that Dutch cyclists are safer than British children being driven about by concerned parents.  (The accident/fatality rate per kilometers traveled by car for a country's population is a statistic Hembrow doesn't review ...likely because it would obviously undermine his case.)  Hembrow does, however, identify that the low risk of head injury for Dutch cyclists is primarily due to their progressive, and therefore safe, infrastructure.

The insinuation of the article, however, is clear: the Dutch don't wear helmets, so neither must you.  While I appreciate anyone's effort to appease my fears, I'm also risk aversive (amongst a host of other allergies both various and sundry) and wearing a helmet, like wearing a condom, is one of those things known in the common discourse as a 'Good Idea', even if it barely fits or never even gets used during your time spent riding (minds out of the gutter, please).

In Hembrow's universe, helmets aren't for heads and condoms aren't for peepees.
The unasked question arising from the article intrudes nonetheless: So what?

The Dutch don't need helmets because their coddled by infrastructure that will not be implemented in my ward within my lifetime, so Hembrow's pronunciations are at best trivial, and at worst, a life-threatening abuse of logic.  For the time being, I am pleased to declare that the Dutch will not coerce me, by means either statistical or crafty, to expose myself to even the slightest iota of fatal risk, and thereby fulfill their plot against my life.

It was a good try, however.  It was a considerable improvement over the time they sent this guy after me:

Missed me!!

Till we meet again, Hollanders!!  Thpbpbpbpbpbpb!!

Monday, October 18, 2010

Serenity: Dispensing Sanctimony (pun intended?)

Being an unsightly clod, who suffers from nervous gas and a debilitating need to constantly know my wattage output for any given task, I've grown accustomed to ridicule and rejection.  However, I was recently informed that my presence on Toronto's cycling forums is a bit of a downer.  Apparently, I'm too cynical and negative.

Thankfully, however, scientific analysis has proven that my blog is actually enfused with positivity:

" is probably written by a male somewhere between 66-100 years old. The writing style is personal and happy most of the time."
This appraisal is correct.  I am happy, often even serene, but I have achieved this sense of happiness through great struggle and rejection.  Being a misshapen fool with a compulsive need to lick used deodorant sticks during my youth, I was subject to constant ridicule and rejection.  However, I achieved a transcendence beyond my betters the day I watched a hipster on a de rigeur brakeless fixie pedal very slowly down Queen St, execute a de rigeur little skid, track-stand uncertainly, then weave into traffic and nearly get struck by a car, then mount the opposite sidewalk and collide with a pedestrian.  Watching the hispter's foray into the hardship known as Reality, a flowering of self-esteem blossomed within my bosom.

"I may be a misshapen fool," I thought, "but you ride a bicycle like an idiot."

Thinking that you're better than someone else is a heartening discovery, and there's no shame in it.  We all do it.  Sometimes it's even actually true, but it comes with a great deal of responsibility.  Like any sensible person with the usual urge to remain alive, I affix appropriate and visible lights to my bicycle, and use them.  Users of Urban Repair Squad's pharrow infrastructure do this:

Compact disc reflector seen on the Pathway to Enlightenment.
This type of nonsense is just not acceptable, but it's pretty much the standard sort of garbage one encounters when cycling in Toronto.  I'd like to be positive about progressive infrastructure and attitudes being fostered in Toronto, but when cars seem more capable of using Toronto's new bike boxes correctly than Toronto's cyclists, I cannot.

Toronto's cycling community needs encouragement.  Certainly, it does.  However, it also needs a bit more perspective than its smug, self-righteous, snobby cheerleaders are willing or capable of providing.

Unfortunately, I'm not the one to provide it ...but since no one else has as of yet volunteered to do it, I intend to do my best until they arrive.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Dancing On the Pedals: Tenuously-Bicycle-Related Epherma

I was recently informed by a reader that they considered my Twitter coverage of Rocco Rossi's withdrawl of his mayoral bid to be in poor taste:

Tough shit.

Moving on, I was also recently accosted on the Pathway to Enlightenment by a cadre of Toronto cycling advocates leading a vague mob of ne'er-do-wells, slackjaws, and hoohas on bicycles about Toronto's core, pausing to gesticulate uncertainly at various intervals.  I initially feared I was witnessing a how-to course demonstrating the use of the Urban Repair Squad's advanced AI (Ass Infrastructure) planning, but then recalled that tonight's tenuously-bicycle-related event was actually just Bike Pirate's Bike To The Future.  I gawked momentarily, but fearing human contact I fled before anyone noticed my bicycle and invited me to join.

In truth, I have profound and debilitating issues associated with dancing.  In my youth, the teacher would play music and encourage us flail our limbs in syncopation.  However, she was a callous brute who misrepresented our pathetic attempts to improve her own performance review results with the board.  She once wrote on my report card, "Moves well to music," even though I was, in fact, having a seizure.

I also fled because they were playing 80s music, and I fear Michael Bolton like Rob Ford fears his mother's cabbage recipes.

Cabbage stank got nothin' on this.
Having returned to the safety and solitude of my hovel, I turned away from the cold teat of the outside world and embraced the lukewarmth of the Internet.  Thereupon, I was immediately confronted with news that I had lost the BIXI video contest, mainly because I hadn't submitted one.  I longed to, but my visceral fear of movie production technology, like my phobia of dancing, was too disabling (it gives me nervous gas).

Like Rob Ford, I believe in the traditional marriage of still pictures to old-timey piano rags, but I yearned to flirt with more homogeneous mediums like motion pictures just to have a chance to visit Hoopie again to pick up the prize.  I used to lurk in his store and pet the handle bars till one day he chased me out with a broom. I loved it in there, and I was very saddened to be banished.

Alas, I was unable to muster a submission.  The gas would not pass.

How I long to feel the warmth radiating from Hoopie's warm bulbous head again.

I miss you, Hoopie!  [Sad face.]

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Dining With the Enemy: URS, Meat Paste, and the Dutch

Gathering together with family is often a momentous and healing experience, and joining in the giving of collective thanks creates moments of revelation and empathy.  Unless you're in my family, where your Mother forgets which holiday we're celebrating and festoons the house in preparation for Passover.

Though the remembering of the Spirit of the Lord culling the first born is always a fun-filled family event, I tried to gently and tactfully reorient the festivities toward the correct holiday.  I'd nearly succeeded when someone asked (as someone is wont to do every year in a desperate attempt to think outside a non-existent box), "Why don't we try something other than turkey this year?"

I was initially pleased to be spared an Homeric dual of with my arch-aminonemesis, but when my Mother decided to take cues from the Dutch in preparing the alternative mode of celebration and prepared hutspot and pea soup served in clogs, I took one look at what had been placed before me and fainted face-first into my dish.


I'm beginning to fear the Dutch want me dead.  Their recipe for hutspot creates a goo with the perfect consistency to drown a man at a depth of 25.4mm.

The National Post captures the Dutch chanting, "Death to The Clog!"
For the time being, however, I am pleased to announce that I have survived all plots by the Dutch against my life ...and also against my palette.  To save the Thanksgiving feast, I fought fire with fire and, borrowing from both the Dutch technique of deep frying meat paste to create vaguely edible objects and Felt's advanced mold optimization strategies, I fashioned the hutspot into a turkey, deep-fried it to create the illusion of skin, and then baked it over a roaring clog-fueled fire.

The end result was an olfactory and gustatory obscenity ...but it was still better than hutspot.

Bidding goodbye to my family and returning to the other olfactory and gustatory obscenity, Toronto, I was affronted by headlines about Rob Ford dressing in drag to launch a tirade against cyclists eating the babies of poor harmless Scarborough drivers.  In search of more positive news, I turned to Herb Van Den Drool's blog and was enthralled to learn that the Urban Repair Squad has installed yet more infrastructure to guide and enable the cycling aspirants of Toronto for whom paying-attention-to-what-you're-doing is just too tedious.

Incapable of following basic traffic requirements?
That's OK.  Just go where you think is best.
Billed as another Toronto first, this unique piece of alternative infrastructure joins the pharrow as the second piece of Urban Repair Squad's program to provide alternatives geared to all riding skill levels ('incompetent boob' is a skill level in the Urban Repair Squad's manual) by alleviating Toronto cyclists of the responsibility to ride in any predictable direction.  Instead, the Urban Repair Squad encourages us, if we're incapable of riding sensibly, to go where ever we darn well feel like.

I'm pleased to see that the Urban Repair Squad is attending to the needs of all Toronto cyclists, and not just those of us with some sense and a will to remain alive.  The next time I'm riding downtown, I can look at the boob salmoning toward me in the bike lane and think "Thanks, Urban Repair Squad, for enabling this person to ride a bike."

When two imbecile cyclists collide head-on on this street, I hope I can be there to witness the coming together of misplaced entitlement and progressive infrastructure first hand.  If they're going fast enough, perhaps the world will be a better place afterwards.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Of Corn & Carbon: Happy Thanksgiving Weekend

Firstly, I am ambivalent to announce that Tom Mosher has decided to host yet another Hell Track event.  Watching the videos of previous Hell Tracks, one would think that Hell Track 3 will be riveting and unforgettable.  However, for those uncertain whether to imbibe this instance of 'bicycle culture', allow me to summarize the event in advance for your convenience.

The event is patterned upon the Official Toronto Hipster Cycling Event template:

Pre-party:  Authentic real-live messengers will congregate, drink beer, and make fun of each other while begging off racing on the grounds that they can't get injured because they have to work.  Their authentic real-live hipster attendants will circumscribe the nucleus of messengers in a desperate attempt to fit in and rub shoulders.  Tom Mosher will spend the entire time talking to his friends and ignoring the attendants.  Trick riders will attempt ad infinitum to execute various manoevres without success.  Holding your breath here in anticipation of seeing something awesome means certain death. 

Race:  The racing will be so lame that some imbecile who doesn't have to work the next day will attempt unnecessarily theatrical maneouvres under the auspices of 'epic-ry'.  This will make the race seem epic by association.  Do not be fooled.

Post-race: Prizes are assigned.  Given the poor organizational skills and levels of inebriation, this portion of the event is tediously drawn out.

The whole event will be like taking a poop after eating corn: You'll stand there and think "Is that it ...or is there more?"

Speaking of stool passage, I am equally ambivalent to announce that the dieting fad of colonics has reached bicycle frame design.  Felt's frame designers have data-mined the age-old technique of wrapping toilet-paper around a cardboard tube to develop their InsideOut Internally Optimized Molding technology, which enables them to shave off precious ounces of manufacturing dross that "is stuck to the frame walls like spackle or paste."  As Felt engineer Ty Buckenberger puts it:
“The bottom bracket and other junctions are all nice and clean with no excess material inside.”
Snickering aside, Felt seems to have truly pushed the boundaries in their work.  With their InsideOut method, Felt can now eschew the lug-&-tube technology of last century's carbon frames (no, that's not a typo) in favour of molds that shape the carbon sheets and minimizes excess material build-up internally.  The assembly culminates thusly:
"Finally, the frame sections are joined using a special co-molding technique. The individual sections are bonded together and then co-wrapped."

An internally optimized toilet paper roll demonstrates Felt's wrapping technique.

In other words, lug-&-tube redux.  Such advancement!  However, Felt assures us that process is worthwhile because it delivers a frame that--wait for it...--offers unparalleled ride quality and weight savings, but at great cost.  As an amateur performance cycling enthusiast on a budget (read, 'that wheel sucking ass with a Sora gruppo'), I'm not able to make such significant investment, so when I want to improve my own ride quality and shave off precious grams, I prefer to employ my patented system of taking a pre-race poop.  The weight savings are astounding!

With that 'out of my system', I am also ambivalent to announce that I will not be blogging on Monday due to prior engagements with a turkey.  I do not mean that I have a dinner date with Rob Ford (though that probably would be a very effective weight-loss strategy).  Rather, I will be preoccupied attempting the unnecessarily theatrical maneouvre of ingesting fowlry for processing in a prostate prostrate position.

Unfortunately I must, by medical necessity, lay down prior to gorging on turkey, unlike others, who prefer to repose after the fact.  Being a misshapen oaf prone to nervous gas and suffering an irrational fear of pacifiers, I was once attacked with a turkey baster and exposed to a near fatal dose of tryptophan.  Ever since, even the mildest amount of trytpo-laced turkey can induce narcoleptic fits of deep slumber.  Four Thanksgivings ago, I plopped face-down in mash potatoes and nearly drowned.

It is my own personal epic sport and I like to tempt fate and push the extreme.  Last year, I conquered a leg.  This year, I hope to tackle the breast.  Next year's summit: dark meat!

If I live, I will resume posting on Wednesday.  Until then, thanks for reading and have a 'fully crunk' weekend.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Good Ideas: Do Not Share Them

In every life, each and every one must face the time of passing.  For some, it is sudden, even tragically accidental.  For others, it is slow in coming.  Some face it with great fear; others with great acceptance.  The latter often have achieved a sense of closure and accomplishment.  They understand that it is time.

I refer of course to passing stool.  That is, taking a poop.

Some, at the time of passing, need to pass the time.  I, however, eat a lot of fibre, and so do not need to take a tome to the toilet.  Instead, I imbibe micro text apropos to the time being passed.  Typically this entails re-reading the directions on a condom I received years ago, but for which I have sadly never found a use.  Other times I simply read my Twitter feed.  Twitter, like all feed, is a continual source of nourishment; sometimes it even comes with a surprise buried in its cereal-like goodness.  However, yesterday, I was just plain shocked to read Toronto Cyclist Union's publicist Yvonne Bambrick's endorsement of a rant passed by soured EYE WEEKLY editor, Edward Keenan:

Knowing that Bambrick, like most riders of Dutch bikes, is too concerned about her good looks to dare ruin them with a helmet, I was unsurprised by her opposal to any encouragement to wear one.  I was, however, rather taken aback to read that others should henceforth "shut the fuck up."

Certainly, an old-school hip hop reference would have been more effective:

I guess I was naive to think that someone who brays incessantly--and without provocation--that she's a trained professional publicist would know better than to lash out so viscerally, especially at someone encouraging others to employ what is known in the common tongue as a 'Good Idea'.  Imagine the Toronto Cyclist Union lashing out at someone for suggesting that fenders are a good idea because they protect the rider from road spray? 

The absurdity is palpable: this same woman insists that sensible cycling necessitates a host of accessorial appliqués, such as a chain case, skirt guard, and fenders.  Each component is meant to protect the rider from threats vague and trivial.  But wear a helmet?  Ne'er!!

Perplexed by such gross inconsistency (and the subsequent discord of priorities...), I posed a question to Toronto's twits that I felt justified an answer:

However, being a socially-ostracized clod with complex odour issues and an uncontrollable nervous reflex to bark at shoelaces, I was shunned by my betters.  I am undeterred, however, and though our leaders may provide a poor example, I would like to issue, in their place, the following Public Service Announcement:

Coming soon as a frame sticker near you.  If you want one, details will follow in the coming weeks.

Monday, October 4, 2010

Tail Winds: Charting New Courses in the GTA

Well  I guess not.  A bum squeeze would be a nice though.
Or at least a discreet glance at it.  That's why you're wearing sun glasses, isn't it?

Coiled on my floor in the fetal position and sobbing uncontrollably for four days and nights, I transcended unimaginable levels of consciousness and apprehended the manifold subtleties of Cycledom.  Ascending higher and higher, I achieved unity with Cycledom itself in a dharmic coalescence of Being, joining, then sublimating, then rejoining again in throbbing blissful ecstasy.

Then my phone rang with a recorded message soliciting my support for Rob Ford's mayoral campaign, recaptured below in an artist's rendering:

Braying Ass asks: "Can we count on your support on election day?"
Torn so savagely from Enlightenment, I lost all memory of my ascendant voyage.  In a desperate attempt to regain some sense of what I'd seen, I set out in my bicycle in search of touchstones that would resonate some lost fragment of illumination.  Though I saw manifold instances of abhorrent imbecility, I found no great illumination, until I accidentally happened upon the Kindly Sage with the Clean Shaven Legs.

I doff my dorky cycling cap to you, Kindly Sage with the Clean Shaven Legs, in full kit riding some sort of aerodynamic spaceship shod with Zipp wheels that I passed on the Queens Quay.  I took no pride in passing you because I knew I was only faster because I was the fresher and not delirious with exhaustion from a morning's worth of sprinting.  When waiting for the light, you shoaled not, but stayed behind.  When the light turned green, you politely waited for me to move left around the oblivious janitor sweeping garbage in the bike lane.  And lastly, when my cleat missed the clip down stroke and my foot slipped off the pedal, nearly face-planting me into my bars, you looked on with magnanimity like a young man pretending he can't smell his date's fart, even though the paint has begun to peel from the wall, all in the hope that he'll get laid later on.  Like the young man's date, you let it pass in silence.

You, sir, are a peerless gentleman.  You cycle with serenity, teach by example, and magnify my own errors without uttering a word of condemnation.

The Kindly Sage say, "A tail wind propels only the inferior man; the superior man notices it not."

Speaking of genteel farts, I'm a little surprised to see that Martino Reis hasn't already documented the Urban Repair Squad's latest bike infrastructure protest piece in The Grange:

Phallus sharrow: Pharrow?
(Note judicious appliqué of Celeste; clearly an infrastructure snob.)

Unlike their last piece, this installation requires no hermeneutical key.  It's clearly the next installment of U.R.S.'s attempt to install infrastructure appropriate to all levels of experience, including no experience at all.  The pharrow system is specifically targeted to Torontonians incapable of personal responsibility and awareness of their surroundings.  Rather than paying attention, blasé Toronto cyclists need only to follow U.R.S.'s  directional pharrow, which indicates the suggested route of travel if one wants to ride like a complete cock: haphazardly down the centre of the lane, as fast as possible, taking no responsibility for one's actions nor giving any respect to others on the route, and ideally, whenever possible, straight at any flock of pedestrians and small children also using the path.

Frankly, I'm surprised that the U.R.S. has left so many other areas thoroughly under-serviced by such equal-access infrastructure.  I'm currently recruiting a battery of kindly hobos to assist with the installation of my own protest campaign for equal access:

At the moment, I'm targeting the main cock blocks: pretty much all of the downtown core and every kilometre of recreational path in the GTA.

Friday, October 1, 2010

Double Profundity: All the Way Across the Sky!!

Having spent all of yesterday and today laying prostrate on the floor of my hovel curled in the fetal position, sobbing, and stuttering madly in stupefaction at the profundity of my recent discovery, I am incapable of penning an entry today.

Concerns about my welfare are appreciated.  Token offerings of cupcakes can be pressed into puck form and shuffled under my front door.  Chocolate is best.

I apologize for disappointing your fledgling optimism in this blog and beg your future patronage when I return with regular updates on Monday.


The Clog