Would you pay $47 for these cupcakes? Yesterday was no ordinary Wednesday, and not just because it marked the legalization of recreational cannabis consumption in Canada. In fact, as the afternoon unfolded, Oct. 17 became curiouser and curiouser:
Noon: I join my buddy Joel for lunch on Roncesvalles Ave. The bacon on my BLT is burned, the poutine is seriously over-curded, there are jalapeno poppers mixed in with my chicken wings, and 80 percent of our cupcakes are sloppily iced.
2:15pm: As our server searches for the misplaced payment machine, we overhear two diners planning an art exhibit. When one suggests some kind of naughty Banksy knock-off — “Spanksy” or something like that — the other laughs and exclaims, “Are you high?!?” The reply: “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am high.”
2:30pm: While walking home, I witness the near-collision of three exhausted-looking Uber Eats cyclists and a careening Foodera delivery van.
2:45pm: The dentist office calls to confirm my Oct. 15 cleaning. After clearing that up — oh how we laugh — we eventually come to an agreement that teeth are kind of gross.
4pm: The cable company calls to convince me to upgrade my channel package. We spend the next 19 minutes discussing our favourite Black Mirror episodes.
4:19pm: Inexplicably, the line goes dead. I look at my phone and notice I’ve lost both the cell signal and Wi-Fi connection. Suddenly the power goes out, and seconds later I hear the unmistakable wail of air raid sirens. I run into into the front yard, and stare open-mouthed at the sky as a squadron of Zeppelins blocks out the sun while a flock of heavily-armoured flamingos...
4:20pm: I jolt awake to the sound of the ringing doorbell, check the time, leap from the bathtub and hastily don my housecoat. I'm not expecting a visit from Snoop Dogg, but you never know.
4:22pm: It turns out to be the good people from the Save the Children charity. I donate a few bucks after they stop giggling for long enough to explain that opting not to save even a few children is a "total dick move."
4:45pm: When I ask Google to “play Tragically Hip” — it being the first anniversary of Gord Downie’s passing and all — it plays “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35.” When I ask it to play the Grateful Dead, it plays “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35.” Ween? “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35.” Englebert Humperdink? “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35.” And so it goes...
4:55pm: I call Google tech support and am put on hold. The music on the line? You guessed it.
5:15pm: How did all these tumbleweeds get into the toaster strudel aisle at the grocery store?
5:30pm: Everyone in the "12 items or less" line is trying to recover their credit-card passwords.
6pm: On my way out of the store I stop to chat with the two off-duty police officers guarding the ice cream. Coincidentally, both are looking forward to the four-week vacations they just booked.
Noon: I join my buddy Joel for lunch on Roncesvalles Ave. The bacon on my BLT is burned, the poutine is seriously over-curded, there are jalapeno poppers mixed in with my chicken wings, and 80 percent of our cupcakes are sloppily iced.
2:15pm: As our server searches for the misplaced payment machine, we overhear two diners planning an art exhibit. When one suggests some kind of naughty Banksy knock-off — “Spanksy” or something like that — the other laughs and exclaims, “Are you high?!?” The reply: “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am high.”
2:30pm: While walking home, I witness the near-collision of three exhausted-looking Uber Eats cyclists and a careening Foodera delivery van.
2:45pm: The dentist office calls to confirm my Oct. 15 cleaning. After clearing that up — oh how we laugh — we eventually come to an agreement that teeth are kind of gross.
4pm: The cable company calls to convince me to upgrade my channel package. We spend the next 19 minutes discussing our favourite Black Mirror episodes.
4:19pm: Inexplicably, the line goes dead. I look at my phone and notice I’ve lost both the cell signal and Wi-Fi connection. Suddenly the power goes out, and seconds later I hear the unmistakable wail of air raid sirens. I run into into the front yard, and stare open-mouthed at the sky as a squadron of Zeppelins blocks out the sun while a flock of heavily-armoured flamingos...
4:20pm: I jolt awake to the sound of the ringing doorbell, check the time, leap from the bathtub and hastily don my housecoat. I'm not expecting a visit from Snoop Dogg, but you never know.
4:22pm: It turns out to be the good people from the Save the Children charity. I donate a few bucks after they stop giggling for long enough to explain that opting not to save even a few children is a "total dick move."
4:45pm: When I ask Google to “play Tragically Hip” — it being the first anniversary of Gord Downie’s passing and all — it plays “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35.” When I ask it to play the Grateful Dead, it plays “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35.” Ween? “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35.” Englebert Humperdink? “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35.” And so it goes...
4:55pm: I call Google tech support and am put on hold. The music on the line? You guessed it.
5:15pm: How did all these tumbleweeds get into the toaster strudel aisle at the grocery store?
5:30pm: Everyone in the "12 items or less" line is trying to recover their credit-card passwords.
6pm: On my way out of the store I stop to chat with the two off-duty police officers guarding the ice cream. Coincidentally, both are looking forward to the four-week vacations they just booked.
