To Whom It May Concern

It's been a grueling few months, but YOUR INTERNET-PROPHET HAS RETURNED!

Now, I know you've probably been lost and in need of guidance since my inter-disappearance, however I will now recount the long and arduous tale of my where-bout's.

Since the dawning of time, man has always yearned for a lesser man to clean up after him. Whether it be his leftover Chef Boyardee or the remnants of a Clingon death match with his wife, man has always been in need of someone to dispose of said things.

This summer, however, man's good fortune took a turn for the worse and I was one of those men.

For you see, dear reader, I am also a garbage-man, per se, because I clean up the social trash left by you, the reader.

This may confuse and offend you, but alas it is only for context in the tale I will tell.

One gorgeous afternoon, during the second week of my blogcation, I was in the midst of deep thought while peering over the shoulder of the shoulder of soon to be bewildered stranger. Before I commented that his fly was only 3/4 of the way up, I saw the the headline on his periodical read, "Garbage strike hits Toronto!"

I took tow paragraphs worth of time to read forth on what this meant for me, the voice of the people. When the man refused to take my advice on fly-re-adjustment he promptly stood up and left his seat before I could ask for his newspaper.

After that defeat, I decided to go home and go on facebook. Then I made a sandwich. Then I petted my cat. Then I had a cigarette. Then went to the bathroom(no further details). Then when I returned to facebook, I realized that I was being threatened by a few inter-chums to update my blog. Now I'm not pointing any fingers, JULIA HART, but this seemed a lot to me like what the garbage strikers and city workers were going through.

So at that moment I decided, STRIKE, and promptly joined the picket lines with my brothers and sisters of the industry.

Day 1: I went to nathan philips square in search of strikers whom I could join hands with and sing give peace a chance. Though there were some, they didn't want to sing and didn't understand why i was there. When I discussed my issues with the city and why my union, CUPE 011100010101001100110, should be allowed to join the strike I was promptly punched in the stomach and told to get a real job. I think it was leader Mark Spetzulanziebachekov who said to me, "We don't have time for this kid, we have real issues and you're clearly being an asshole." More offended then I have ever been, I replied, "Sir, the use of the royal WE is reserved for her majesty the Queen, and her only." Again, I was punched.

Day 2: After several reCUPEration soy-based beverages, I returned to the picket line but this time I had a better plan. I made a sign AND made a chant worthy of the others attention. My sign read, "More vacation pay for impoverished social critics!" My blood-curdling chant, "5, 12, 11, 49, we won't update until you acknowledge our sign!" was very successful in getting their attention (and also was a much better chant).

Day 3: I woke up in St. Michaels Hospital with several head wounds and a collapsed rectum(from another incident). Two days recovery ensued.

Day 6: After leaving the hospital, I knew I was still determined to get what I wanted, so I marched past the picket line (on stilts to avoid another lashing) and went to straight to the office of Mayor David Miller. Milly and I were old college roomates at Harvard, he practiced law and I took Ethno-Amnesial Sociological Quantum Physics. We had an on and off relationship for a while where he was in to me and I was in to women, but it all worked out in the end. Anyways, aside from our one-sided homo-erotic togetherness, we remained friends through crossing the border though he went in to office and I studied squirrels in the Tundra for many years. When I arrived at Milly's office, we did our traditional Harvard handshake, the north-eastern hand arrangement, we sat down for what was to be a pivotal talk in my bout to be acknowledged. I said to him, "Let's cut right down to the chase and rap for a minute big D, you know I'm not lying when I say that I have endured both physical and emotional abuse from those he-apes out there, but that they won't let me play with them." Milly-D took a long hard pause and said to me," T-squeezy,you know I get you up in dis business for realz." Another North-Eastern Hand Arrangement and without pausing, Milly-D-Squizzle enstated the Play Fair Act of 2009 which meant that I was allowed to piggy-back on the CUPE 416 strikers for my demands and they couldn't do anything about it.

Day 7: After screaming, "NYAH NYAH NA NA NYAH," to the strikers for several hours with out resting, I decided to take a personal day to recover and rehydrate.

Day 8: still recovering.

Day 9: religious holiday, Saint Nitendus of the 64th day.

Day 10:A bee stang me. I took revenge.

Day 11: Remembered that I was striking and returned to the picket lines.

Day 12: After befriending a large and rather curious looking woman named Surly Joe, I discovered that we only had to picket for 20 hours a week and that we were to be payed 10$/hr for it! "How fantrabulous!" I thought. Until I was informed by Surly Joe that only CUPE 416 members got that money, my elongated irish jig came to a crushing halt. It seems keg-meister Miller didn't include my union to be payed when he declared the Play Fair Act.

Day 13: I cried. A lot.

Day 14: I called my old war buddy, Stinky Fred, to come renegotiate the terms of the Play Fair act. I won, and was now getting double what the unions were and I got my own shiny whistle.

On day 15, I decided that for the time being I had won. I was now doubling in pay what those asshole union workers got and no one noticed whether or not I came to picket, so in that time I looked for a woman to bear me a son. During that 25-day journey in which I discovered the true facts about women (which will come in my next post, "The Truth about Vagina's: A Muted Monologue") my success in finding a worthy womb to bear a son in which I could be proud of and harvest his organs for furthering my research, failed. The amount of chocolate and daffodils used to swoon these unworthy trollops reminded me again of the strike, so it was back to the lines I went.

Day 40: Talks were almost finished and the strike was soon to close, so in lieu of that I decided to take out my rage on several of the workers who had hurt me during the beginning of the strike. Knowing that Hatori Hanzo's swords were not available in Canada( or anywhere else real) I decided to buy a set of Miracle Blades(the III addition) in which I received, all for the price of one set:

2 Miracle Blade Slicers
2 Rock n' Chops
2 Fillet and Boning knives
2 Chop n' scoops
2 Paring Knives
2 utility kitchen shears
8 steak and utility knives
AND
Chef Tony's Tips and secret recipes booklet!

ALL FOR THE PRICE OF ONE SET OF KNIVES!

Unfortunately, the excitement of receiving this package set me back another day because of a stroke related grievance.

Day 41: As I was using the Fillet knife on one of the CUPE leaders, a large mongolian horn sounded with the announcement that the strike had ended and we were to go back to work.

And after several murder charges were acquitted (thanks again to Stinky Fred)I was back on my computer typing the very story you read now.

I apologize to the families of the fallen who couldn't survive without my Blog, my condolences to your losses.

But to those who did survive your triangle-less drought, kudos! You truly are survivors and truly have the thirst for the knowledge of which only I know.

That is all,

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Post-Script: Sorry, there is no post-script.