Vendetta Day, 2004

This is ordinarily the day when I write an entry that says "Die, Steve, die" (or something to that effect), and nothing else. However, I don't fancy wasting a whole entry on him this year, so I'm just going to say it, then get on with the rest of the entry.

There. Said it. Hope it works this time.

It was World Toilet Day yesterday. I'd meant to say something about it--perhaps a public service announcement, somewhat along these lines:

"November 19 is World Toilet Day. Citizens of the world are asked to honour their hard-working bogs by giving them a twenty-four hour reprieve from their ordinary duties. That is to say, shite out a window today!"

...but I forgot.

I blame that brilliant hate mail, rather than any particular absent-mindedness on my part. That thing was just begging for a good mickey-take. "Make fun of me," it crooned, cozying up to my ear. "Look at me, just waiting for a good shellacking! You know you want to. You know you have to. Gawn--don't let me be forgotten!"

"But--but what about the toilets?" I wanted to know.

"Pish on them," said the hate mail (hate mails are not known for their refined vocabularies, after all)--"pish on them. World Toilet Day comes round every year, but how often do you get one of me?"

"You are extraordinarily stupid," I admitted--and just like that, the toilets were stricken from the itinerary. Yes, indeed. There was much petulant porcelain in Pooville that day. Haw, haw. Next year, I think I'll take that long-anticipated jaunt down the underground jakes on Hastings Street. I've been meaning to visit them for ages, now, but my recon missions have always failed. The first time, I got tired about a kilometre in, and the second time, I didn't even get close. Next time, I'll take a taxi. Maybe I'll even borrow a digital camera, and get some visual evidence, sort of thing: "And the furthest toilet on the left, it had a gum wrapper in it (see Figure A)--but the one next to it was pristine. This guy (see Figure B) kept giving me strange looks--not altogether surprising, seeing as I was taking photos of toilets, and all--so I took a photo of him, too. He isn't really forking me the bird. It just looks that way because of how he's holding his newspaper. The second fellow (Figure C), is some berk that tried to sell me heroin on my way out. I told him I'd buy some if he'd let me take his photo, but then I was all 'Haaaaa, I lied!', and he was all 'Cuuuuunt!'--and Figure D, that's the photo I snapped over my shoulder as he chased me down Hastings Street."

See? I'm looking forward to it already. Only three hundred and sixty-four days to go.

Speaking of things that belong in the bogs, I have decreed that the letters "GWBN" now stand for "George W. Bush Naked". (Actually, I made said decree ages ago, right round the start of his first term, but I forgot to mention it in my journal till now.) Saying "GWBN" implies that something is hopelessly ugly and useless, unfit for public consumption. Usage is as follows:

"I heard Vanilla Ice is making a comeback!"

"Yeah, and I heard Playboy's having GWBN on the cover."

One might also exclaim "GWBN!" on its own, as an indication of disgust:

"Oprah Winfrey--"

"Ugh! GWBN! Stop right there!"

Alas (or, perhaps, thank God!), I could find no pictures to support my claim.

Poor Mr. B. He's such an easy target. Perhaps that's why I've not mentioned GWBN here before. It seems awfully cheap, taking potshots at someone so easy to pick on. Good ol' Mr. Nook-you-lar. Never, ever misunderestimate the manly charm of his wrinkled--

--see? Cheaper than the clearance bin at Bargain Harold's.

Before I sign off, say it with me: "Die, Steve, die!" Perhaps a thousand malevolent voices, all whispering these blessed words, will finally make them true.