H2No.

I saw this ad in a magazine and thought, shouldn't it really read: "An overly caffeinated world doesn't need caffeinated water"? We've already got chocolate, tea, coffee, soda, etc.; why the need for 'invigorated' water? Is there such thing as "sensibly caffeinated" agua? Really, I've seen enough people get bent out of shape over having fluoride flow through our taps, but an addictive substance like caffeine is okay?

I can only imagine people in the developing world seeing a product like this (as, in many places, they scoop their refreshment out of muddy puddles and polluted streams) and shaking their heads at the consumerism and overall pretentiousness of such a product. Maybe it's just me.

Floo(Red).

With his execution in December 2006, I suppose Saddam Hussein wouldn't have been eligible this year (YouTube suggests he's at the end of his rope anyway).

But really. Really? Is this what our world has come to? The ghostly face of Eastern Europe's grand puppet master staring back at us as Time Magazine's "Person of the Year" because of his ability to "impose stability"? What am I missing? Fine, the publisher's criteria look at an individual's influence in the world - not necessarily positive contributions. That said, I'm just thinking it's a sad state of affairs if we cannot come up with someone more deserving. You know, someone who hasn't reputedly perpetrated (say that ten times really quickly...) a series of crimes against humanity under the crushing grip of his iron thumb.

Well, I suppose Time's border is red - and not in the manner of Bono's Red campaign - but I can't think of any publication that should feature Russian President Vladimir Putin as its "Person of the Year" other than Dictator Monthly (now with pin-ups!), or, you know, maybe the press he controls in his home country. Naturally, if they didn't comply, he'd show them exactly why Time felt the need to bestow upon him this title.

Here's hoping for better things in 2008.

And Its Nose Was Like a Blueberry.

On an evening when SCS and I rescued a frightened little 'teenaged' raccoon caught inside the market downtown, I found myself reflecting a bit about the level of kindness many exhibit toward others. Sometimes it's surprisingly high; others, it seems to be completely lacking.

The young raccoon was separated from its family and had been wandering through the parking lot before climbing up into SCS's wheel well. Eyes, little pools of night with small stars glimmering behind them. Paws with claws, quick as snakes. And its nose was like a blueberry, which became its name.

Eventually trapped in a bag and handled roughly by market staff, Blueberry was resting in a shopping cart with a stray rind of watermelon and a stalk of celery when I first saw him. Sure, raccoons can be pests, but I didn't get the impression the staff wanted anything other than to see the animal die. And he was frightened, with eyes as wild as he, particularly as I transferred him to a bushel basket for transport.

Earlier in the evening, I had come home and there was a cardboard box placed in the hallway down from my apartment with a note on it. Yes, prying eyes had to know what it said, particularly as I had to step around the box. While there may have been some history between the tenants about which I am unaware, there, likewise, may have simply been a misunderstanding. Either way, the wording on the note seemed to me to be a little harsh:

"To whot (sic) it may concern.

There are no servants (underlined) to take your empty boxes and put it (sic) outside, where it belongs. Suggest you do it yourself ASAP.

One of your fellow residents."

Yes, we may annoy each other and sure, many people don't bother to follow the rules. It can still be tough to fathom our capacity for callousness when we get so bent out of shape over a cardboard box, but really have no regard for a living, breathing animal whose home is increasingly being encroached upon by human sprawl.

Stairway to Heaven?

Let's review: winter in this part of Canada tends to be cold. And icy. I had to delight at the delicious irony, therefore, of how little foresight into such weather phenomena the local home builders' association had in planning the stairs leading to their offices.

Not only does the building appear to be inaccessible by wheelchairs, the selection of steep, slippery, metal stairs with narrow steps boggles my mind for an association of "...professional organizations comprised of builders, renovators, developers, suppliers, subcontractors and supporting financial institutions and professions committed to ethical building and business practices." In short, to promote the need for making sure people build better homes. Ah, but I suppose this building is not a home. At least there were railings -- with a thin layer of ice rounding the lip of each step, there was a need to use both today.

The only thing that would have made this whole scene more absurd? The presence of a personal injuries law firm in the same building.

Crap, People.

That's "Crap, (comma) people," not a direction to "Crap people". Punctuation, ever so important. Seriously. I somehow can't believe how, in this day and age, some still need reminders to flush. And this, in an institution of higher learning no less. If my manners were in the crapper like that, I'd be flushed with embarrassment. I don't need to see your treats, folks.

Worst thing is, I've seen way too much evidence of late that -- even with a reminder -- people still need help. A toilet valet maybe? You know, it's tough to muster the strength to depress that little silver lever. That stinks.

Can I 'Axe' you a Question? Why, Oh Why?

Ugh. It's decidedly tough to ascertain which is more obnoxious: the commercials for Axe body spray or the smell of the product itself.

Axe is branded -- perhaps, tongue-in-cheek -- as somewhat of an aphrodisiac (then again isn't tongue in cheek the point of an aphrodisiac in the first place?) But with a smell like plastic flowers disintegrating in a vat of battery acid, little tester bottles floating around the office have been the source of practical jokes over the the past few weeks. And retaliatory advances, carefully plotted with military precision.

A quick glance at Wikipedia reveals that the product originated under the name 'Ego' (as in Leggo my Ego?) before becoming 'Lynx'. Given the only type of woman this product could really only ever hope to attract (and given that the product is targeted at the younger market), it might have been more aptly named 'Cougar'.

"THE AXE EFFECT is the internationally recognized name for the increased attention AXE-wearing males receive from eager, and attractive, female pursuers."

Really? The last time we pulled out our little canisters (again, at the office), the ladies pulled out their little canisters. Only theirs was mace. Axe in the nose or mace in the eyes -- really, a tough call for which would be worse.

As someone who likes to read fine print, and particularly the main ingredients in things I eat, I really had to chuckle that the first warning on the bottle read: "Not for intimate use". Come on people, really? Is this what the world is coming to? Heat warnings on coffee cups, fat warnings on Big Macs and this? I'm thinking that anyone silly enough to use this product in such a manner deserves to smell like Pepé Le pew. And go home alone. Pants, ablaze.

With such a base form of marketing, I'm just surprised that, beside the line, "Container might explode if heated" isn't included a separate tag line: "Just like you."

Hello Pot -- Let Me Introduce You to Kettle.

Now, I should probably never start a post involving Ricky Williams with the word "pot". You know, temptation and such. He might just grow his dreadlocks back. Among other things. But really, I marvelled at the NFL's hypocrisy when I heard today that Justin Gatlin had been granted a try-out with one of the league's teams. Justin Gatlin: former "World's Fastest Man". Justin Gatlin: former Olympic Gold Medalist. Why "former"? Justin Gatlin: banned for eight years by the international track and field association for use of banned substances. Read: too much testosterone. And not because he's a 'lady's man'. Somehow, I wasn't raised to mess with my blood so I could run faster. Shame on me.

So, what's the big deal, right? We already know many NFL players could never have become as freakishly large as they have without some sort of assistance. And I'm not talking about heavy weights. Nor about truckloads of Big Macs. It's as clear as the substance Barry Bonds used to make his melon swell four sizes when he was already well into his thirties. The league's substance abuse policy is enough of a farce as it is when you only consider those who haven't yet tested positive. It hardly needs convicted offenders. Someone who has decided to play Judas with his hemoglobin. A cheater. Oh well -- redemption, American-style. Dopes.

But, what really grinds my gears is the hypocrisy shown by the NFL. This is a league that got in a snit earlier this year when the Canadian Football League welcomed Ricky Williams onto its wider fields during his one-year suspension from the league south of the border. His offense? Marijuana. The result: now there's the so-called "Ricky Williams Rule", which prevents the cross-border exchange of suspended players. While I'm all over both guys being suspended according to their sports' regulations, I can't fathom how the NFL can take a gander at a disgraced, banned track star after having complained about the CFL's having ignored their suspensions.

Further proof that you can always outrun your previous indiscretions if you've got quick enough feet. Which looks oddly appropriate.

As an aside, it was strangely ironic when, after having spent a childhood sending letters to Sports Illustrated, the one I finally had published was about Ricky Williams. I know very little about football.

The Way the Ball Bounces.

No, not some conspiracy, nor another scientific study about the way the new NBA ball bounces, sticks, skips or just plain doesn't go in the basket. Well, maybe just the latter. Except only with the traditional-style ball.

So frustrating. There are games you play well and it doesn't show up on the scoresheet. You know: hustle plays, deflections and floor burns. Your feet move well and you feel in rhythm (though as in White Men Can't Jump, you still can't "Feel Jimmy").

Then there are the games like tonight where nothing feels right except the energy you provide and you end up with career highs. 14 points and 20 rebounds for those of you tallying at home. Oh wait, that's just me. Yes, still a stat geek. And yet, the missed opportunities linger. Blown lay-ups. Turnovers. Ticky-tack fouls. So frustrating. No excuse for blown, point-blank put-backs. Not with this much experience at the game. Springs, rusted. And a mind that sometimes forgets that fact in its moments of creative flourish. No excuse.

Except that I was anticipating getting raked across the arms every time. Or the face. You know, the way these games generally go. But no, tonight's foil? An inexperienced team we blew out with ease which generally refrained from playing post defense. Fake. Spin. Drop step. Compensate for the foul and go strong for the hoop and harm. Except the fouls didn't come. Awkwardness. Hands, puzzled. Promising bruises left unfulfilled. The ball skidding off the rim like a marble down a slide. So frustrating. 7/13 from the field, which doesn't look bad. But still, the laughs from the bench over squandered opportunities bounce around in my head. And often, the stat sheet lies.

Spying on the World.

The original plan, quite frankly (or Hilda-ly?), had been to leave a comment on my buddy Shawn's comical (and so, so true) blog post today about chain emails, found here. But then my comment started to grow in a way most Hollywood actors never do. (Really, is being short that much of a prerequisite for stardom? My dream is in trouble.) And so, I feel compelled to pay homage to Shawn's commentary with digital scribbles of my own. Chicken scratches on pixelated paper. And perhaps, at my eyes.

The long-and-short of the post if you didn't click above (though you really should -- for me, Shawn's sense of humour is akin to a Ferris wheel, alight, set against the darkness of a cool fall fair evening) is a comment about the ridiculous nature of some chain emails, specifically ones hearkening back to a supposedly superior time. You know, back in the day. When you trudged 20 miles to school. In the snow. With only one boot because your parents were too poor to afford the full pair. And layaway didn't exist yet. Only to find that the school had burned down. And the subsequent frostbite from having to walk back home disqualified you from fighting for your country. Or from your NHL dream.

So, according to the email, you're pretty special if you survived any decade from the 30's to the 70's? I'm thinking 50 years is a pretty substantial sample pool. Particularly considering that most people born prior are likely no longer with us and that those born after may not yet have had the opportunity to make their mark on the world (I do, for the record, fall within that transcendental, so-called golden age). We survived all of these bad things, like our mothers smoking and drinking while pregnant? Well, we may have, but I'm thinking many didn't, which is likely how we ended up identifying these things as less than ideal activities to pursue. Logic, people. In 50 years, we may very well be saying that we survived using microwaves, too. Or not.

It seems to me that these generations saw fit to discriminate against people unlike themselves, notably in the form of segregation in the U.S., Japanese internment in Canada and, oh wait, something called the Holocaust. I guess, in some ways, depending on what side of the barriers you found yourself, if you did survive that, you do indeed deserve some kudos.

The early generations also sent their children into wars like WWII, Vietnam and Korea. Surely, wisdom must have flowed freely from the hose water. The atomic bomb? 1945. The Great Depression? 1939. Watergate, the FLQ crisis, Kent State, Disco? How about pushing us toward the consumerist society we are today? I'm not sure how you can give exclusive credit to the risk takers and innovators of those generations -- the explosion of technology in the past couple of decades is unparalleled. For better or for worse. The world's a different animal now. And we must continue to adapt: social Darwinism continues.

Those born in the 80's, 90's and after have more time left to make their mark on the world than I. They are a part of our future. A big part. And I hope they continue to make the world a better place. Cure AIDS or cancer? Help people live longer, or in less pain? Reduce social injustice? I'm thankful to have been born when I was; otherwise I wouldn't be me. Think about it: a fraction of a second different and you wouldn't have been born, edged out by another little swimmer (in the words of Homer -- and not he of Iliad fame -- "Woo hoo"). And I wouldn't have developed according to the constructs of my generation. Life's short, so let's share a pop. I think we'll be fine. As long as you haven't been making out with an avian-bird flu-infected chicken. No?

Rental Service Skills (RSS).

Rant, on. Having become a bit of a car-renting maven of late, given that my driveway currently sports only transport of the two-wheeled variety, I was struck by the recent spate of poor experiences I've had with car rental places. I've been double-billed twice. I've had reservations lost. I've been told there was a quarter tank of gas when there was only an eighth. And my past couple of days with Enterprise, also sometimes known as e-cars, deserved a report card of, well, E. Not quite an F, given some of the efforts to placate me, but mighty close.

With a slogan like "We pick you up", you'd think that they'd, well, you know, pick you up. Now, I'm not talking from Tuktoyaktak or anything here. Merely a three-to-four-minute drive farther than my house, but down the same road. There I am, trying to squeeze in getting the rental between appointments and calling from my father's office downtown. The manager answered the phone and told me they were too understaffed to send anyone. And that I should have contacted the downtown location if I wanted to be picked up there. After going back and forth to explain that I was really only a smidge farther than where they usually pick me up. I don't usually like to complain, but I told her that I would try to find a car rental downtown or maybe make it up to her location by closing time at six (it was around 4:30). She said that she might be able to do a pick-up around 5:30 but, frustrated by this point, I explained that if I was going to have to walk up to her location, I'd have to start now. Nothing like stress to make you a bit melodramatic.

Then the fun started. She offered to send a cab, saying it would be there at five. At 5:10, my father pulled out his phone and called the cab company. Interesting -- no car even ordered. When he called Enterprise and spoke to the manager, she tried to insinuate that the car had been ordered, but kind of knew the gig was up when my father continued the questioning (he is a police officer). A car was soon sent and we were upgraded to a monster of a vehicle -- a Dodge Durango. (Grunt, grunt, hear me roar.) Upon seeing us, she tried to explain it away by saying there had been a misunderstanding in communication. Just stick to honesty, please. I was late where I was going, but was now riding in style.

As if that weren't enough, the manager happened the next day -- of all days, places and times -- to go into the one of three insurance offices my mother works in to toot Enterprise's metaphorical horn. She didn't know what she had coming. When my mother wouldn't have it and explained that she wasn't happy with the service, the e-cars manager backtracked a little bit, trying to pawn off the poor service on another of her staff. But she offered to comp. the Durango for the two days. And gave a free one-day rental to be used another time. Saved from an F.

One small, last detail when I returned the vehicle: the manager welcomed me back with a tentative, and likely false, smile, apologized for the misunderstanding and said that her staff person would explain the rules for pick-ups to me so that we didn't have it again. Teetering toward an E-minus again. He explained to me that there's a road past which their location doesn't pick up. Of course, where I was downtown was about two blocks BEFORE that road. "Well, it's still downtown -- next time, just let me know and I'll have one of the other locations pick you up." Funny enough, when arguing about it in the first place, this was never an option presented to me. No, that would have solved the problem. Rant, off.

Not the Brightest Lights.

Having formerly trained people for job interviews, and having even endured a couple of less-than-stellar performances myself, it was nice to be on the other side of the interview table today, slinging questions like a barkeep slings foamy beverages. After enduring -- and yes, I have chosen that word very carefully -- a couple of the applicants, though, I could have used one of said beverages. Or two. I grant you that job interviews can be about as pleasant as having your toenails surgically removed, but having people come in when they're either unprepared, unlistening or generally oblivious is like having the entire toe gnawed off by a rabid beaver. While perhaps not dim bulbs, a couple were certainly not luminaries. Watt the heck? It was as though they could have used reading Interviews for Dummies, rather than their own books: Interviews BY Dummies.

So, being car-less (not to be confused with being Carlos, Carla or Carlee) myself, I again found myself at the car rental place bright and early this morning. A recurring theme of late. A Chrysler. A wannabe Chevy Cobalt (oh, a wee yearning for Kobe the Cobalt, which carried me to Alabama!). But no automatic locks. Not even cruise control. And they said there was a quarter of a tank of gas. But really, there was only an eighth and I was in too much of hurry to notice until I ran low in Woodstock. Grr. At least there was a CD player. A poor man's Cobalt, I'd say. I didn't know they even still made cars without such features standard. It wasn't even a Ford. What is this, the Fred Flintstone car? Yabba Dabba Don't.

Off to Steeltown: Hamilton, ON. And a ride down the escarpment -- hey, more fall leaves! Anyway, the interviews were interesting, and even resulted in a couple of good candidates. That said, there were also a couple of cringe-worthy moments. One potential candidate not only arrived ten minutes late, he offered no explanation or apology for having done so. "The dog ate my watch" would have got him the job. Or not. Then, given an out at the end of the interview when asked if he had run into traffic, he simply replied, "No. I just missed my exit." Pre-plan and do a drive-by (no, not that kind of drive-by) beforehand, kids. No remorse. Not that I would advocate lying, but this just might be a time to creatively bend the truth like Gumby. At least take the out provided. Really, is a job interview the time you really want to advertise that you're disorganized? Well, he did look a little like he could be a made-man in a local disorganized-crime family.

He was already treading in a murky pool of skepticism as it was since his resume was punctuated with spelling errors and oversights resulting from poor copy-and-paste skills. Mmm, fond memories of kindergarten: UHU sticks and safety scissors. The landscape of his work history, planted with duplicated and misplaced words. Weeds. Spread over a two-and-a-half page cover letter. Succinct? Um, no. Ah, and I haven't yet even informed you this was for a communications job where editing and precision are key (not to mention touted skills, misspelled in his resume). He didn't even put the position's correct title into his cover letter (it had been all the way down in the third line of the job advertisement, after all). No, instead, he chose to include the abbreviations for each of the seven words in the title (including repeating 'Office' and its abbrev., "Off."). Proofread, people. Puh-lease.

The position reports to a project run by four universities (and involves another three). One candidate "only had time to review one" of the universities' sites. Another pointed out that he had been taught how to use Microsoft Excel by a colleague, but "I forgot it after 2-3 days, and read the manuals to learn some of it again -- it can be used to make colour graphs and things." Um, thanks? You go-getter, you. Get 'em tiger. When asking about knowledge of university research successes, we were provided with a great example. About a competitor not involved in the consortium. What? Remember, there are seven -- count 'em, seven -- main institutions from which he could have provided an example without offending any sensibilities. Seven. Nope, let's go with the competitor because it's easier. Well, I guess the media often seems to work that way, too.

Don't be too beancounter-like. Another thing: don't confuse "lead" with "led". Saying, "Of course, they liked me so much they signed me on full-time," "Gosh, there's been so many examples of my learning quickly" or "I was the maestro," might be true. But they might also just smack of being a tad too boastful. Not suggested. Not wise. It's a fine line that exists between your tooting your own horn and sounding like a flatulent elephant. Show some humility, folks. "I was fortunate that my skills were recognized as providing value and they signed me on full-time," maybe? And when we ask about new skills you've had to adopt, you might not really want bring up the time you tried to install cedar floorboards and had to spend an hour-and-a-half in the hospital with wood in your eye. Unless it resulted in your teaching yourself eye surgery while on the stretcher. And please do your homework. The Internet is an amazing tool if you know how to use it critically. It's full of, like, information and stuff, you know? First and foremost, though: listen and answer the questions you are asked. Just a suggestion: answer them and be quiet before you end up using your oversized feet as the sandwich filling between your lips. If we want more, we'll ask. One interviewee took 25 minutes to regurgitate his resume (and it wasn't that tasty), rather than answer the question: "Tell us a little bit about yourself and why you are interested in this job". Oddly, I still haven't heard an answer as to why he wanted to work with us (and that's a pretty basic -- not to mention common -- first question in an interview). But I could tell you plenty about a former job he seemed to pine over like a lost, jilted lover.

Be yourself. Unless you happen to be a sociopath. Or the fourth guy we saw today. Be honest. And remember that we're just people, too, and we're (really) not there to give you the gears. Again, really. We just want to find a good fit and can see through the nervousness to the essential you. If you let us. Is it you? Great -- help us see it so that we can get on our way, pay you lots of money and stop wondering why people still don't proofread.

Nonetheless, I was quite happy to be a part of the hiring process for a new colleague. Who will make more money than me. Despite falling lower on the food chain. No jealousy, there. Really. Actually, the chosen candidate (insert appropriate theme song here) reminded me a lot of, well, me. And I mean that in a good way. Congratulations -- I look forward to working with you and helping you navigate the miasma. Oh, we didn't mention that? Whoops. My bad.

275kms and far less patience.

Exchange of the (long) day, though:

INTERVIEWEE: "Oh, so you don't have the financial resources to hire a consultant to help me with the communications strategy?" (Which we would be hired to develop.)

ME: "YOU would be the consultant." (Actually, there's not a hope you'll be hired anyway, so don't worry about it, fool.)

COLLEAGUE: "You'd be the consultant -- that's why it's good to talk to yourself." Muttering, "You know, that OTHER voice in your head." (A little harsh, yes, but it still flew right past him.)

Throwback road music: Fugazi: Steady Diet of Nothing; REM: Up; The Joel Plaskett Emergency: Truthfully, Truthfully; Pearl Jam: Yield; Elastica: S/T; Liz Phair: S/T

Blogger is Annoying Me.

UNDER CONSTRUCTION. Dammit.

So, I have been royally peeved with Blogger over the past twenty-four hours as it seems to be under as much construction as local area roads. And filled with just as many potholes. Hitting publish didn't result in publishing (instead choosing to hang at 0%). Then it resulted in publishing, many times over, even though it had screamed at me that it was unsuccessful. Refresh afterward to make sure nothing was there, and -- good -- there wasn't. Go back five minutes later, however, different story. Repeated, old posts. Want to make a small adjustment to something? Go through the process all over again. Taxing. Anyway, below is the original content of this post. It appears as though things are ticking along now. Grr.

There actually is a first part of the post about the trip to Hull, but I have been having troubles getting it to post. Actually, it was there, but the obsessive-compulsive part of me wanted to tweak a couple of things to get them to line up better. Now, I cannot get it to publish. Grr. It is forthcoming, though. Promise. Waiting with baited breath, I am sure.

The Chronicles of Torontonia.

QUACK LIKE A DUCK.
Don't even get me started on the whole chiropractor bent. Now that's one powerful lobby if I've ever seen one. The last time I so much as thought bad things about chiropractors, there were mysterious bumps in the night. Threats of serious harm made to me. Like a neck adjustment.

But really, I don't even know where to begin about this poster I saw in a chiropractor's office yesterday. Are you kidding me? You want me to take you seriously? The fake Muppets? Jim Hensen must be rolling in his grave (which he could probably still do without chiropractic care, thank you very much). Faux Muppets. Blatant, inferior phonies. Perhaps they're appropriate after all. And their look of stupified shock. Really, wouldn't you think that marketing for this field would maybe not feature people made of foam? At least they can honestly say that "Nobody was hurt in the creation of this campaign". Honestly, please re-align my foam. I'm feeling a bit spongy today. Interestingly, they're all immobile. Especially the dinosaur. Appropriate enough. Let's market chiropractic care to children: "Yay! Mommy, can we play with the ky-o-packer?" Yikes.

That's not even addressing the whole legitimizing ego-stroke of chiropractors calling themselves 'Doctors'. I will now begin a quest to find myself something I can just call myself a doctor of. Qualifications (quackifications?) have obviously slipped. Doctor of the grilled cheese sandwich, perhaps? Doctor of video pinball? Ahh, Doctor of sarcasm. That might be the one. Chiropractors. Oh wait, sorry, there's the doorbell. It seems there's a powerful lobby unhappy with me in, well, the lobby. Terse words and lawsuits. And a handful of business cards covered in faux-Muppets.

UM, MINE'S BIGGER THAN YOURS.
Something about the shame of being pulled over by a snarling Harley. Especially when you're on a Vespa. "But Officer, my little two-stroke lawnmower engine couldn't possibly exceed the speed limit. And my panniers are firmly attached. Yes, the courier on the ten-speed just passed me but I was being, well, you know, cautious." It turns out this guy wasn't really riding a scooter (though it initially looked like it), but his bike was certainly tinier than the one flashing at him from behind like it was a red light district. In this city, slow and steady doesn't win the race. It gets you killed.

URINE TROUBLE.
Watch out for knee splatter! This was, by far, the most disturbing event of the day. Southbound on the DVPee at rush hour and this guy's on his knees at the side of the road, praying for relief. Pee, pee, pee, pee, pee. Really? Hold up, yield -- yellow light. You know how many exits with gas stations are just up ahead (and just behind)? Many. Many. Many. Many urinals that would save you from having to kneel awkwardly facing transport trucks whizzing by your head in the opposite direction at 130 clicks an hour. And from snickers from camera-toting morons like me.

Embarassed? Well, I guess your face was the only thing flushed this time. Bladder late than never. I particularly like that the sign in the background says: "Movie big". Um, yeah, about that. No. At least you saved yourself the indecent exposure charge, but if you really couldn't wait the twelve seconds it would have taken to get off the highway, you might've at least contemplated pulling off to the right shoulder rather than into the centre median. Then you could have even hidden somewhat behind your car. Just wait until that news leaks. I can just picture the traffic 'copter report now: "Despite intermittent showers, traffic has slowed to a trickle on the DVP because some dink has decided he's number one." If arrested, hopefully he'd at least go pee-cefully. Because I certainly wouldn't want to have to be the one to put on the handcuffs.