The Future and Why We Should Avoid It

by Scott Feschuk

  On Thursday, Environment Canada forecasts a 90 percent chance of freezing rain, an 80-percent chance of being sprayed with slush by some asshat in an Odyssey, and a 100 percent chance of regretting the life decisions that have kept you here. Later in the day, the freezing rain will change into rain, followed by snow, followed by the urge to snap your shovel in two, curl up in the fetal position on the driveway and softly curse your forebears for not having carried on to California. As dawn approaches, expect the arrival of a thick, sentient ice fog that will stalk and devour us all, never stopping, never pausing until every soul along this cruel, frozen hellscape we call a country is consumed. High of –10.

  Friday will bring more snow and colder temperatures. As the mercury falls, Environment Canada forecasts a 40 percent probability of Imperial walkers assaulting your rebel ice fortress. Local law enforcement advises that counterattacks be focused on the walkers’ legs, which—if you think about it—represent a rather glaring structural flaw. Who designed these things? Talk about some guys who deserve to be force-choked to death, am I right? They’re probably from the same firm that told Grand Moff Tarkin, “Hey, when you go ahead and spend untold quadrillions constructing this killer space station that’s 140 kilometres in diameter, you should definitely scrimp on a little metal gate that would stop your enemy from firing a torpedo directly into the core reactor.” Anyway, the point is, it’s going to be cold and slippery out there, so only seasoned tauntaun riders are encouraged to risk the commute.

  On Saturday, the snow and record cold will continue as a trilogy of all-seeing, all-knowing fronts moves in from Mordor and tracks across the region, covering all the lands in darkness, conferring the power of speech on trees and generally lasting about twice as long as it needs to. Although daytime temperatures are expected to hover around –37 degrees, it is forecast that your teenager will nevertheless insist on going out in sneakers and a windbreaker. As if the cold were not depressing enough, Environment Canada also forecasts the imminent end of the limited-time return of the Shamrock Shake.

  Looking ahead to Sunday, the long-term forecast calls for the moon to become as blood, and the sun as black as a sackcloth of hair, and lo shall the earth quake and skies part and every mountain and island move out of their places. In addition, Environment Canada forecasts an 80 percent chance of every star of heaven falling unto the Earth, for the time of Mother Nature’s wrath will be upon us, and who shall be able to stand? Especially with all this freezing rain.

  Holiday Family Gatherings

  For many Canadian families, listening to the warm, wistful stories of Stuart McLean’s Vinyl Cafe Christmas has become a holiday tradition. But what if Dave and Morley’s family was a little more like our own?

  None of them had seen Uncle Earl since Christmas dinner, 2004. He’d arrived unexpectedly, just as Morley was serving the apple pie. “Don’t make a fuss,” he’d said, then tucked a napkin into the collar of his T-shirt. Morley dutifully made up a plate for Earl, the serving spoon hitting hard against the china. Earl spent the rest of the evening flirting ferociously with Aunt Janice and rubbing her thigh. Few would have thought this impolite had Janice not been married to Uncle Walt, who was sitting right there.

  Six years it had been since anyone had seen Earl. But when the doorbell rang, Morley froze. She knew in an instant. They all knew. Earl. A doorbell has never been touched so deep into the Christmas dinner hour by anyone other than a black sheep.

  Rubbing her hands on her apron, Morley made a noise she’d later insist was merely a sigh, though no one in the family could recall one of her sighs sounding so much like the F-word.

  “Hey, numbnuts!” Earl said by way of seasonal greeting as Dave opened the door. “Merry frigging Christmas.”

  There was room at the table. Stephanie had already been and gone. Five months pregnant by her boyfriend, a drummer in a Creed cover band, she wasn’t feeling that well. Still, Dave thought she looked radiant—even with the piercings.

  Grandma, too hard of hearing to have noticed Earl’s arrival, looked up from her banana liqueur and declared abruptly: “Politicians—they’re all a bunch of liars.” There were murmurs of agreement.

  “That’s Rhonda,” Earl said, motioning behind. Dave looked out to the porch, where a small woman was vomiting onto his Christmas wreath. “Oh,” Dave said. Dave couldn’t quite place Earl’s scent. Was it the cologne you buy for a dollar in truck-stop restrooms? Was it mace? Earl always did have a way with the ladies.

  The conversation turned to global affairs. Earl had thoughts about a nuclear Iran and a unique way of inserting a new and ever-more-creative profanity into the name Ahmadinejad every time he said it. He gestured as he spoke, spilling his whisky on the tablecloth and, later, the dog. Rhonda had now made it into the house. Unsteady on her feet, she brushed against the Christmas tree, but managed to collect herself, turn to the tree and declare: “Pleased to meet you.”

  Later, over Baileys and sweets, Dave gently put forth a reasoned argument for further stimulus to ignite the economy. Cousin Rick called that “pansy talk.” Only the market can solve the problems created by the market, he said. And Rick ought to know: he’d been working at Edward Jones now for five months. Grandma reminded everyone that she ate lard during the Depression, and everyone pretended they didn’t know that. Earl belched the first seven notes of “Away in a Manger.”

  Suddenly Grandma wanted to go home. She’d taken off her slippers and was putting on her boots. But Dolores wasn’t ready to leave yet, and Aunt Sandra wasn’t going to take her because, goddammit, she’d picked Grandma up!

  The argument went on and on, until someone noticed that Grandma was gone. She’d just walked out the door.

  “Go find her!” Morley hollered at Dave. “She could be anywhere by now!” Dave shouted at Morley. Earl sprang to his feet, and it seemed for a moment that a volunteer had been found—until he loudly announced that he needed to “make some room for dessert” and headed tipsily for the bathroom. In the chaos, Rhonda whispered to young Sam that she’d show him her boobs for $5.

  Dave found Grandma having a cigarette in the garage. He hadn’t seen her smoke in twenty years. She seemed embarrassed to be caught, but she didn’t butt out. “Good seeing Earl,” Dave said to fill the silence on the drive home. But Grandma just stared down at the Tupperware on her lap. Crossing the porch on the way back to the house, Dave noticed a few carrots in his Christmas wreath—the remnants of Rhonda’s first impression. He thought they actually looked pretty festive.

  Two hours later, when the last of the stragglers had been gently pushed out the door, Morley collapsed on the couch. The dishes could wait ’til morning. Dave flopped down beside her. They looked at each other with an expression that said, “Next Christmas we’re going to Cuba instead.”

  “Merry Christmas, Dave.” She touched his hair.

  “Merry Christmas, Morley.”

  For the first time in hours, the house fell quiet. They could hear the hum of the lights on the tree. The wind whipping up against the window. And to their surprise, gentle snoring coming from the bathroom.

  Televised Spelling Bees

  Exactly what part of the televised spelling bee are we supposed to enjoy? The severe, joyless parents who make the twisted, damaged moms on Toddlers & Tiaras look like nanny material? Or the panic-stricken children whose self-esteem is wrapped up in solving the riddle of vowels and consonants required to spell a word that no one else knows exists? Way to go, kid, you know how to spell chionablepsia. Also, you’re eleven and you’ve never been outside.

  Am I being too harsh? Maybe. If nothing else, I guess all the kids will remember the event forever, which will be useful in a decade when they need to describe it to their psychiatrists.

  The girl who won the Scripps National Spelling Bee a couple of years ago reacted with such dead-eyed indifference that her younger brother actually used his fingers to push up the corners of her m
outh and help her form a smile. Still, she walked away with $30,000 in cash, a trophy, a $5,000 scholarship and the memory of a decade’s worth of weekends spent staring into a dictionary twelve hours at a time while all the other kids listened to music, played sports and learned to tongue-kiss.

  Congratulations, little girl, and best of luck in all your future unabombing!

  Hockey Parents II

  It’s time to turn our attention to an age-old question: What if parents of young children behaved the same way at the local Christmas pageant as some do at a kids’ hockey game?

  Scene: Parents take their seats. Quiet conversations ensue.

  Woman: I can’t believe they’re letting Justin play one of the wise men. Tucker is a way better genuflector.

  Man: Or Liam. At least Liam keeps two hands on the myrrh.

  Woman: And let’s be realistic—Carson as a shepherd? He’s barely cut out to play Donkey No. 3. I mean, you call that vibrato? No wonder he got cut by the touring company.

  Man: I’m thinking of taking over the pageant next year. I don’t have any training of any kind and I don’t know anything, but I think I’ve seen enough episodes of Glee to do a better job than these bozos.

  Scene: A choir of children performs a holiday standard.

  Emma’s Dad [standing up]: Come on, Emma—sing. SING!SINNNNNNG!!!!! Sing harder, Emma! SING HARRRRRRR-RRDER!!!!!!

  Emma’s Mom [gesturing to her husband and whispering to the person next to her]: Sorry, he takes this whole thing pretty seriously.

  Emma’s Dad [now standing on a chair]: Go, Emma!! SINNN-NNNNG!!!!

  Emma’s Mom [turning red]: Sorry. He’s just … I’m sorry.

  Emma gets distracted by one of the bunnies being used to decorate the manger scene.

  Emma’s Dad [now standing on a different chair that someone’s still sitting in]: COME ON, EMMA!! FOCUS, EMMA!!!!!! GET YOUR HEAD IN THE SONG!!!!!!!

  Scene: The foyer at intermission. A couple holds court in a small group of adults.

  Husband: So we’ve enrolled Zach in after-school training with a private coach. He’s singing carols three hours a day, seven days a week. And that’s on top of his tongue-strengthening exercises. It’s a big commitment, but it’s the only way he’s ever going to get scouted by the major choirs.

  Wife: He loves it. You can tell he loves it.

  Husband: He totally loves it. I mean, he says he doesn’t love it. Or like it. Or ever want to do it anymore. And he cries a lot and says we’ve ruined his life. But you can tell he loves it.

  Wife: You can tell.

  Scene: Children gather around the manger. A boy begins playing a drum, steadily at first. He falters briefly, but the show continues. Grown men in the audience begin hollering.

  — Come on!

  — Wake up, conductor. YOU GOTTA CALL THAT!

  — Are you deaf?? You’re missing a good pageant, Mrs. Rinaldo!

  Scene: The climax of the show approaches. An angelic child steps into the spotlight and, despite obvious nerves, begins singing “Silent Night.” The audience falls quiet for a moment until …

  Woman: Is it just me, or is this a little pitchy?

  Man [shouting]: Stop hogging the song—pass off the third verse at least!

  Emma’s Dad: PUT THE BUNNY DOWN, EMMA!! PUT IT DOWNNNNN!!!!

  Scene: A little boy dressed as a cow walks to the car with his father.

  Dad: What did I tell you about lowing? Is that how I taught you to low? It’s mooooooo, all right? Moooooooo.

  Kid: Okay, Dad.

  Dad: You sounded like a dying hamster up there.

  Kid: Mr. Whiskers died?

  Dad: All those hours we spent lowing in the backyard. The long drives into the country. The three days we spent squatting in that dairy farmer’s barn. And you blew it.

  Kid: Sorry, Dad.

  Dad: We’re going to get home and you’re going to practise your lowing until you get it right.

  Kid: Okay, Dad.

  They get into the car. Before he pulls away, the father looks up and catches his son’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. The boy has tears in his eyes.

  Dad: MOOOOOOOOOOO!

  Sex

  Patricia McCarthy is explaining how to talk dirty during sex. Let go of your inhibitions, she says. Stop using clinical terms (vagina) and start “getting creative.” (Okay! Um … Captain Vagina?) Oh, and don’t forget timing. “Once, on a first date,” McCarthy recalls, “a guy told me over coffee that his [“creative” word for penis] was eight inches long. The information was good, but the timing just wasn’t right.”

  My pen moved smoothly along the page of my notebook. Don’t tout wang size at Starbucks. Got it. Wait ’til lunch at East Side Mario’s.

  McCarthy was offering her lexical guidance at Sexapalooza, an “adult-themed consumer trade show” that each year, across the country, attracts thousands to the romantic confines of a dank convention hall crammed with porn DVDs, crotchless lingerie, pubic hair dye, leather masks and hoods, handcuffs, vibrators, bigger vibrators, more vibrators, and one repressed bespectacled author who spent the whole time convinced the ghosts of his ancestors were watching as he browsed the latest in dominatrix attire.

  “There’s no magic formula for talking dirty,” McCarthy continued. “You can’t say that this word plus this word plus this word equals orgasm for your partner.” Oh, I don’t know about that: “I’m” plus “George” plus “Clooney” seems to work pretty well for George Clooney.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, Sexapalooza didn’t score big on the subtle scale. Just steps inside, organizers had built a comically oversized vagina, out of which people excitedly jammed their heads for photographs. The show also marked the first time since the 1989 Star Trek convention that I heard a woman yell into a microphone: “There are so many dildos in this place!” (And, once again, I want to apologize to the organizers of the 1989 Star Trek convention for my mother’s behaviour and her uncalled-for description of sci-fi enthusiasts.)

  Sexapalooza has the novelty of being about the countless uses of (and substitutes for) humanity’s naughty bits—but in many ways it’s like any other trade show, right down to the salesman slipping on a headset microphone and luring a crowd to demonstrate the amazing features of his remarkable product. Usually it’s a vegetable chopper or stain remover. This time it was the Bondage Bed.

  Every hour or so, with the help of a volunteer (usually a fat guy or a hot babe), the huckster demonstrated how the Bondage Bed would not only keep your “guest” from slipping out to watch NCIS but also eliminate the tricky weight-balancing issues that apparently come with doing it like a porn star. After the show, a curious woman took down an I Like It Doggie Style kit from a nearby rack, turned to her man and asked, “What do you think?” The man, briefly intrigued, noticed that the “kit” consisted of a strap that loops around the woman’s waist. “You could just use a towel,” the King of Romance said dismissively.

  The nearby Dungeon sounded ominous and was touted as the centrepiece of naughtiness at Sexapalooza—but turned out to be a small patch of exhibition hall separated by thin black curtains. Inside, an overweight woman lounged contentedly in a cage the shape and size of a dog crate, while a man showed off an astonishing array of whips and a creepy smile. Across the way, a sad-seeming burly fellow in a brown leather skirt was locked into a snug stand-up cage. A woman wearing a studded collar jabbed him with a cattle prod. (Alas, security in the Dungeon proved lax at best, for the next time I saw the leather-skirted man he was eating a hot dog at the food court. He looked happier.) Visitors to the Dungeon could avail themselves of the opportunity to purchase the latest edition of Whiplash magazine, which featured the National Mistress Listing (one-stop shopping for all your dominatrix needs) and ads for a wide array of bondage equipment (one-stop shopping for giving your housekeeper something to gossip about when she finds the hood and shackles under your bed)
.

  Meanwhile, as McCarthy moved to conclude her dirty-talk lecture, her words were drowned out by noise from a nearby booth: a gruff male voice passing from microphone to loudspeaker. “Let me help you find the G spot, guys! Come on, guys. Let me show ya.” Tempting, sir, but … ummm … I’ve got a 3:15 cage fitting over in the Dungeon.

  Two Other Things I Learned at Sexapalooza:

  If you think certain politicians or celebrities are hostile to the media, then strap on a camera, take out a pen and notepad and try to have a chat with an attractive, tiny blond woman as she is purchasing a seven-inch glass dildo. Now there is hostility for you!

  The thing that gets most women going, that revs their engines, that fires up their libido is … dark chocolate. So claimed a noted sex therapist, anyway. My date to senior prom would argue that actually it’s my Lou Rawls impression.

  Higher Education

  Dear Future Post-Secondary Student:

  Whole books are devoted to how to prepare for higher education, but here’s the truth—everything you really need to know about university life is contained below. Let your parents slog alone through the latest guides on mortarboard technology. With these twenty-one critical pieces of information, there is no force on earth that can stop a university or college freshman (freshperson?) from becoming a successful university graduate (except failure).

  Vodka? Not a food group.

  At school, you will live in accommodations that blend the comfort and amenities of a jail cell with the aroma of a hamster cage. You will love them.