Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine
Volume VII, Issue 11, AD MMII
Monday, July 22, 2002
ISSN 1482-0471
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<Mallow005> now I must go watch momento
<Jeff> that movie sucks
<Mallow005> what
<Mallow005> everyone says it's good
<Jeff> Everyone is stupid.

-------------------------------------------

"No, thank you, ma'am.  I don't drink water."
"Why not?"
"Well, the human body is close to ninety percent water, and that 
rings of cannibalism to me.  I'd rather forgo that experience."
"Umm, ok.  What would you like to drink?"
"Sprite."
"But that has water in it."
"Is sprite ninety percent of your body mass?"
"No."
"I'll have Sprite."

-- Fezzgig via Shaver

-------------------------------------------

1.  Being Here
2.  Night of the Living Bored
3.  The Joy of Fanatical Canvassing
4.  Cellular Immobility
5.  How do I Lose Weight?
-------------------------------------------

This week's Golden Testicle award:

http://www.balchinstitute.org/museum/toys/history.html

The Museum of Derogatory Toys

-------------------------------------------

1.   Being Here 

By Tim King

I came here when I was eight years old. We moved to Montreal in 1977 
just months after Bill 101 passed. We read information on Canada: 
it's an immigration friendly country! it has two official languages! 
it's a big country with lots of natural beauty! I guess one out of 
three isn't bad.

Thirty three percent. I think that's about as much of me wants to be 
here right now.

It began poorly. Our belongings sank in Halifax harbour. The wealthy 
were allowed to recover their things first when the containers had 
been recovered. By the time we were allowed to view our own stuff 
our silverware and many family heirlooms had disappeared. I 
recovered a dear rabbit and dog who's stuffing smelled of ocean 
bottom.

Someone in Barrie decorates his house with our family's history now.

Meanwhile on the streets of Lasalle I found myself in a bad 
situation facing a long run home from school every day. The French 
kids thought it was fun to set their German shepherd on me. If the 
dog didn't get me the kids did. I came home with the hood hanging in 
tatters from my shoulder. I'd been swung around in circles by my 
neck, laughing faces blurring by until it ripped.

We eventually moved into a better place and I got to take the bus to 
school; much safer. Suddenly we were moving again. My parent's 
couldn't win the battle they had been fighting.

"Dear Mrs. King, your children are not Canadian enough to attend an 
English school in Quebec. If you don't send them to a French school 
you will be charged and jailed."

True North Strong and Free... free to move I suppose. We came to 
Mississauga as refugees and made a new home. It was a better fit 
perhaps because I tried so hard or perhaps because the Constitution 
actually meant something here. I learned to skate years after others 
in my class had. I learned to play hockey and I thought I finally 
knew what it was to be Canadian. I still had trouble with bullies 
though. Being the kid with an accent makes you the target.

I stumbled through school keeping my head down and trying to be 
average on purpose. When I graduated it was as a survivor. I wasn't 
looking forward to work, survivor's don't make very good money. If I 
wanted first dibs on the salvaged container I needed to be wealthy; 
money is happiness in Canada.

I went to college because I couldn't stand subsistence work and then 
dropped out. I worked in battery acid and axle grease, it was dirty 
money. Finally pulling myself together I did the bravest thing I'd 
ever done: I went to school like I meant it. Working full time I was 
going to high school four years older than any of the other 
students. I woke up at seven went to school from eight to two forty 
five got to work at three and worked until eleven. I went to bed at 
1am and then I got up and did it again. and again.

Universities took my application seriously. I had my choice except 
for the one I wanted. I begged and they let me in. I spent four 
years hard at it. I never had the chance to buy a stereo with my 
student loans, but I learned about the past and started to see the 
future. I learned about post colonialism and how Europeans had been 
pillaging the world for centuries and I thought about my little 
fishing village in England and wondered who got rich from all of 
this history. It certainly hadn't been us.

Half way through school I stood in line with a thousand others 
waiting to get my student loan.

"If you don't sign this you won't get the loan!"

"But I already have a contract with the federal government for my 
loan."

"The banks are taking over the loan handling. Signing this nullifies 
your previous agreement."

"But I don't want a bank administering my loan."

"Look if you don't want it don't sign for it."

"But tuition has almost doubled since I started here. I can't afford 
to pay it with summer work alone any more."

"Then sign the paper. If you're not going to sign it please step out 
of the line."

I signed the paper. I was finally doing something I knew was 
inherently valuable and I couldn't abandon it. Surely this would all 
work out for the best.

The bank mishandled the loan and mistreated me. The government made 
vague gestures of protection which the bank ignored. I was once 
again working up to my arms in hot industrial filth making more 
dirty money. I could barely afford to put a roof over my head and 
feed myself. They demanded half of my yearly income in a lump sum 
payment and then sixty percent of my monthly income for the next ten 
years.

"If you can't pay it perhaps you can put it on your credit card."

"My credit card is maxed out."

"You really need to handle your finances better you know."

Very helpful.

I found love and in that I found reason enough to save myself (yet 
again). We had an opportunity to go to the other side of the world. 
I could teach, actually doing work that required my education. In a 
country as far from where I was born as I could get I gained 
respect, perspective and a degree of success. Perhaps it was because 
there I knew I was a stranger. There's a freedom in knowing that you 
don't belong because you can see everything with an outsider's eyes, 
and in the end you don't invest your soul in anything other than 
yourself. In Canada I tried to belong and when I couldn't I 
pretended. I tried to see myself as Canadian not knowing that I 
never would be. I invested my soul in a lie.

Phone calls came at three o'clock in the morning, voices from far 
away demanding payment. I made arrangements and paid off my debts - 
debts created from being the poor son of poor immigrants. I felt 
like any financial togetherness was lost in this. I paid for myself 
selfishly and I didn't contribute to our future. I felt guilty when 
we spent money on trips. I felt guilty when I spent money on 
anything.

Sometimes I wonder about university and how it works here. In 
Canada, if you rape and murder young women, you can get a free 
university education (Karla Homolka). In Canada if something is 
difficult to manage (like student loans) you give it to private 
companies and let them eat the very best of your young then you sit 
around lamenting the brain drain.

After our time abroad we came back to Canada. I make even less now 
than I did before we left. I got more time off at Christmas (and 
year round) in Japan than I do in Canada and I was respected for my 
work. In the world economy I made US$26K/year in 1998 before leaving 
Canada, US$37-44K/yr in my time in Japan and now, back in Canada, I 
make US$19K/yr. How is this possible? If there was an award for Most 
Brutally Mismanaged Economy Cretien's regime would win it, but then 
that is the cost of a closed power structure: stifled ideas, 
unimaginative conservatism and energy spent on keeping the other out 
rather than embracing them, their energy and their intelligence. My 
only hope is that the excluded groups will become strong while left 
out in the cold and eventually open up this ailing, closed system..

***

I hate this society with its materialistic lifestyle, its nihilistic 
politics and its apocryphal history. People here grew big and strong 
out of the blood of genocide.

A young native man to the Vancouver North Alliance MP during the 
2000 federal election:

"Why do you want to take away support for native programs?"
"This is the twenty first century. I think it's time that we all 
moved forward together, without handouts or tax breaks. We're all 
just Canadians."

"Just Canadian," makes it sound so accessible doesn't it? I wonder 
who is "Canadian". My guess is that it's quite specific: people of 
European descent who's ancestors actually took part (and so 
benefited) in the pacification of the country. Isn't pacification I 
nice word for murder, rape and betrayal? Yeah guy this his how it 
works: we treat you like animals and mash you into the ground for 
three hundred years and then we tell you to forget history and let's 
all be equal (even though you grew up in poverty in a concentration 
camp we kindly call a "reserve" and your parents have memories of 
the priests and how they made them forget their language and 
culture).

I guess I should feel so bad, even the Canadians aren't considered 
Canadian.

***

I see a constant theme in stories of people finding healing by 
returning to their roots even if they don't remember them. It's as 
though they are a part of the place that spawned them and by 
returning to it they realize themselves as they truly are. If it's 
true that we are a part of a place then a traveller is a wound torn 
from the earth and left wandering and I have been that kind of wound 
for three quarters of my life.

I can remember the time before we left home and it is happy. If my 
parents were battling things they did well to keep it from me. I can 
remember growing up surrounded by a culture that I was a part of and 
a family with roots as deep as can be. Did I belong? Certainly, more 
so than I have ever since.

Sometimes I think that if I had remained in England I could have 
gone to university and come out debt free then I think, 'if I'd have 
grown up in Norfolk I probably wouldn't have gone to university in 
the first place.' Sometimes I wish that I could have grown up in the 
familiar. If I had I certainly wouldn't be the soul seeker that I am 
today. I never would have developed an involuntary habit of self 
examination. My self as it is would probably not even be visible if 
it had grown up where it was born so intertwined with it's place 
would it have been. Is a vein of gold left in the ground less 
beautiful than a purified, shrunken bar?

Would going home cure me? I'm told not because I'm used to Canadian 
ways. Would there be a mystical reuniting of my body and soul? I'm 
sceptical but not resistant to it (in other words I would love for 
this to happen and I'm terrified that it wouldn't).

I'm feeling like Canada was my parent's dream and I've been dreaming 
it for a long time. I don't think this means an end to my 
relationship with Canada though. My own family will be half Canadian 
and I believe they should honour their heritage. I just don't know 
if that means living in it.

Perhaps these are immigrant cramps and they will pass away with me 
leaving my children unscarred.

---
You can visit Tim King's "The Written Word" at:
http://www.kingdomta.com/timland/timland.htm

-------------------------------------------

2.   Nights of the Living Bored

By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro

My current assignment is to work nights in a building.  I'm not 
really sure what I'm expected to do here other than rotate the 
security tapes and occasionally scare a tenant with the dog.  For 
the amount I get paid, that's already too much in my books.

I've been assigned this guard dog which--or so I was told--is 
significantly smarter than any other breed.  If this dog is smart, 
I'd hate to see what a stupid one is like.  Then again, it is a 
Belgian Shepperd and you know what they say about those Belgians.

The best part of this dog is that it only obeys to commands in badly 
spoken French--again, I blame the Belgians.  If you try to speak to 
it properly, it just stares at you with that "I'm extremely dumb, 
please don't beat me" look on his face. (It clearly understands that 
I'm as happy to be here as I am happy to have him here with me, so 
he may be smart in that regard.)  And while I do not advocate 
violence against helpless (or dumb) animals, I must admit it is 
tempting.

So you have to order him around speaking like an English person that 
can't speak French properly.  As you can imagine, with the fact that 
I don't speak either language properly, communication between the 
two of us has been difficult at best.

As I'm writing this, I am currently on the fifth floor, making sure 
that nobody is stealing the worn out wallpaper or the I-Can't-
Believe-This-Was-Cool-In-The-70s carpeting.  Or so my Daily Report 
states.  The Daily Report is this piece of paper where the security 
guard is expected to write what he's doing.  Showing what a 
dedicated worker I am, mine is a fine example of fiction.  
Unfortunately for me, this one has to be written in a serious tone, 
as it turns out the property manager actually reads these each 
morning, maybe to bring some sort of excitement to her otherwise 
dull life.

Unlike the time I was put to guard a locked gate that was to be 
opened in the case a fire started and the fire department arrived 
(you can imagine how often that happened), I was writing things 
like:

10:15	The gate is still there.
10:30	Nobody has stolen the gate.
10:45	This is rousing.
11:00	My lobotomy scar is starting to hurt.

And so on.  For twelve hours.  On the bright side, nobody actually 
reads these things at that location, which sort of defied the point 
of actually having to write them in the first place.  But those are 
the rules, and there is a cabinet full of them.

To pass the time, I read those of other guards but they are precise, 
exact and duller than a butter knife.  Assuming, of course, that 
this is one of those reports you can actually read.  The fine art of 
writing, amusing or non-, is definitely not a requirement for this 
job and sadly it shows.

I decided instead to read a couple of books: the first one, "The 
Hackers Crackdown," by Bruce Sterling, even if old it is still a 
fascinating read, especially if you like this sort of stuff and you 
were online a decade ago.  The other book is a sort of a Richard 
Stallman, creator of the GNU project, biography titled "Free As In 
Freedom."  The author, Sam Williams, tries to give a different 
perspective of Stallman than that of an arrogant prick the media 
makes him to be.  In the book, he sounds like an obese idealist who 
loves to eat and is extremely bitter.

As for the gate, assuming that if a fire did indeed start, the 
smoke, fire and eventual sirens would be a clear indication that it 
had to be opened.

But sadly, the pudgy woman that runs this building checks them 
carefully, highlighting specific sentences, like "Odd smell on 7th 
floor"--which is true.   When nothing happens (which is always), you 
report odd things.  Like the time I found a piece of paper in the 
lobby (and not a body in the staircases as I had hoped).

Occasionally she leaves helpful suggestions written on little post-
it notes attached to the reports.  So grateful I am, I use them to 
test the shredder.  And believe me, after several hours of 
abominable dreadful monotony, using various objects to test the 
shredder becomes insanely fun.

There are two amusing things about this woman: the first, is the 
signs she continually posts around the building.  Now I'm all for 
informative signs, but how hard is it to check the spelling of 
words?  Unfortunately, this git splatters her grammatical 
abominations from the penthouses down to the garage, informing all 
the tenants that their "atention" is "requrred".  Naturally, this 
leaves me in that similar state of mind when you have your underwear 
firmly wedged in the crack of your posterior but you can't pull it 
out.

I am contemplating whether I should spend a couple of hours hunting 
all the signs down and correct them with a thick red marker.  The 
best example of all of this was some paperwork in the office's desk 
involving someone's lack of payment, informing them that the 
"sherif" would be contacted.  I know, I'd be scared too.

The other amusing fact about this woman is that I have never 
actually met her.

But I already hate her.  Maybe it's the photos of her fat cat.  
Maybe it's the photos of the many overweight people that pose in 
them with the grace of a wounded buffalo.  Or maybe it's the funny--
as in vasectomy funny--photos of an extremely obese child looking 
like someone forgot to remove the thermometer before putting the 
diaper back on.

I think, however, the lack of happy emotions towards this person is 
that I know she's watching me via the security cameras.  The guard 
that was here before me said to himself, "Hey, nobody around, I'll 
just surf the `net here in the office," and that he did.  I mean, 
who blames the guy?

However, the lovely property manager, not seeing him appear in any 
of the cameras from the monitor up in her apartment, went downstairs 
in the office to check and got quite upset.

With the talents I learned from reading "How To Look Busy and Still 
Do Nothing," I devised a very simple plan.  I did my rounds the 
first day that I was there, timing how long it would take me from 
one camera to another, depending on where I was going.

At the appropriate times, I get out of the office--which has no 
camera--and make an appearance.  I stop in front of the camera, look 
around, make sure a door, or whatever is secure, then disappear.  
Ideally, I am continuing patrol.  In reality, I am back in the 
office, slumped on the chair reading a book or contemplating just 
how much I hate this job.  The Smartest Guard Dog In The World (TM), 
meanwhile, is fast asleep.  Ironically enough, she has complimented 
my boss as to what a hard working person I am.

Now, if you'll excuse me it's 4:25 AM, and according to my log 
report, I just finished patrolling the east staircase.  Camera 7 is 
waiting for my performance.

---
Leandro hates his current job and wonders why he didn't go work for 
Starbucks making Grandes.

-------------------------------------------

3.  The Joy of Fanatical Canvassing

By REVSCRJ

Every now and then you might notice this strange feeling creep over 
you that Humanity might actually be okay- you know, something 
happens that makes you say "Wow! People DON'T suck!"  I suggest you 
get a job canvassing door to door for a good cause- it'll cure that 
right up.

Before you ask, OSPIRG stands for "Oregon State Public Interest 
Research Group" and its a nation wide organization (letters vary: 
NYSPIRG, CALPIRG etc.)  They basically research a cause like 
"Improving air quality" or "Lowering ground water pollution" and 
then attempt to get bills passed that will enact said causes.  
Admirable organization, but one that has deal with politicians, the 
public and the police on a regular basis.  Admirable, but to be 
pitied at the same time.

I had just moved to Portland, once again trying to escape the 
psychic whirlpool of the Monterey area, and was fairly desperate for 
work.  Oregon is a great state, but I suggest that if you plan to 
move there you have a job lined up for you ahead of time, as there 
is VERY LITTLE work to be had.

I went to their head quarters to apply for a job with them, I was 
hoping for an office slot of some sort: general clerical, reception, 
or graphic design. None of those were available, of course.  The 
crew that was milling about when I came in was comprised of folk who 
were young and chipper--as openly accepting as a virus--with smiles 
and bright eyes that somehow made me think of squirrels.

Only in retrospect can I say that these were the pack markings of a 
tribe who had become VERY GOOD at getting the general public to give 
them money within a few minutes of meeting them.  That alien sweet 
syrup that I felt congealing around me was, in fact, the attitude of 
unwavering perkiness and unreasonable enthusiasm.  It makes my guts 
feel cold to even recall it.

The interview was surprisingly negligible--all they really needed to 
know from me was whether I was too deranged to interact with other 
humans and whether I could legally work in this country.  They tell 
me that the job is commission based, which pretty much ended it for 
me right there... after all, I need to eat and I'm not willing to 
gamble that on my ability to convince some total stranger, who I 
just likely interrupted in the middle of something REALLY important-
-like their favorite T.V. show--into giving me their money.  Fuck 
that noise.

Anytime I try to sell something to a stranger I am filled with a 
feeling of whorish emptiness that makes me utterly sick and angry.  
All forms of outside sales rep. are gross and foul--totally against 
my nature, I leave it to those who have no ethics.

I start making noises that I don't think that this job will be right 
for me when this really beautiful girl who had been "just checking 
out" the interview grabs my arm and says "Oh, c'mon!  Pleeease?!  
Just come out with us today- give it a chance!  You might like it!"

Prolonged eye contact.

So I'm being clutched by this hot college girl and the manager looks 
at me and says "Well, howabout it?"

What the Hell am I supposed to do?  I'm weak like that.  Before I 
actually realize what's going on I have agreed to go out and find 
myself sitting next to her driving out to some ritzy 'burb of 
Portland and feeling like a weak willed slug.

Hot college girl is flirty and touches me a lot, so I try to make 
the best of it.  The team leader tells us that it's not likely we 
will score much from this area because, ironically, the folks in 
these parts have so much goddamn money that they guard it like there 
were no tomorrow.  Hell, I suppose I understand- best to be able to 
afford the lung filters when the air-pollution gets too bad to 
breathe than to peal off a few bills and try to prevent it... 
stupid, short-sighted, self-absorbed fucks.

Anyway, hot college girl gets paired up with me (insidious) and we 
head out to start canvassing.  This girl is a fucking whiz at it!  
She has this smile and naive look that simultaneously arouses and 
disarms.  Its like all she has to do is say "Hi! I need some money!" 
and folk grab their chequebooks.  Creepy.  Her natural ease with it 
makes me feel a faux confidence with the whole shtick so she aks if 
I want to do a house on my own.  I think "Sure, I got the spiel 
down, why not?"  She proceeds down the block and I hit this house.

The door opens showing a fatty, balding, upper-middle aged man with 
a dead flat face.

"Hi, my name's Sean and I am working for OSPIRG trying to get the 
Clean Air Act-"

"YOU GODDAMN SON OF A BITCH!  HOW DARE YOU!!  GET THE FUCK OFF OF MY 
PROPERTY!!"

"What? I, uhhh-"

"YOU MOTHERFUCKERS MAY HAVE BEATEN ME ON THE GARBAGE BILL, but I'll 
BE DAMNED if you ever EVER GET A RED FUCKING CENT OUT OF ME OR MY 
NEIGHBORS!!"

"Jesus man, sorry I'm g-"

"I MAY NOT HAVE BEEN THE BEST MAYOR THIS TOWN EVER HAD BUT THAT 
DOESN'T MEAN I DESERVED WHAT YOU MOTHERFUCKERS PUT ME THROUGH!!!  
GET THE FUCK OFF OF MY PROPERTY YOU TREE-HUGGING PIECE OF SHIT 
BEFORE I CALL THE-"

"HEY- calm the fuck down bitch!  I'm going- Jesus H Christ!  GOD!"

Well, that pretty much set the tone for the rest of the day.  Hot 
college girl kept making eyes at me which was the only thing that 
kept me from finding the nearest bus stop and bailing right out.  I 
asked her about the ex-mayor and she told me that 'He'd put up a 
pretty big fuss over the garbage bill'- well, uhhh, no kidding!  
Before I could question her any deeper she says:

"Hey, every Thursday we all get together and go dancing at bar/cafe 
that has a really good jukebox and bands play there all the time!"

"Hmmm, that's great."

Side note: I NEVER hang out with the people I work with, it feels 
alien and somehow innately wrong like I were still at work, like I 
have to guard myself, like I have to wear a "face" for them- fuck 
that noise.  The very concept of it made me uneasy.

"The cool thing is" she continues "on Thursdays its 'ladies night' 
at the place and the girls are supposed to ask the guys... they 
want... to dance with them!"--eyelashes bat, eyes sparkle in the 
moonlight.

I want to fucking scream and bolt right in that moment!  I mean GOOD 
LORD this girl was saying to me basically that sex might be a perk 
if I were to stay with them--it was like I was being inducted into 
some fucking cult!  Not to say I wasn't aroused--I mean she was a 
really hot college girl and all--but was fearing for my immortal 
soul!

Heh, no, ultimately what made me call in "dead" the next day was the 
people I had the pleasure of meeting.  So many doors simply slammed 
in my face as if I didn't exist.  People saying outright that they 
could care less whether the air they breathed was clean or not and 
"Please go away before I let go of my Rotwieller."

I only worked for them for one solitary day, but in that span I 
discovered that it takes the zeal of a fanatic to stand before the 
dull-eyed, lazy, sick, apathetic ape that is the general public 
because the bulk of humanity is a waste of proteins who do not 
deserve the experiance of being.

I also learned that one way to make a fanatic is to lure a shmoe 
with the promise of sex... I'm no fanatic, never have been, I can 
see the malleability of perception thus I can't get behind one 
opinion so deeply that all else vanishes--ie, I understand nature 
too much to be a martyr... but sometimes I do regret not staying 
with them longer... at least until Thursday...

---
REVSCRJ is a writer/musician living in Monterey, California. 
Constantly on the verge of homelessness, he hopes that you enjoy his 
work or else his life has been in vain. Contact REVSCRJ at 
revscrj@cloudfactory.org to lodge complaints, notify of lawsuits, or 
receive spiritual advice.

-------------------------------------------

4.    Cellular Immobility
Mobile Buttplugs from Bell Canada

By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro

I'm the happy owner of a Motorola 120c.  Okay, it's a lie: not so 
happy.  Sure the phone works almost as promised (with emphasis on 
almost), but since I got it in November, there have been a series of 
things that happened that really make me wonder if that's why the 
phone was a special offer from Bell Canada.

Bell Canada, in case you did not know, is the leading authority when 
messing up your phone is concerned.

To give you an example: three months after it arrived to me, the 
antennae, a combination of a piece of metal so thin I could use it 
to floss my teeth and a plastic cap the equivalent of a suppository, 
snapped off.  I didn't even have to try to snap it off.  I pulled it 
up and it stayed in my hand.  For something you pay in the verge of 
$130, you'd expect a little durability.  At least I would, unless 
that ideology makes me extraordinarily unique in this world.

Because the gentle and kind people at the Bell store determined that 
this was not covered by the warranty (God bless them), I spent in 
the range of $55 for a new one.

How an item so small can justify a cost of almost half the total 
value of the phone is something I still haven't figured out.  Funny 
thing, the store had in display models of the same phone I have: all 
with broken antennas.

Three months later, the same piece broke off again.  I mean, this is 
somewhere near the vicinity of almost funny.  Fifty-five dollars 
later the hilarity, though, soon faded away.

When the piece snapped a third time--albeit this time it took a 
world record of only two weeks--I ended up buying a Nokia antennae 
from a competitor that 
doesn't move.  It works and actually reception has drastically 
improved, which for this phone, that's quite an achievement 
considering it has spent most of it's active bi-mode life in 
Analogue whenever I go inside a building.

Consider also that I paid a total of eight dollars for this piece 
that's significantly better than the original.  Maybe Motorola needs 
to learn something here.  Just an idea, of course.

Last night, I went to grab the phone to answer it, only I couldn't.  
If you are not familiar with the Motorola 120c, it has this one 
button that answers a call.  The same button is also used to 
acknowledge menu options and an average of fifty zillion other 
things.  The button in question happened not to be there on this 
occasion.  I assumed it had gone off for a much-needed vacation.

Ironically enough, I found it later on the spotted linoleum floor, 
which if you think about it, it's quite an achievement.  The piece 
looks like a malformed, semitransparent pea, looking like it just 
snapped off after it was chewed.  Now, ordinarily I do have the bad 
habit of chewing pens, but it's a little difficult, normally, to 
chew cell phone buttons.  Try it sometime; you may see what I mean.

When I took the phone to the Bell store (again) I was told this was 
not covered by the warranty.  Exactly, what is covered under this 
warranty?  Other than absolutely nothing, I mean.

Finally, after taking the phone and sending it to whomever to 
replace the nibbled button, the clerk tells me it takes somewhere 
between three to five weeks.

That's three quarters of a month to a month and one week...  to 
replace a button.  I'm not sure if I am the only one that finds this 
extremely idiotic.  Does the staff who repair these things get paid 
by the hour? If so, are they hiring?

I just hope now that I will not lose the battery cover, which is the 
only piece I have in my possession right now.  It should be noted 
that this piece, the equivalent of a drool cup as far as shape and 
amount of plastic goes, retails for a humble $65.  Add to this the 
cost of the antennae and we're at $120 already.

Does this mean that circuit board and the other components cost a 
mere $10?  Or does this mean that the antennae (total moving parts: 
one) and the battery cover (total moving parts: absolutely none) are 
the apogee of technological advances and engineering skills at 
Motorola?  Because, really, I can't explain these prices in any 
other way.

Maybe this is how Motorola is trying to recover from its billion 
dollar losses.  I guess laying-off well over one hundred thousand 
employees just wasn't enough to bring the company back into a margin 
of profit.

I just hope that one of them is the one who designed this phone.

---
Leandro would like to know when SMS--not some kind of kinky sex 
involving leather and whips--will be available in Canada.

-------------------------------------------

5.  How do I Lose Weight?

By Konrad the Bold

[Some nonsense about "how do I lose weight" cut...]

<Sh0ckWave> What's the best way to say "Mom, i'm fat. I wanna go on 
a diet."?
<Konrad> shock: or try getting your jaw broken
<blreeves> any humans her that want to talk to an 18/m?
<megs> talk to your pediatrician
<Konrad> blreeves: Yes, I'm a 55/m
<blreeves> Somebody DCC me please
<Konrad> blreeves: I enjoy watchin animals urniate. wanna cyber?
<Sh0ckWave> I heard of this thing, you take all carbohydrates and a 
lot of sugar out of your diet, and BOOM, 10kg(the most) a week.
<megs> i've found that trauma is a good way to lose weight
* Sivad sighs.
<Chewbacca> ive found that not eating is also a good way....
<Konrad> shock: or you could try getting tapeworms. make you thinner 
in no time
<Pixiestix> shock:  you don't wanna lose too much at once... then it 
won't stay off
<`Minx> hahaha, ewww
<megs> hey
<megs> they actually sell tapeworms
<Sh0ckWave> Nothing too derastic :>
<megs> i had a zoo prof who ahd a friend who ate one on purpose so 
he could eat    whatever he wanted and stay thin
<Konrad> Have you tried the "Weight Loss Fast" book of the
Do-It-Yourself Surgery  Series?
<Konrad>  it's great. I recommend the entire do it yourself surgery 
series

---
Konrad is not listening to you. Furthermore, he will not stop 
screaming at your shoes until you admit you have a mental imbalance.

-------------------------------------------

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