At 7 a.m. I find my partner snoring on the living room couch, the television’s blue glow reflected in the glasses that he is still wearing. ‘Good afternoon,’ I shout, mimicking the greeting offered by his boss whenever my man is a little late for work (i.e. every day). ‘Oh, I fell asleep out here,’ he mutters needlessly. ‘So how was your poker tourney last night?’ I inquire in a sociopathic fashion, deliberately pretending to care about others instead of only myself. ‘I won 2 Gs, but will need to ship 10 percent to CM.’ [Aside: I won’t bother explaining this transaction, allowing poker players to savour the sad and ephemeral exclusivity of their insider knowledge]. I immediately begin to select my new poker boots, deciding that they will be short and black this time. ‘But something else happened to me yesterday, and it was much more exciting than that,’ he enthuses. I am honestly intrigued by this turn of events, because my partner usually resembles the walking dead in the morning, flesh that performs bodily rituals without full cognition. ‘While applying deodorant after my shower, I noticed that one of my armpit hairs was incredibly long, like a foot long. It went right down to here,’ he says, pointing to a spot near his man-hip. ‘What!’ I jump up and down like a child at the fair. ‘Where is it? Show it to me right now!’ ‘Ummm…’ he looks puzzled, ‘of course I threw it away.’ You can imagine my reaction: rage. ‘How dare you,’ I rant. ‘I could have taken a picture of it for my blog. You know, my weekly exploration of the human body and corporeal politics, among other things, like man ass. Do you realize how challenging it is to come up with interesting material, week after week? Well, do you? Or I could have used it in an experimental art piece, dropping it randomly and then adhering it to a surface. I would have called it One Hairy Stoppage. It might have made me a million dollars. But no, you care nothing about me and my needs. You are so selfish. In the nineteenth century, that freakish growth would have been purchased by P.T. Barnum, enlightening thousands in his American Museum. During the Renaissance, the Medici family would have stabbed several members of the Pazzi just to get its hands on that wonderful strand, that partial lock. What do you have to say for yourself, young man?’ As I pause to catch my breath, he slowly rises from the couch and moves towards the bathroom, shaking his head, stating ‘You have way too much energy in the morning.’
But wait, there’s more… ‘Oh, I am not done with you,’ I declare, grabbing the new Energizer SuperCharge flashlight from its wall socket and following him. On one hand I want to ensure that the flashlight works, while on the other I see an opportunity to further torment my partner. ‘I will now inspect your body with this tool, in case your man-flesh is harbouring even more hidden treasure.’ I then proceed to examine every nook and cranny in a potentially humiliating manner. My partner sighs, pretending to hate it. Well, maybe he really does hate it. And at this point in my story, which definitely deserves two paragraphs, there is no more. Yet I still need to ask you, my kind and gently emotional readers, an important question: On a scale of 1-10, how sorry do you think I should be?
I am zero sorry.
I know that this disclaimer is not necessary, but I want to assure you that I did not invent one fucking word of that encounter. Life with me is hell. That’s H, E, double hockey sticks, according to my delightful Little Sister. I was quite a pissy-pants all week, just the way you like me. Still, I would sincerely appreciate your feedback on a number of scenarios. You’ll tell me the truth, won’t you?
I am standing in a small seminar room handing out make-up midterms to the students who involuntarily missed the scheduled exam for various reasons, most of them involving out of control bodily fluids. Suddenly, a tall/short/large/small student strides into the room, literally demanding my attention. [Aside to lawyers and other petty time-wasters: good fucking luck arguing that this particular student can be identified and thus defamed. And please go ahead and sue me, thereby ensuring my site gets national, nay international, media coverage]. Apparently he/she claims not to have received my e-mail informing him/her/it/donkey about the time and place of the makeup midterm. [That is a little hard to believe, for at least one obvious reason]. ‘No problem,’ I say. ‘You can just write it now along with these four students.’ The umbrella/hat stand/iron/lamp exclaims: ‘But I am not prepared!’ ‘Hmmm,’ my eyes narrow, ‘I guess that the extra two weeks of study time was not enough for you?’ At this point, the animal/vegetable/mineral demands an entirely different kind of accommodation, wanting me to make a decision right away. ‘I cannot deal with this now,’ I state. ‘Other students require my attention.’ The passive/aggressive person-who-must-not-be-named refuses to leave, moving closer and closer to me, in a blatantly bullying fashion. That is when I begin to advance towards him/her, step by step, forcing the angel/devil/sack of pucks to back out into the hallway. Then I shut the door in its princess/gladiator/chocoboy face. Dear readers, in your considered opinion, how sorry should I be?
I am zero sorry.
During this busy week, I left a full load of wet laundry overnight in a shared washing machine in my condo building. It was the first time I had ever done that. Some neighbouring fuck nut was terribly annoyed. Guess what? I am zero sorry.
Although my friend RenMan saved the day by writing a guest blog last week, I rewarded him with taunts related to 1) his buttock region; and 2) his future public display in lady-like pants. Did he really deserve that treatment? Yes. Yes he did. And that is why I am zero sorry.
Honey badger’s got a whole lot of nothing in the feelings department. But sometimes karma comes back to bite me on my fluffy omnivorous butt. For when I arose the other day, what should greet my tired eyes? A prezzie left by Muffalo on the Pier I rattan mat in my office, which cost $20 and provides a nice textured contrast to the smooth floorboards. As the quick-minded recipient of this bodily offering, I instantly photographed it for your viewing pleasure.
So how sorry do you think the generous Muffalo should be?
That’s right: she is zero sorry.
[Please note that I have copyrighted the phrase ‘I am Zero Sorry’ as well as its derivative ‘Zero Sorry’ for future entrepreneurial efforts. After consulting with biz-knobs, I have decided to market this phrase on t-shirts, alongside an image of Muffalo and her donation. Legally speaking, then, if you use this phrase or any of its shortened forms, you must send me $10 in an envelope. Make that Canadian dollars.]