So I read an article in Fortune Magazine a while back. It was a commentary on Gen-Y, and how we are starting to graduate from University, College, etc., and enter the workforce. The title of the feature, on the cover no less, was “Manage Us? Puh-leeease!“

Apparently, we are quite the force to be reckoned with.

For one thing, we have been raised with the notion of being special. Because our parents were probably the first generation to plop their kids down in front of the television en masse, television took it upon itself to develop shows such as Barney (perhaps a later addition, but one which has been around for much longer than even I thought), Sesame Street and the like to remind us that even though our parents were never around, they loved us very much, and we were significant. The MTV nation has taken over since then. Our thoughts and feelings are relevent, even at the idiot age of four. Especially at the idiot age of four.

So, coming of age, we naturally still assume that everybody is interested in our thoughts and opinions, and are out to show everyone just how special we are. This can be good at times – we are apparently a generation of overachievers, what with twenty-somethings owning their own businesses or attaining major achievements and advances within the first few years of joining a major corporation.

Meanwhile, the rest of the population is wondering why we instantly seek validation from our bosses and generally become chummy with them. They also wonder what the hell we’re doing with our piercings and tattoos, graphic tees under blazers and designer coffees. Being gen-Y, I’m rather okay with my unobtrusive lip ring and generally hidden body mods. And I’m always chummy with my bosses. This is how I get to run things the way I want.

However, I can understand that when an eager newbie sits down in a second interview chair and asks what she can do to contribute to the success of the company, the response is going to be a haughty snort. You’re a peon – just do your job, and do it well. You’ll get your fifty gallon fish tank later, assuming you can hack it.

What I cannot understand, but what is somehow being  understood and even catered to by these massive corporations attracting the gen-Y worker bee, is the umbilical cord still attached to both mommy and daddy.

Really, I thought it was just me who noticed this. I thought I was the freak for having been ready to move out since 16. But no….no, apparently it’s a bit of an epidemic.

I first noticed this in University. I had to trek my ass across the city to attend an orientation session. In order to do this, I had to get up at about 6:30 in the morning, take the subway from one end of the line to the other, meet up with a friend who was taking the same program, and then navigate what was apparently a holiday bus schedule at a desolate intersection neither of us had seen before. We ended up walking many miles, several of which in the wrong direction.

We were young, we were confused, we hadn’t a fucking clue what we were doing. But we got there. So imagine my flat stare of disgust at seeing a plethora of bright eyed newbies sitting in the auditorium with mummy, daddy, grandma and siblings in tow.

What the fuck. Seriously? You are going into university. And you still need someone to hold your hand? Okay, okay, so maybe your parents are paying for your school and they want to see where it is you are going to be spending the majority of your time and quite possibly losing your virginity. But sitting there right along with you? Lining up for the library card? Your 18 year old is not capable of waiting in a line up and asking someone behind a desk what to do if they are confused? You can’t leave your offspring long enough to go get a goddamned cup of coffee?!?!

Oh but it continued, well into the school year. I had three other girls in my residence, one of whom was from Napanee, or as I call it, AssFuck Nowhere. Mommy was up every other fucking weekend with the groceries and the trips to the WalMart. Yet another one, (they were all from small towns, I’m not sure if this was at all related) shipped her laundry off to her parents. And it was all paid for, fucking catered to, and disgusting. If I didn’t share a bathroom with one of them, I’d have been certain that an ass-wiping machine had been bought and paid for as well.

I hated university, and I hated the fucking children surrounding me there. And from what I could see, if you were just there to learn, you were fucked for employment afterwards. If you changed your mind about what you wanted to do for the rest of your life (because I hold this option very dearly, not believing in being miserable for the rest of my life in a job I hate simply because it’s the only option) you would have wasted four years of your life. So I left university and got a real job. I guess part of me isn’t so gen-Y after all.

I did put myself through a quick schooling session to start my own business, which is a fun little side venture. But the majority of my money is made through my 9-5, while my university peers are just entering their last year, perhaps pondering a victory lap as well. It’s a good job, with a good future should I decided to make a career out of it, excellent benefits and opportunities, and endless incoming reading material, hence my discovery of the article in question.

Back to said article, and job searches, it is now apparently the latest and smartest business move to allow newly hired young employees to bring their parents in to a meet and greet day to show off their fabulous new working environment. Yes indeed. Gen-Y kids are so tied to their parents that they actually jump at the opportunity to show their parents where they work in order to say ‘Look! Look! I done good!’

I’m sorry if I’m of the opinion that by the time you are old enough to pay your rent, you should be happy enough with what you are doing for a living to do well enough without the validation of the people who wouldn’t let you get your trendy tattoo when you were 17. But then, that’s another issue: living at home. There are far, FAR too many young adults who are still living at home. Some of them see this as a necessity: if I want to afford my car, I need to live at home with my parents. Others see it as a bonus: a free ride. They love the idea of staying at home. What a great way to save money! I’m so glad you’re willing to sacrifice your independence and general pride.

No, no, no. After a year of seething at everyone around me, moving back home was not going to work. I stopped myself from stabbing people in the fucking eye, seventeen times a day! You are not going to tell me when dinner is ready and what time to be home. Out I go. I’m a little old fashioned this way. When you have a job and are making money, get the fuck out the door and start paying for your own fucking hydro. Do you know how much power the hair dryer sucks up as you coif your trendy ‘do?

And yet, as we’ve seen, parents have their fists firmly in the pigtails of that endeavour as well: the job search. Parent day at the office? Give me a fucking break. My parents have never even seen where I work. It’s bad enough they know where I live. I spent 20 years with them – I’d like now to have an aspect of my life that doesn’t involve them, thank you very much.

On a side note, here’s an interesting conundrum: if you live at home, and your boyfriend/girlfriend also lives at home, where do you do your dating business? Do you really want to have to arrange your fucking around your parents schedule? Mmmmmmmmm. Sexy. Unless of course, you’re happy with the backseats of cars and park benches, which further proves my point that only 14 year olds should be living at home.

But I digress. The reason this whole thing came up in my mind in the first place was an incident at work – as usual. And I wouldn’t call it an incident except, as is often the case, I had to dig my fingernails into my desk to keep from hitting something.

A dumpy looking woman came up to my reception desk and asked if this was indeed ‘the lawyers office.’ This happens a lot, because there are a ton of different, hidden offices behind my reception. “Which lawyer are you seeing?” I asked her. She explained that she wasn’t seeing anybody, she just wanted to drop off some resumes for her daughter.

I could have screamed. Really, I could have screamed. Compared to this, I can forgive everything else. Okay, so your kids are in school and you miss washing their clothes. You’ve invested twenty something years into their lives, you want to see what they’re doing with it. Did you ever stop to think that maybe if you hadn’t plopped them in front of the telly at the tender age of two you might not have missed the opportunity to be involved? That maybe it’s a bit late now and it’s time to cut the goddamned umbilical cord already?

The woman eventually got the hint that this is a business centre and I’m just going to throw away anything you hand me that nobody has specifically requested. She left. Which is good. Because I wanted to yell at her. Even if somebody had specifically told me that they were hiring and wanted me to collect resumes, I would have torn this one up in the woman’s face and tossed it back at her, whether or not it’s any of my business. I can’t, in good faith, allow anyone I work with to hire someone who doesn’t have the integrity to hand out their own fucking resumes.

How much of an apron string strangling monster of a parent do you have to be to hand out your kid’s fucking resume for her? Seriously!!! Why? Do you really think, honestly, that anyone will hire her because you gave such a fanfuckingtastic first impression?!?! If you walk into my office and hand me your kids resume, I’m going to have to assume that you also wrote it for her, and that she isn’t going to be able to do a goddamned task on her own. I’m also going to have to assume that you told her what to be when she grew up, but since you’ve been holding her fucking hand for so long, she hasn’t even done that yet!!!!

This is the last straw, and it’s getting fucking ridiculous. Gen-Y, listen up. Your mommies and daddies are going to start dying in the next couple of decades. Sorry, but it’s true. It’s an aging population. What kind of fucking sense does it make to rely on them for your goddamned toilet paper purchases? Move the fuck out of your parents house, get in debt, get a job, and work your ass out of it like someone with some fucking balls. Otherwise your parents are going to be picking your job, your mortgage, the colour of your fucking kitchen, and advising you on your retirement plan so they can still have their hand on the strap of your backpack long after they’re dead.

Parents: stop it.

Companies: stop encouraging it.

Gen-Yers: grow the fuck up.

Because, in reality, nobody is going to be impressed with the fact that you made top quarterly sales in wherever, or that you’re the hippest guy at your too-cool office chumming with your boss over lattes, or that you own a media-software-marketing-bullshit whatever business if at the end of the day you drive your shiny new car to your parents’ bungalow where they still cut your mashed turkey and peas and tell you how fucking special you are.

If someone has to tell you you’re special, you’ve already failed.

Alright. Five years out of high school, it’s time to take a look back. Because when you go to school in the suburbs, five years is all it takes for those you once knew (or knew of) to become fat, pregnant, married, slutty, or just plain horrifying.

I wouldn’t exactly say I was unpopular in high school. I had a small group of close friends, half of whom have smartly moved to the city, two of which have become enigmas, and one of which joined a cult. I didn’t get pushed into lockers or have my lunch money stolen. I had classes with many of the more popular, and was on generally friendly terms. I could even go sit with them at lunch if I wanted to – it would have been odd, but not unspeakable.

And yet, I was not part of this popular crowd. At no time did I even run into anyone outside my immediate circle of friends beyond the parking lot, unless they worked as a cashier at Zellers. I did not go drinking – I found it bizarre that kids would actually set aside time for the sole purpose of vomiting on themselves. And I really didn’t care who was dating who – my boyfriend at the time was too old to go with me to the prom.

I was, I suppose, a nonentity. And highschool, a nonevent. But now, with the magic of facebook and the like, it is near impossible to avoid the gen-Y habit of vomiting glimpses of ones current life onto the worldwide web for all your former almost-peers to see. People I never really spoke to now consider me their friend. I find this amusing.

I find it amusing in my signature, rather disaffected and sometimes mean, downtown kind of way. If I stumble across a terribly unflattering picture of someone I disliked, barely knew, or even adored - any picture that shows nothing more than a sad, sad tale of stayed-behind, I will exploit it for my own enjoyment.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what becomes of those who do not flee the suburbs the second the last schoolbell rings, if only in their minds and future plans. This is an expose on the life and times of those who were born with little class, raised with little class, and have settled into a life of fat wedding gowns, bad makeup, fake tans, and slutty desperation.

 !!!DISCLAIMER!!! 

I don’t care if you knew some of these people, are some of these people, or are offended on behalf of some of these people. I daresay that some of these people were very nice indeed, some of them even friends of mine (though never outside school; I remain untainted.) If you have the poor taste to stay behind in a cultureless wasteland, getting fat and boring, or slutty and disgusting, and then have the idiocy to post pictures on the internet, I reserve the right to laugh at your misfortune.

And laughing, at this very moment, I most certainly am.

Enjoy.

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Let us first start with a glimpse of high school itself. Perhaps a good explanation as to why, although not mistreated, I was never really one of them.

 

Yes. Well done indeed. I’m sorry, no. I did not have the tendency to lift my shirt in class. Or laugh at those who did. Moving on.

 

Ahhhh, yes. Pregnant. And taking pictures with a cell phone camera. Very classy indeed. Given the skinny jeans, hooker hoops, and what appears to be a waitress nametag on the sweatervest, I’m almost tempted to ask “are you sure you’re not just getting a bit jiggly?” Please also note that the phone is pink, and that the sweatervest combo looks suspiciously like our school uniform.

Didn’t take long I suppose. Next.

Weddings! I love weddings. I love fat weddings. This girl was actually very nice. I don’t care. Posting an awkward wedding photo in which you are sprawled like a whale on a hotel room bed (classy) is cause enough for me to laughingly poke holes in whatever self esteem your early marriage  has provided you. I was kind enough to not post the pictures of her friends lacing her up in her corset.

Onward.

While the fact that she is holding an actual cat in this photo is quite clearly an attempt at irony, or at least cutesy-poo-ness, one would hardly notice. One would be far too busy choking down hairballs at the sight of this squishy-thighed cameltoe nightmare. The added fur trim – in the front only of course – makes it that much better.

 And here we see the same girl, whose name I cannot be bothered to remember, on a slightly fatter and more casual day.

Stick around the suburbs long enough, folks, and everyone ends up looking a little too trailor-park.

More weddings! More fat weddings. And fat bridesmaids, too. Offset, of course, by the skinny one with JAP highlights and what appears to be a trendy lump on her head.

More wedding fun ahead.

Bachelorette parties! Oh boy! What better way to celebrate your impending license to let yourself go than by swinging your fat ass around a stripper pole!? This particular incident was so delicious that I simply had to include a few more slices of ass pie, as seen below.

Please note the stripper nails, the stick-on tattoo, the cheap veil, and the fat. I’m not sure why it is that all the fat girls in suburbia get married so quickly….but there must be a correlation somewhere.

That girl on the right? She’ll tackle any football player who gets between her and the bouquet.

I’ll be Charlie, and you can all be my angels. Except the bride. She can be Bosley.

This, ladies and gentlemen of the classier jury, is what was deemd ridiculously attractive in highschool. Please note that the stringy gelled highlights, smeared on shimmery eyeshadow, the travesty that is the mascara, complete inattention to eyebrows (for what male notices eyebrows?), and attempt to make a witch’s mouth look pouty all scream: I will have sex with you for little or no effort on your part.

Because, as we have seen by the obesity and willingness to marry the first person that comes along, effort is not particularly popular round these parts.

Okay. I’ll be nice to this one. I was actually friends with her. In that never-outside-of-school sort of way. She was tiny. Like, teeny-tiny. And now looks like she has the mumps. I just thought I’d point it out.

Who doesn’t love a good dose of trout-mouth? Let us please pay careful attention to the sparkly shadow done up to the brows, as well as the lip liner two shades darker and a tad more orange than the frosted pink blowjob lips so prominently featured in what is evidently her sexiest picture.

This was another episode worthy of some extra attention.

Since the evident purpose of these pictures is to highlight the girl’s posing ability and apparent sex appeal (poor thing doesn’t know how easy it is to find a non-sleazy photographer in the city…oh wait…suburbs…riiiiiiight), one could wonder what on earth was passing through her mind when she allowed a picture to be posted of her left leg being molested by what appears to be a unsuave female pedophile stretching out a Howard Stern mask.

Yes. I have breasts too. I also have a bra that doesn’t show in the armpit of my dress, more than one shade of lipstick, and enough sense to not try to be sexy in my parents liquor-bottle-littered kitchen, with a microwave next to my head. That might explain the lump, however.

This, again, is why I was not popular. Because I am not amused at the thought of being decorated by my still-sober-enough-to-not-vomit-and-pass-out-on-the-floor sorry exuses for friends.

Now that is a beautiful wedding picture. Much like the yeti, it is brief, large, and out of focus. Or, given the predominant colour, perhaps the abominable snowman. Speaking of colour…white is supposed to symbolize innocence. As in virginity. Now, we all know that nobody saves it for marriage anymore, except for those losers in my residence. However, most people can be fooled, or even lulled by more contemporary views. There is no fooling, however, when your kid is at your wedding with you.

 

You cannot being to tell me that there is a single one of you out there who isn’t thinking ‘No, man, no! Don’t lift that dress!’ Especially considering this girl once told me she hoped I grew up to be fat.

Here, of course, is their darling child. Guest of honour at the wedding, naturally. And this is why I hate new parents – they assume that the rest of the world gives a shit about the colour of their children’s bowel movements, and the location of their fingers. Isn’t this cute? No, it isn’t. It’s disgusting. Your child is sticking her fingers into the waste that her body naturally tries to get rid of. If you want your child to discover her body, show her the magic of toes. Less germs.

And here we see a classic example of suburbanite trendy. While I don’t hate the hair on the left instantly, I do hate the typical gelled down blond curls of the girl on the right, as seen in far, far too many I’m-so-sexy pictures vomited forth from the land of magic-cuts and discount pharmacies. I will also make hardcore fun of the shimmery pink eyeshadow smeared up to the eyebrows, reflecting like beacons.

Dear suburbanite girls: STOP WEARING SHIMMERY EYESHADOW UP TO YOUR EYEBROWS. YOU LOOK LIKE IDIOTS AT BEST, AND WHORES MOST OFTEN.

As a professional, I am allowed to beat you senseless with my professional opinion.

Here we see a typical example of the suburbanite post-grad male. Note the baggy, wiggeresque pants, the beer bottle, and sullen downward glare, as if in some sorry attempt at intimidation. Please note also the stucco ceilings and beige walls of your standard ‘burb house party. Also, what appears to be a smidge of coke stuck to the nostril of our specimen on the right, will upon closer examination reveal itself to be a cigarette jutting oh-so-coolly from his mouth. For further amusement, please note the uber-urban-oriented-but-purchased-only-by-wiggers clothing line donned by our friend on the left.

“I’ll take ‘eighteen different flavours of gross‘ for five hundred, Alex”

I will also point out that the girl is very obviously sucking in her stomach, squeezing together her thighs, and pushing out her tits to absolutely no avail. This is why those of us who admittedly do not look ravishing in a bikini, simply do not wear them. Or, at the very least, do not allow pictures of ourselves in said bikinis to be published on public internet sights. For all the effort she has spent, the only thing I have to say is that the tag is sticking out of her tit. Classy.

Another example of the standard suburban male. See the one on the left? His dad hit on me in a bar once. I never told him. Yet another reason to keep myself as a nonentity.

More wedding pictures! Fat and happy. Oh, wait…we’ve seen shots from this wedding before, as indicated by our Nicole Ritchie protege on the right. Still sporting her strange head-lump, perhaps caused by a microwave?

Moving on, then.

I went to Europe with this girl. We both had a crush on the same boy. She won, because she was a nice, normal high school girl, and I am a snarky outsider. Good for her, being nice and normal. I was elated the day they broke up. She is now evidently dating another boy from the same school, who appears not fat and happy, but fat and disgruntled. She is fat, happy, and wearing a track outfit. Good for her.

The boy on the right I do not know. The boy on the left I did know. He was unpopular then, for having been a freak. Being somewhat odd myself, you’d think I’d have had sympathy. I did, for a bit. But, as has become quite obvious, this particular fellow is beyond the help of sympathy. Please note….well…everything. But on top of everything, the still-dirty too-long girlish fingernails, and what appears to be a bondage burn on the frail wrist above them. Gag. Gag. Gag.

Moving on, and quickly.

No! No, no, no, no, no. What is wrong with you? This is not okay!!! This is also not some drunken photo that was plastered somewhere unbeknownst to her – this was her profile picture, her main ‘LOOK, I AM A SEX KITTEN PLEASE LOVE ME BECAUSE I LIVE IN THE SUBURBS AND WILL GET NOWHERE IF I DON’T ATTRACT A MATE’ picture.

Why?!?! First off, you are wearing red fishnet stockings. Secondly, you are wearing them with cheap white plastic shoes. I was seven years old when I knew that cheap white plastic shoes meant automatic slut. You look like a whore, your foundation is eighteen shades too pale, and your hair is dirty. You are also posing in front of someone’s backyard pool.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I hope this girls mother has a copy of this picture. Please also keep in mind that this girl was our grade 8 valedictorian, my first indication that something about the education system just…wasn’t right. Or was at least focused on something besides promoting smarts. The best line that ever came out of her mouth? “Why would you want to go to a library?”

The next week? Valedictorian. Oh, yeeaaaahh.

And here we see our valedictorian in yet another compromising situation. I can only assume that her apparent lack of gag reflex has served her well since grade 8.

Fat and happy. Good for her. Good for her arteries.

Looking very pregnant, and looking very trashy. ‘Tis the way of the suburbs, my friends. The way of the suburbs. Get out. Or this will happen to you.

All that’s missing is a pudding-bowl haircut and a case of the measles.

Lovely Christmas with the daughter, who looks approximately a third the age of the mother.

Someone was apparently so impressed with their catered wedding that they felt the need to take a picture of their meal. This is what passes for elegance, ladies and gentlemen. Be sure to tip.

And here we see mommy, sans baby, out on the town with her mommy friends. Look! Three different brands of trashy in one rare photo opportunity! Click away. I’m assuming the fat ‘n’ sassy one is saying “my daughter is these many.”

This is what happens what suburbanites take the train down to Queen St. for the afternoon before someone with a real sense of trendiness teaches them how to shop, buy things that fit, put on foundation, and give their mothers 1987 chunky gold bracelet back to it’s rightful owner – the bag lady. 

Yes. Precisely how one would like to be fondly recalled years after graduation. Fucked up, and in a sloppy manner at that. Please note the frumpy white top at what appears to be a…rave? Do they still have those? And the blue eyeshadow (yes, blue), which seems to have been only partially applied, likely in a dirty bathroom stall. Also, your bra doesn’t fit, and you are carrying some sort of leopard print accessory. Go home and vomit – you fail.

On a brief sideline, this is another shining example of what has become of those who were not at all popular during school, after school, before school, or ever. This is posted to reaffirm my belief that I am well within my rights as a human being to wipe these creatures from the face of our earth. Please recall the freak seen and mentioned above. Rumour has it that he married, not the boy on whose lap we so recently viewed him perching, but the fat, apparent stripper on the right. Her name? Sapphire.

Back to the popular girls. Yeeeaaaaahh!!!!! I’m so fucking cool, I’m drinking out of red plastic picnic table cups in my mom’s rec room. And I’ll kick your ass if you talk shit about me! Except I’ll probably just be vomiting on you later.

Wow. Nothing like a voluntary bitch on each arm. If only they didn’t look rented.

Pregnant and cracked out. Winning combination. Please also note the stains on the spandex. Well done indeed.

So apparently drunken males are only capable of two looks. The sullen confused stare that we have seen on our left-hand specimen many times before, and the “I’m determined to differentiate myself from my friend with an identical hair colour and styling technique” shit-eating grin.

No, no, no. I don’t care if your momma told you curves were sexy. They are not sexy in that outfit, and not in your ass jiggling manner. Because the camera is apparently being held by a drunken fool, as with so many of these portraits, I’m having a difficult time recognizing this girl. If I’m not mistaken, I believe it was the same girl (with that headband, even then) who, upon seeing an ancient elk-related specimen at the museum shrieked ‘reindeer!’ and proceeded to talk about santa for the next twenty minutes.

Ah, the same sullen stare. And is that the same girl we’ve seen before, perched on the hotel bed with her pink-to-the-brows friend? The one with the gelled down blonde hair? Hard to tell them apart, really. Honestly, sarcasm aside, I can’t tell. But I can tell that this one spent hours in front of the mirror with a curling iron that apparently didn’t come with instructions on how to not look like an idiot.

Just saying, is all.

Someone once asked me why I never dated the boys in my school. If I recall correctly, I replied with a simple, blank, incredulous stare.

Oooh! I remember these girls. The uber tough ones drinking in one of their mother’s rec rooms. Now looking about ready to cry at the thought of another tequila shot.

Pussies. You have not yet earned your trailor park status.

Too. Horrified. For words.

Oh wait…here they come….the tacky earrings, the gaping mouth just begging for various objects to be photoshopped in later, the probability that her tits are supposed to be supported within the rouching on that five dollar shirt instead of swinging below them.

This is the sort of photo that ends up on ebaum’s world in a million different horribly cruel ways. That poor dancing girl with the one leg sticking out in front who’s been the brunt of several hundred embarassing photoshop scenarios? This girl is next.

Okay, the girl in the middle we’ve seen before. I didn’t mind her in school, though she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the pack. A little too trailor park tough. But she has her pretty moments, and I can respect the fact that although she needs some help with her mascara, at least her eyeshadow is not dragged up to her eyebrows. Kudos.

This picture, in fact, is not here because of her. It is here because of her friend. On the left. The one without eyebrows. The one who felt the need to draw said eyebrows back onto her shiney face, and could apparently only do so with the use of a protractor and compass.

Let us hope that the next time she goes to carry out this endeavour, she aims to trace the circles a tad higher up, thereby stabbing herself in the eye with the compass.

I can fit several round objects in my mouth at any given time, especially while drunk. I’m not going to be the brunt of any jokes around town for the next two years, noooooooo.

Fat and happy, alltogether now!!!

Out of focus picture…while drinking from a gas can. Perhaps this, and not the microwave, is responsible for the disproportionate amount of girls with lumps growing from their heads. Also, nice tan lines.

Yes. You can stand up and your friend can’t. Your friend also has an unfortunate reflection of light up her ass. Congratulations on being the lesser of two idiots in a picture.

Is anyone surprised that there is an online group dedicated to those students who spent the majority of their time, not in the school, but getting drunk in the park behind the school? I thought not.

Please take careful note of the various stains all over this splendid assortment of flannel and various stretchy fabrics. Please also note that knowing when to stop is the key to being a classy drunk. Such as my ability to consume a bottle of Disaronno, engage in pleasantly intellectual conversation, excuse myself before midnight, take a cab home and wake up the following morning without a single recollection of the previous nights events with nobody having been the wiser.

Me? Classy drinker. This girl? Apparently about to fall into her own puke.

Let us move now to our final piece, a familiar piece, on which to exit our journey through the land of tacky.

Yes. Good ole’ trout mouth. You know, I don’t even know the girl, really. Friend of a friend somewhere on the internet. But if I ever see her, I will have to smack her. First of all, the makeup which I have so flippantly insulted is made even worse now that we can see it is completely ridiculous for that outfit – a different set of colours, my friend, different set of colours. Go to MAC, or Shoppers if you don’t have MAC out there, and buy another shade of lipstick. There are lots of slutty shades, trust me. I’ve made half a living out of making girls look slutty in pictures – but at least it’s for magazines, and at least I get paid – and not in cocktails.

“But, how horrible,” you say. “Don’t be so hard on her. It’s how everyone does their makeup/hair/facial expressions out there. She can’t help it. Really, she might not be a whore once you know her.”

Uh huh. And this is why that poor leaned-upon fellow was labelled in this picture as ‘random number four.’

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Well done suburbanites. Thank you for reaffirming my belief that I have more taste, more class, and more smarts (perhaps for having NOT gone to school, despite all the expectation of my glorious academia) than those….those, who were left behind.

Left behind, to the poor highlights, the cheap clothing, the slutty lipstick. The nights of sloppy fumbling in bars and cheap clubs, inevitably ending up with someone your best friend was with, since there’s only a few places to drink out there. The headlong rush into marriage and babies, perhaps marriage because of babies, or babies not even bothering with marriage or anything else besides puke stained clothing and a cute ultrasound. Left behind to shitty cars and stumbling home down abandoned roads, drinking in fields, basements and hotel rooms.

Left behind. Or stayed behind, voluntarily, not knowing any better. So really, I’d say, left behind by lack of knowledge of the world beyond that highway. Left behind….

Let us shed a tear for them…those lost, suburban souls.

Or, you know, make fun of them forever and ever, and look forward to the highschool reunion in ten years time when even more of them will be fat and married, and the sluttier ones will be dying of some terrible disease.

Okay. I live in Toronto. Toronto, Ontario, Canada. This city is supported by its transit system, known as the TTC. We live and breathe the TTC. When it shuts down, the city shuts down. One can be standing above ground and know if the TTC has shut down simply because the volume of confused and pissed off pedestrians will suddenly triple, and strangers will begin exchanging TTC related stories. The only other cities I know of that rely as heavily on their underground transit system are New York and London. New York at least has taxis, and London….well, London has produced an awful lot of bad musicals lately, so I don’t much care for them.

As with any large city, we are always waiting. We wait in line at the bank, we wait for the subways, we wait for the elevators, we wait for electronic doors to slowly open because some asshole was too lazy to use his God-given arms to push the door open himself. We are constantly waiting, because there are several million of us, added to which are several million more clueless outsiders on a day trip to clog the arteries of our attempted motion. We wait, and we wait, and we wait. So when we are finally moving, get the fuck out of the way.

As stated, the majority of our moving is done via the TTC. So, if you don’t want to experience the reknowned rudeness of Toronto, it is highly recommended that you learn the rules of the TTC. We are rude because it is the fastest way to get you to move your fat tourist of an ass. If you do not follow the rules of the TTC, you are labelled a ‘foreigner,’ and you are likely to be pushed, glared at, shot, or otherwise afflicted with bodily harm. For the purposes of definition, it does not matter if you are from Hong Kong or Barrie. If you do not follow the TTC rules, you are a foreigner and you are in my way.

Anyone who has been proverbially bitch slapped with a sharp Toronto tongue has more than likely broken one of the following rules:

There are two lines when entering the TTC. Choose quickly. One is for metropass and token holders. The other is for those who need change, or are too stupid to read their fucking map and need to ask for directions. The latter need to be shot in the face. Intended for this second lineup, unfortunately, are those who already have change and simply need to dump it in the box, and those who have tickets, transfers, or a day pass. Here’s the crux: just because you need to get change, it doesn’t mean the thirty people behind you have to wait. Get your fucking backpack out of the way so people can wave their transer/pass or dump their change/ticket and continue on with their journey.

Do not ask for directions. The TTC is one of the least complex transportation systems, as anyone who has seen the London or New York system can attest to. The TTC is crucial only because it is so sprawling and because in the core of the city it is far more efficient than driving. It is not complicated. There are signs. Everywhere. Need to transfer at the oh-so-confusing Yonge/Bloor interchange? Look up: southbound trains are at the top of these stairs; northbound trains are at the top of these stairs. While you are standing and staring and asking people where to go because you cannot follow directions at a fifth grade level, you are preventing us from moving.

Do not rush the doors. Do not rush the fucking doors. I am not going to spare your life because you didn’t have the wherewithal to give yourself four minutes leeway to get to wherever you are going. Because four minutes is all you are going to have to wait for the next train. Unless there is a delay, which is often caused by trains having difficulty with their doors because so many fucktards crash into them and then try to pull large parcels through. Also, if you were a true Torontonian, you would have your route planned down to the second, and would never miss a train.

When we here in Toronto are finally on the move, we are in fact fulfilling a purpose. As such, it is a rather private endeavour. In this regard, similar rules apply as in public washrooms: there is a one urinal/stall/seat buffer zone when at all possible. If I am sitting on one side of the train, and there is a free bank of seats across from me or further down from me, do not sit one seat away. I will automatically assume you are a pervert and are going to try and touch me. The serrated blade all Torontonians carry unbeknownst to foreigners is being prepared for the stab, pulled a little further out of its hilt with every inch towards me you have the nerve to lean. Get. The Fuck. Away.

Paradoxically, the opposite is true during rush hours or around particularly busy stops. Not knowing which stops these are will make you, the foreigner, stick out like a sore thumb, and is enough of an offense in itself to be worth a shove or stab or two. If you can remember none other, remember Yonge-and-Bloor. When in this vicinity, it is imperative that all available seats are taken. This is done in order to make room for the inevitable amount of people jammed in around you. If you refuse to sit, you are not being polite by allowing the seat to remain free for some non-existant cripple - you are being terrifically rude by taking up the breathing space of those around you who have the misfortune of not being near an available seat. Sit down. “Oh, but I’m getting off in two stops, I don’t want to sit down.” Two stops? You mean Yonge-and-Bloor? Everybody is getting off at Yonge-and-Bloor. Sit. You are in the way.

When getting on/off the train at Yonge-and-Bloor or some other similarly busy stop, perhaps St. George or Union, do not try and push your way through the throng of people in motion. You are not more important than every other rider. Every other rider will collectively push you onto the tracks for being such a bastard. Also, let people off the train before trying to push your way on. The train is not going to pull away before everyone has exited.

Do not be that fucker who assumes that once he is on the train, all is well in the world. Move away from the doors; there are other people who need to get in. This is what creates the injuring panic people display when they start pushing their way through crowds in fear of the ominous chime of the doors. If you simply get out of the way, there will be time and room for everyone. Torontonians know this. It is you foreigners who fuck it up for yourselves.

Get your bag off the seat. Get your bag OFF THE SEAT. NOW!!!!!!! Did your bag pay $2.75 to pass through the turnstile with you? Hmmm? Or if it’s a particularly old and ugly bag, did it pay the senior fare? No, it didn’t. It is therefore not entitled to it’s own seat. Oh, but I’ll move it if anyone asks me to. Only a hardcore downtown Torontonian will tell you to move your bag or be punched in the face. There are far too many people who, while foreign and spineless, will be too polite or afraid to tell you to stop being an asshole – however, they are following the rules more than you, and so deserve a seat.

I am well within my rights to pick up your stroller and beat your child over the head with it to remove your type of stupidity and inconsiderate behaviour from the future gene pool. There are a few mothers out there who are well aware of this and fold up the stroller, hoist up the kids and keep them as compact and quiet as possible. These women are my heros. The rest of you, who think the universe revolves around your mucus producing bastard of an offspring, should be spat upon. I don’t care how fucking tired you are – either you chose to have a baby and therefore have no right to complain, or you were too stupid to keep yourself from getting pregnant and therefore have even less of a right to complain. Planned mommies: keep your “Jeep” montrosity and snotty bastard away from my ankles. Unplanned mommies: I will look upon you, your bastard, and your soiled sweatpants with as much disdain as I damn well please, and there is not a thing you can do about it. You are in my way.

Do not talk to people on the subway. Nobody cares in the slightest if you have read the same book that they have, or if you have the Scarborough-shit manners to try to pick them up on a subway train. This falls under the same privacy clause as not sitting next to people unless necessary. I’m on my way somewhere, I’m doing something, I’m busy. Do not talk to me. You may talk to your peers, so long as it is quiet, and so long as you understand that if your conversation is of a low level of intellect someone will eventually yell at you to shut your fucking pie hole so the rest of us can hang on to what brain cells remain.

If you are poorly dressed, ugly, or have not yet mastered the concepts of modern hairstyling, you will be judged by me and those around you. Pluck your eyebrows, shave your legs, get a better bra, put those man-boobies away, and for the love of all that is holy, give the shoulder pads back to Delta Burke. Also, nobody cares how comfortable you are with your body and it’s maladies: if you have six toes on each foot, you are not allowed to wear open toed shoes.

Fat. Bastards. Stand. You do not sit. You do not deserve to sit. You are depriving the rest of the working citezenry of room, oxygen, and cheeseburgers. Similar to luggage, your ass did not pay an extra $2.75 to take up the seat next to you. You are one of those hideous sons of bitches who are in someone’s way the minute you step out of your chicken-friend smelling house, and stepping onto the TTC only pours a little more sodium into the collective wound. Sitting next to me is equitable to vomiting on me, as I will likely end up vomiting upon myself.

Do not project any former part of your body into the air surrounding you. The TTC is a glorified, travelling tin can – it is by no means antiseptic. This means that you are not allowed to brush your hair, you are not allowed to pick at scabs and flick them away, you are not allowed to put your fingers anywhere near your nose or your acne, and for fuck’s sake, you are not allowed to clip your nails!!! What is wrong with you?!!?!?

It is not my fault, nor the fault of anyone around you if you are unable to purchase comfortable shoes. Or, if you have purchased uncomfortable shoes, if you do not have the balls to suffer for fashion. Do not take your shoes off on the TTC. You are not in your house, your car, or in a hotel room. There is a reason why all three of those venues cost significantly more than $2.75. You have paid for the privelege of being allowed to exist next to others going a similar direction. You have not paid for the privelege of being comfortable, and certainly haven’t paid for the privelege of making the rest of us surpremely uncomfortable. If you take your shoes off, I will dump my scalding hot extra foamy non-fat vanilla latte on your feet to demonstrate the searing discomfort your feet cause me.

If you are sitting in a forward/backward facing seat, and the bank of sideways facing seats in front of you is full, you will notice that there is an empty seat between you and the window that is extremely inconvenient to get into. Many people will not even bother to try and sit here – therefore you are passively aggresively taking up two seats, and deserve the same violence as the aforementioned fat bastards, backpackers and mothers. Move over and let someone sit. Or stand up and let someone sit. If someone happens to be sitting in this crevice and needs to get up, do not simply swing your legs around. Your face is still in the way, so unless you are perverted enough to want a face full of strangers ass, stand up. And then sit down, moving towards the window so that someone else may sit next to you, and pray that they either get off before you, or demonstrate the same courtesy when you have to get up. If they do not, you have the right to pass wind in the face of the rude son of a bitch. You probably know this after having been subjected to similar discomfort by the person who recently had to slide their ass past you.

If your stop is not quickly approaching, get the fuck away from the doors unless you have absolutely nowhere to move. And if the latter is the case, you must step off the subway at each stop to let passengers out. If you do not, you are in people’s way, and by now you should know that this will result in several varieties of violence. If you are approaching your stop, do not expect people to let go of poles and manoever out of your way while the train is still in motion. They will fall. Once the train has stopped, that’s when people must quickly move out of the way. This also allows for the fact that some of these people may be getting off as well. Particularly at Yonge-and-Bloor. If you stand up after the train leaves Bay, Sherbourne, Wellesley or Rosedale and begin pushing your way to the doors, announcing ‘excuse me, this is my stop, move!’ I will respond with ‘this is everybody’s stop, and if you weren’t such a tourist you might know that.’ Everybody will laugh at you, and you will deserve the humiliation.

In order for the driver to open the doors, he occasionally has to step out of his booth and manually press a few buttons below the opposite window. There is a very good chance that people are sitting in the seats at this window. If you are one of these people, get up before being asked, or you will be holding up not only a few people with your unnecessary presence – you will be holding up an entire train, and therefore the entire system. If you cause our precious TTC to back up, you are a plague to the city, and we will destroy you.

If you miss your stop, you miss your stop. It happens. Even to Torontonians, focused as we are on where we are going sometimes more than where we actually are. If this is the case, do not jump up as the doors are chiming and run into several people as well as the purse I carry that is worth more to me than your life. Get off at the next stop, cross to the other platform, and ride back. It will take about five to seven minutes. Now, it is true that most Torontonians have their daily TTC ride planned down to the second and so may not have this spare seven minutes. However, ‘there was a delay on the TTC’ is a universally (and by universally, I mean within our city) accepted reason for being a few minutes late. Do it too often though, and you merely reveal yourself as inefficient as well as ruining it for the rest of us.

Once you have exited the train at your stop, do not stand in the middle of the platform trying to determine in which direction to go. If you are that unfamiliar with the stop, you foreigner, get out of the way and start reading signs. It is far better to walk all the way to one end of the platform and realize that you must walk back then to have 83 passengers have to pummel their way past you and your overnight bag. At least if you walk to one end and turn back, it may seem like you merely changed your mind.  

Lastly, though almost most importantly, there are the escalators that one will more than likely have to take when leaving the subway system. Here is where it becomes absolutely crucial to go with the flow that is Toronto on the move. Your journey may be at an end, but that is not the case for everyone else. Other people have other trains to catch, buses to catch, streetcars to catch (buses and streetcars both deserving their own set of rules too numerous to be mentioned here) and once again you goddamned bastard of a foreigner, you are in the way. And you are in the way in the worst possible manner – because it is so! fucking! simple! WALK ON THE LEFT, STAND ON THE RIGHT. Just like driving, suburbanites: if you are in a rush, the left lane is for you. If you have an immobile object, a cane, or are just plain lazy and wish to stand (even Torontonians may be at the end of the day) then keep to the right to let others in a rush pass by. This is the simplest thing in the world. Walk left, stand right. If you stand on the left, you demonstrate to me and the world that you a) don’t know how to read the signs around you; b) are unaware that other people are behind you and that you are not the only carbon-based life form in the world; and c) lack the courtesy of a monkey. You are in my way, and it will take every ounce of my will to not trip your sorry ass onto the jagged spikes awaiting you at the top.

This may be, ladies and gentlemen, why Torontonians are so rude. Not only do we have people in our way on a constant basis, but we have to bottle our collective rage against the inconsiderate bastards of the world and keep our clenched hands at our sides. We may yell, we may glare, we may trip and even shove. We may hiss and spit and curse your sorry souls. But what we really want to do is reach out and smash your face in with a blunt instrument reading ‘YOU ARE IN THE WAY!’ In an ideal world, every true Torontonian would be provided with such an instrument. And at the bottom, in fine print, this clause would be imprinted, to be stamped until the next trip on the face of every immobile bastard who has the nerve to slow us down:

“If you do not know how to ride the TTC, you do not deserve to speak, breathe or live. “

For those of you who are interested in what my daily duties are, here is a minute by minute agenda of my pretty-much-every-day.

8:45 am Roll into work, and curse my Sassy Friend (formerly known as our ‘go-to girl’) for getting away with not showing up until 9. Unlock cupboard, roll out filing cabinet thing, binders and postage machine. Turn on computer.

9:00 am Put on makeup.

9:05 am First call comes in. They ask for their traffic ticket court agent, whom they refer to as a lawyer. He is not in the office yet. I put them through to his cell phone, as per his instructions. They then call back to ask why he didn’t pick up, and can I go get him? I tell them no.

9:10 am Open inter-office email program, delete 70+ junk emails. Open hotmail, delete emails from people I don’t like, and about 15 facebook notifications. Sign for packages from FedEx, UPS, Purolator, DHL, TNT, Globex, etc. etc. etc. Jot them down in book and stamp them with the date, unless I am too busy reading something of interest on facebook.

9:10 – 10:00 am Tool around on facebook, making sure to pet all the fluff friends I can find so as to earn munny. Stalk people from high school. Answer phone calls and put them through to extensions without actually listening to anything anyone says.

10:00 am Usually about the time the first real idiot calls in. Lately it’s been involving a scam whereby someone has sent them a fake cheque under a fake letterhead. They want to know what to do, since they cashed the cheque and sent the scammers money ‘to make the cheque go through’. Resist telling them that their only option is to go home and cry, and to stab themselves for being such an idiot.

10:15 am Sassy Friend comes by to discuss latest idiot move made by tool of a manager. Usually involving some attempt to fluff up her mullet, her tendency to leave early to pick her dog up from the groomers, or her manner of cackling when speaking of her husband’s suicide. 

10:15-10:45 am Various clients wander by with stories and greetings. Some are funny, some are not. Some of them should really stop telling me details about their sex life, especially when they are grossly overweight.

10:45 am Aforementioned traffic ticket court agent usually huffs in at this point, in a terrifically important hurry all over, giving unneccesarily loud instructions regarding his phone calls. Insult either his hair, his tie, or his condo. Demand latte.

11:00 am  Phone clients to tell them about the packages that have been sitting on my desk for over an hour.

11:00 am – 12:00 pm Catch up on my webcomics. Continue to check facebook. MSN Sassy Friend about stupid people. During this period, one of the following will generally happen on a daily basis:

a) The post man will come up to deliver express items. I will hand him all the mail from the previous few days that were supposed to be delivered to other floors; inquire as to the possibility of other floors getting our mail and simply writing ‘RETURN TO SENDER’ instead of showing the same courtesy as I. The postman will apologize with a second grade grin as though this excuses him. I had a friend who did this same thing. She carried cookies in her pocket and looks like a walking STD.

b) Vagrant will come in demanding to see someone who is either no longer in this office, or does not have an actual office here, only renting one by the hour for appointments. Client will throw a hissy fit when they cannot see this person. I, in return, show zero sympathy. On one occasion, client was convinced that she would be dead by the end of the day if she was unable to see her lawyer. Security was called.

c) Someone who does not speak English will show up looking for someone, and will have no idea of the name of the person. They will keep shouting ‘immigration! immigration!’ as though that makes me bilingual, and as though it were not possible for there to be more than one person of whom they might be speaking.

d) Someone will call four times in a row for the same person and get really irate when they cannot reach them. They will make an attempt to interrogate me with that authoritative voice that is supposed to get them their way. I will return with an even more authoritative voice and inform them that I am the receptionist, have no control over whether or not someone picks up their phone, and that if they would like to speak with whomever they are calling, they will simply have to leave a message. With tone more than words, I also inform them that it is generally not a good idea to get pissy with the person who may or may not hang up on you.

12:00 pm Sassy Friend relieves me for lunch break. Go surf facebook while munching on sorry attempt at being healthy. Alternatively, if I have forgotten my baggy of carrots, I am forced to cross the street to buy sustenance, and consequently forced to behold the hideous surroundings and jackasses who do not know how to stop their cars before the white pedestrian line. Unabashedly yell at said drivers.

12:15 – 1:00 pm Try to enjoy my lunch while sitting in Sassy Friends office. Glare at clients who have the nerve to ask me for a brief tutorial on our monster of a photocopier. Possibly wave some sort of foodstuff at them to indicate my current unavailability. Clients who inquire about the mail are informed for the umpteenth time that it is never done before 1:30, as I get the mail after my lunch. Me sitting here eating clearly indicates that I am not yet done my lunch and the mail is therefore not yet sorted. Go back to your office, peon.

1:00 – 1:15 pm Hang out at my reception area where Sassy Friend is still covering for me. Share lunch break stories of idiots on phone, outside, and in the office. Laugh and point. Leave to retrieve mail. Hoist mail out of mailbox in lobby. Wait with jackasses for the uber slow elevator. Glare at the ignorant jerks who walk through the doors ahead of me without offering to hold the door for me and my armload of mail. Dump mail in Sassy Friends office, and sit back at own desk.

1:15-1:30 pm Check Sassy Friend’s blog for hilariously recounted in-office idiocy, or out-of-office hilarity. Chuckle at references to myself and my wacky ways.

1:30 pm Sassy Friend brings over mail for people who are no longer here and haven’t had the courtesy to inform the post office or the give-us-money-for-Jesus people who send out paper wasting postcards. Also in this pile is mail for those clients who wish to be called when so much as a give-us-money-for-Jesus postcard comes in for them.

1:30 – 3:00 pm Tool around on facebook. MSN awesome friend every time client or boss does something stupid. Try not to let eyes glaze over as international tax consultant comes over with incredibly boring story about how the corporate big wigs in his industry don’t know what they’re doing, as though this is news. Cringe at phone call from disgusting old lawyer who has a crush on me and his failing attempts to be charming. Traffic ticket court agent comes over, tie askew. Demand the tie be fixed, pseudo-flirt with him in French; enjoy resulting latte. Receive email from boss asking for some ridiculous task to be done, such as accumulating every clients home phone number ‘just in case’. Ignore request.

3:00 pm Call clients about their mail.

3:00 – 4:15 pm Try to find new things to do on the internet whilst whittling away the time. Attempt to write blog, though get sidetracked by constantly ringing phone. Stupid phone. Stupid people on phone. Come up with new ways to amuse myself, such as answering calls from telemarketers and letting them ramble their way into a hole before hanging up on them, or allowing for a long and awkward pause when a caller horribly mispronounces a very simple name. Ignore impatient people waiting in reception wondering what is taking their lawyer/tax consultant/court agent/whatever so long. Half the time, the lawyer/tax consultant/court agent/whatever is not even in their office because the idiot in reception is two hours early, two hours late, has the wrong day, or doesn’t have an appointment at all.

4:15 pm Wince at pile of outgoing mail that has accumulated during the day. Record in billing program so as to be sure to earn our penny for every item stamped. Begin stamping. Tell client waiting in reception for traffic ticket court agent that he is ‘tied up with a long distance phone call and should be out in just a minute.’ Call said court agent and remind him that he has a client waiting for him. The same one I called him about forty-five minutes ago.

4:15 – 4:45 pm Continue to receive phone calls from idiots who call back to interrogate me after getting someone’s voicemail. Continue to inform them that just because I am at reception, it does not mean that I am able to page them, get up and fetch them, or magically make them appear in their chair just because they happen to be calling from Pakistan or Conneticut. Hang up on the ruder ones and claim to not know what happened when they call back. Vow to take anger at world in general out on the ignorant TTC patrons awaiting me at the end of the day.

4:45 – 4:55 pm Swing back and forth in swivel chair, having grown tired of the internet, staring at nothing in particular.

4:55 pm Begin packing up binders, rolling filing cabinet thing, postage meter etc. Glare at anyone who has the nerve to ask me to prepare an outgoing FedEx package for them, or dump a shitload of mail in the outgoing box. Inform them that I am still here, but my brain has left for the day, having given up after a fingerless, speech-impedimented person wandered in to find employment counselling with a company that is never here without an appointment and who probably drooled on the carpet on the way out. Their mail can wait until tomorrow. Check facebook one last time.

5:00 pm Curse my automated phone program who seems to think that my business day ends at 5:01 and not 5:00, and therefore continues to send calls in while Sassy Friend is already standing in front of me, hustling for the elevator so as to not have to share it with Tool of a Boss.

5:01 pm Turn off computer, leave glass mugs half filled with water all over desk to be put away some other day, grab purse and mail, and make a dash for the door before Tool of a Boss can see us and invite us out for drinks at her place.

5:04 pm Jab finger in elevator button for the twentieth time and curse its eternal slowness. Ride elevator down to lobby, dump mail, ride escalator down to TTC.

5:05 pm Begin end of day stress relief, usually involving elbows in the ribs of poorly trained TTC riders and insulting every poorly dressed female on the train. Compare stories of in-office idiocy, and look forward to the next day.

Once again….this is what I do for a living. Every. Single. Day. Sometimes I love it. Sometimes I want to jab myself in the eye with my letter opener. Today? Feeling a little jabby.