After rigorously going over the submissions for the 'Questions and Queries' column, I have chosen Psychotic Penguin's submission for this first installment because it touches on so many of the issues of today that are ripping our society apart. There is absolutely no truth to the rumour that I took money from said penguin. It was a donation to my charity FindSave which benefits the forgotten spinal bifida children of Patagonia. So without further ado, I will bid adieu and turn it over to ewe. Dear Buddy,
If a guy gives you a colorful (or, in your case, colourful) rubber ball with his name on it, does that mean he likes you?
Love,
Shaina.
Dear Shaina. First let me say that you sound like a very nice person, notwithstanding your moniker Psychotic Penguin. However I muist advise you against the i in your name. Look what it does to must. It makes me want to pronounce your name like hyaena. That said, if it is actually pronounced that way, then my deepest apologies to you and all your people whoever they are. As to your attack on Canadian spelling let me just say that even though the o u combination is such an irritant to spell check. and Americans it’s worth it.
Now to the nub of your question, the rubber ball with someone’s name on it.. Throughout history the signed rubber ball has been associated with romantic love. From the ancient Sumerians to the modern Sumerians, a man giving you a rubber ball which he has signed has always meant he desired marriage. A sgned black rubber ball that is. A signed colourful rubber ball means you probably just met me as that’s the only way I sign autographs anymore. You see an Aunt of mine who was a hoarder recently passed and left me ten thousand colourful rubber balls and ever since I’v e been trying to get rid of them. Now as to how you forgot meeting me, that I cannot explain. Interestingly enough I do like you but not that way so I guess my answer to your question is a qualified ‘yes..’
My niece Fagette just called. She said she missed me and couldn’t wait to visit me in Toronto. I haven’t told her yet that I’ve moved to Hollywood. I’ll cross that bridge when she shows up on my nonexistent doorstep in the T-dot like she did the last time. She. was very excited because she got a C on her project at school. I told her that marks weren't what counted. That a C was nice but it wouldn’t buy happiness. Popularity does that. So I asked her what sort of press she'd received and she told me that it had been overwhelmingly positive which is never a good sign. I once went to a screening of a movie where people hated it so much they stood up at the end just to show their support. It's only when things are great that people feel that it's okay to criticize.
It reminds me of that time in Hatworld when a top hat named Tim and a rasta hat named Rufus were flying around one day smoking a big spliff and debating whether or not a toupe should be considered a hat. Even Socrates would have needed two boys to solve that one. Tim was pro-toupee, but Rufus said if you start letting in toupees where will it end? Bubble wigs? Glasses perched on the head? Weaves? Suddenly, they were surrounded by a V-formation of blue foam cowboy hats. Their brims drooped. They were obviously drunk. "Oh my god, one's got a hat pin, screamed Rufus ". Tim the top hat remained frozen in the air like a frightened Fred Astaire. Then everything became still, like that moment just before you're named Miss Universe.
Then, something moved across the sun, like an eclipse, and it became very cold. They all looked up to see a hat so big you could stage a high school production of Flower Drum Song on it. It was God. The foam cowboy hats scattered and Rufus and Tim fell into each other's brims with relief and when they looked up the big hat was gone. Now, that’s the kind of God that I can handle. Large, stylish, and knows when to leave a party.
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