Today, I saw a huge, rusted, ugly train car, the kind that transports timber, soybeans, steel, or whatever the hell it is that they send across the horifically boring excess space that we all know and love in North America. The thing about this otherwise commonplace object, dear readers, was stamped on the side in solemn, official-looking, factory-issued letters, not surrounded by any pictoral declaration of some bored Manitoban teenager's unquenchable rebellion on the side of the car. It said, "Do not hump".

Had they had problems with this in the past? Do people find seven ton freight cars so irresistibly erotic that they just can't control themselves when the new shipment of iron rolls into their sleepy little town? More likely, this is a term for this kind particular brand of big, ugly mass transport, perhaps when they unhook that bone-crushingly heavy thing from the rest of the train and put it somewhere else for a bit. (Why? God knows. Canadians are weird.) The latter is probably it. But,I would imagine that there's seldom any attractive strangers showing up in places in those nearly empty little hamlets between Saskawhat and Wherethehellisthat Perhaps this is the lonely, isolated Canuk's idea of hot new action...

Ew. When did I become such a perverted teenager. Somebody shoot me with a maturity gun.

Tomorrow I'm off to go see my pregnant Canadian pseudo-cousin and have fun for a few days in the coolest, swingingest city in the province of Ontario before being hurled back into the gaping pit of despair that is my hometown. A gaping pit of tree-lined, blue ribbon winning school district-located, absurdly safe, aesthetically pleasing despair.

This summer has made me exponentially more stupid. Don't be fooled by the fact that I used the word "exponentially". The more I feel my thoughts turn into insipid regurgitations of something else, and the mushier my head starts to feel, the more multisyllabic my daily vocabulary becomes. Jesus, why does everyone think I'm so smart? I do know my asshole from my elbow for the time being, but tomorrow, that doesn't look so good.

I wish that I was the type to spontaneously roar in frustration.

Colm Feore can go suck it

Stratford is basically what Flossmoor would become if it was run soley by an oligarchy of the most irritating members of the H-F theatre department.