Dirty Hippies

The saying, "don't let the bed bugs bite," had always seemed ridiculous to me. As far as I was concerned bed bugs were an urban myth. Sure they may have been an issue after WWII, but outside of jails and homeless shelters they were a thing of the past. Right?

Recently, a friend of mine had to evacuate her apartment while it was treated for bed bugs. A cursory search of the Internet showed that many major cities in Canada are experiencing a resurgence of the blood suckers. Apparently, when you sit on an infected bed the bug attaches to your clothes, then you carry it onto a bus where it attaches to the seat, then to another butt. Eventually the bug gets carried to your neighbour's apartment room and you get kicked out of yours.

While Dr. James Dobson would have you believe that it is homosexuals who are the greatest threat to your family, the evidence of bed bugs in my friend's apartment is proof that it is in fact dirty hippies who are the greatest threat to the family. I demand that hippie marriage be outlawed immediately! Where's Eric Cartman when you need him?

[Ed. note: the existence of bed bugs in many five star hotels would seem to disprove the "dirty Hippies" theory.]

The Coffee Shop Story: Adventures In Naivete

My friend, M, and I decide to step into a small, high-end, specialty coffee shop for some tea and pastries. While standing at the counter a homeless person asks me if I can "spare any change?" I do not, in fact, have any money to spare (my friend was buying my meal for me which makes the story even more funny), so I told said homeless person that I would give him half of my scone.

After ordering, M and I sit down at one of the tables on the fashionable, yet rather uncomfortable, chairs. The homeless person sits at an adjacent table by himself and calmly ponders one of life's many mysteries (at least I assume that's what he was doing). I begin to admire how charming the homeless person looks, when the owner comes over and tells the homeless person that he has to leave. I interrupt the owner and inform him that the homeless person is my guest, and that he is waiting for the half-a-scone that I promised him. The owner tells me that he will box it up, and sure enough he gives the homeless person half of the scone and sends him on his way. Meanwhile, M can barely contain himself from spraying London Fog out of his nose and all over the establishment. And that's why I would probably be the worst business man ever.

In retrospect, this story would probably have been funnier if you had been there.