"A million monkeys banging on a million typewriters for a million years will eventually reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare."

So apparently some thieves in Chicago made off with a trailer stocked with fifty thousand dollars worth of broccoli. Police have logged the theft in their stolen vehicle database but say they've got more important things to do than search for the missing trailer.

If it were up to me, I'd modify the "bait car" program and leave a truck full of Cheez Whiz and veggie dip in a parking lot nearby. Rig it with a GPS device and you'll have the crooks in no time, because seriously, who can eat broccoli plain?

I'd also recommend that police keep a database of vegetarians on file in case this happened again, just like we do with sex offenders. I mean first it starts with broccoli, then carrots, then who knows what else? Wouldn't you want to know if a convicted vegetarian moved into your neighbourhood?

I wonder what a head of broccoli would fetch on the black market these days anyway? Can somebody just buy a dimebag for personal use?

After learing about this broccoli burglarly I'll be doing my part by being extra vigilant. If you've got good vision and haven't had a stroke or colon cancer lately, be warned: I've got my eye on you.

I was planning on skipping the usual drink-up this New Year's and doing something different: strapping some dogs to the front of a sled in Algonquin and hanging on for dear life.

My outdoorsy friend Char planned the whole thing and invited me along. Unfortunately Mother Nature decided it would be fun to make me pay for my bitching and moaning about the snow over the years and cancelled winter on us.

We had scheduled a half-day excursion, but due to the warm weather they could only offer us a short "training" run, which I'm interpreting as, "Let's take them behind the arena and wait for the Zamboni to leave some ice-scrapings on the parking lot."

They also suggested dog-carting as a second alternative. After thinking about the chariot race in Ben Hur it did sound intriguing, however I don't think the movie would have been the same with everyone stuck in the mud. Better to save that for summer.

If we actually do get some winter weather I may try for this again in a couple of months. For now I'll have to get my thrills from stuffing my niece into a laundry basket and pushing her up and down our corridor. At least she doesn't whip me. Yet.

For months my coworker Diane and I have had a running joke about crotchless panties. I don't remember how or why it started (though I'm certain it was her fault), but every day since the summer those briefs without crotches have made their way into at least one of our conversations.

Fitting then, that she receive a pair of her very own for Christmas. I was thinking about visiting a kinky clothing store but didn't know of any in the area and Yonge St. is a bit of a hike. Plus, I had a better idea. Why not make my own?

So, off to Zellers I went to find the largest pair of grandma panties I could get my hands on. While chatting with the cashier I found out that they used to carry a 4XL thong. I mean seriously... how would you be able to see, around her rolls, that someone so huge was actually wearing it?

I took my prize home with me and had just finished my handiwork with the scissors when I came up with a great idea for decoration. This was the end result (click to enlarge):


Note the strategically-placed mistletoe.

Friday morning Diane was greeted at her desk with her surprise. And what a surprise it was. Her busting out laughing on the phone was the best present I could have ever received in return.

Merry Crotchmas.

I've noticed over the years that it's starting to suck more and more to be single, and I mean over and above the obvious lack of sex.

I'm referring to perks such as perferred "mommy" parking at malls, carpool lanes (babies count towards the two-person minimum), all those sick days that coworkers take to care for their kids, and not one but TWO tax breaks from Mr. Harper's government this year aimed specifically at families.

The latest one allows couples to "income split", essentially lowering the amount of tax paid if one spouse makes significantly less than the other. Bottom line is that a larger portion of the tax base is paid by unmarried people. I am not about to sit idly by and allow this travesty to take place, however. I have a plan.

According to my calculations, if I had a wife that made no money, I'd be saving about $8,000 on my tax bill. I'm going to find a homeless woman and allow her to shelter in my house. After six months of living common-law we'll be able to file a joint return, and I'll get a fat refund in April. Homeless girl gets a roof over her head and I get to stick it to the Canada Revenue Agency. Another win-win solution.

After that, the first order of business will be take my new wad of cash straight to the pharmacy. If I'm going to celebrate I'll have to stock up on lotion and tissues.

I was invited over for dinner last week by a coworker who's on maternity vacation and I needed a Christmas present for her baby daughter. I briefly considered getting her a six-pack from the beer store before discarding the idea and ducking into a store selling kid clothes.

If I trusted my own sense of fashion to dress a baby, little Kianna would be wearing a burlap sack and work boots. Instead I got help in the form of the sales associate with the biggest chest. (Honestly I don't know how they keep finding me.)

I informed her that I needed something for a six-month old girl. She took me over to the pipsqueak section and she grabbed what at first looked to me like three random, unrelated pieces of clothes and turned them into a sharp-looking outfit. Mission accomplished.

We went to cash out and were waiting for the till when she turned to me and asked, "So, is this for her birthday?"

I stared at her for a minute (above the neck this time) before she remembered that it takes twelve months to make up a year, not six. It was then that I responded with, "Yes, and I'm going next door to look for half a candle to put on her cake."

Or, at least I would have said had I been witty enough to come up with that on the spot. Drat.

A little while ago I organized a surprise party for John's 30th birthday. I called all his friends and had his wife bring him to the restaurant. Everything went as planned and a good time was had by all.

For some reason I've been doing a lot of birthday stuff lately. I'm happy to be invited, but sometimes the Selfish Bastard in me rears its ugly head and wonders where my party is.

Some of you will remember that it was Boxing Day that I was jettisoned from my mom's uterus. Anyone born around the same time can sympathize; no one is around that week and those that are are too Christmas-hungover for more food, drink and general tomfoolery.

One year an ex-girlfriend of mine arranged a birthday party for me two weeks before the actual date. That was appreciated, but in all my years on this Earth that was the only one. Selfish Bastard is kinda bummed out by that.

For the benefit of future generations I'm campaigning for a ban on sex during the last two weeks of March (same-sex couples exempt of course). Go read a book or something... in separate bedrooms.

Next year will be my last in my 20's and I'm hoping against hope that my friends come through for me. Selfish Bastard will settle for nothing less than cake, candles, beer, strippers and a parade. And while I'm at it, a pony. This day will be about me, dammit.

Oh, and... er, Happy Birthday John.

So... just in case you were wondering, performance summer tires worn down to the wear indicators really aren't the best for gripping when it comes to December ice and snow.

I have really got to stop procrastinating, or else one of these days they'll be scraping my spleen off the guard rail.