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Just for Laughs Memories

It’s almost summer and it’s sad to think I won’t be around for JFL part 2. I thought I would post my work from last year. So we beat on, boats against the current, drawn back ceaselessly into the past. Or something like that..


The gatefold was my proudest moment. And it was also probably the most exercise I had at work. There are a lot of stairs and JFL and a lot of edits to be approved.

Capture d’écran 2013-07-11 à 11.10.58 Capture d’écran 2013-07-11 à 11.11.04 Capture d’écran 2013-07-11 à 11.11.09


But mostly I will miss the sweet, sweet puns. Like this golden opportunity for a radio spot:

“Just for Laughs Festival isn’t just a funny face; it has the wits to match. Made in Montreal, the festival promises a several weeks of stellar shows and comics. Use your head, and you will be chuckling, nay, guffawing your nights away. Whether you get the jokes, or the jokes get you, there’s no smarter option than getting in on laugh, aside from, of course, staying at the Holiday Inn Express.”


They let me use the word “nay”.

Or these professional fat jokes from my John Pinette press release:

Montreal, Wednesday, August 14, 2013 – Just for Laughs is proud to announce comedy-sensation John Pinette’s first Atlantic Canada tour. From March 17th to 29th, 2014 John Pinette will serve his signature dish of witty anecdotes, spot-on impressions, and extra helpings of laughs to lucky, maritime audiences.


The food-obsessed, storytelling Pinette will deliver his smart, original, Bill Cosby-influenced observations on everyday life with bite-sized punch lines that will leave you hungry for more. Audiences can expect sidesplitting excerpts from his recent Comedy Central Special Still Hungry, among a set of hilarious bits. His sardonic wit, energetic style, and charming sensibility will offer food for thought and plenty of laughs.”

I worked freelance for JFL a bit after the festival but I couldn’t pun it up as much as I wanted to. Which was too much. There’s no such thing as tasteful punning.

Montreal, September 2nd, 2013– From October 30th to November 24th, audiences across Canada will be treated to five of the biggest names in comedy as part of the 2013 Capital One™ Just For Laughs Comedy Tour presented by Holiday Inn Express Hotels. There is no room for rookies in this lineup; our “Comedy Rat Pack” boasts nothing but hot headliners. The stellar lineup for the 13th edition of our Tour includes The Marriage Ref’s, Tom Papa;winner ofLast Comic Standing,Alonzo Bodden;Jerry Seinfeld’s Comedian co-star, Orny Adams;Comedy’s The Match Game star, Darrin Rose, as host of the evening; and introducing Ben Seidman, thestar of Travel Channel’s Magic Outlaws. Get out your suit and tie; from Ocean to Ocean, our Rat Pack is about to pull off the comedic heist of all time.

Super-suave leader of the pack, Darrin Rose, whoplays Bill the bartender on the hit CBC sitcom Mr. D, will host our stellar cast of headliners for this Comedy Tour. Thefour-time Canadian Comedy Award nominee is a regular cast member on MuchMusic’s Video On Trial. Darrin won a 2012 Canadian Screenwriting Award for comedy, while his one-man show “What’s Potpourri?” was selected Best of the Fest at the Just For Laughs Festival and received four stars at the Edinburgh Comedy Festival in 2010. In 2011, Darrin’s half-hour stand up special debuted on CTV/Comedy Network to rave reviews. Darrin Rose has appeared on NBC’s Last Comic Standing, the Comedy Network, CTV, XM Satellite Radio, and MTV Live.


Sides will be splitting when Tom Papa brings his sharp, observational humour to stages across Canada. Tom recently premiered his new stand-up special, Tom Papa: Freaked Out, (EPIX) to rave reviews. His previous special, Tom Papa Live in New York City, premiered in 2012. Tom Papa’s film roles include: The Informant, Analyze That, and The Haunted World of El Superbeasto. He also wrote for the DreamWorks animated feature Bee Movie. His television appearances include: Behind the Candelabra, The New Adventures of Old Christine, The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, Conan, The Late Show with David Letterman, Inside Amy Schumer, and a starring role in his own series, Come to Papa (NBC). Tom hosts the hit SiriusXM show, Come to Papa, on channel 99.


Just for Laughs is proud to present the hysterical Alonzo Bodden as part of this killer lineup. An international headliner, Alonzo has performed worldwide including Just For Laughs in Montreal; Kilkenny Ireland Comedy fest; Sydney, Australia; Brighton Beach in the UK; and he’s entertained the troops everywhere from Iraq to Greenland. His brand, new one-hour comedy special, “Who’s Paying Attention?” premiered on Showtime and he can be seen as a host of the new ITV show “Inside the Vault.”

The brains of the operation,Orny Adams,can usually be found hunched over his trusty pen writingjokes for Jay Leno, Garry Shandling, and the annual Emmy broadcast; for our Comedy Tour, he will bring his wit to the mic. Orny has toured internationally and, as of October, will have released two specials, “Path Of Most Resistance,” and “Orny Adams Takes The Third”. Hehas developed pilots for CBS, TBS, and Endemol. He has appeared on Jiminy Glick, Tough Crowd on Comedy Central, The Late Late Show with Craig Kilborn, Last Call With Carson Daly, Entertainment Tonight, MTV’s Teen Wolf, and in his own Discovery Channel series Modern Chaos with Orny Adams.

There has to be a trickster in a bunch like this, so keep your eyes peeled for Ben Seidman’s slapstick slight-of-hand. This magician and comedianwas the only person in history to be named the Resident Magician at Mandalay Bay, Resort & Casino in Las Vegas.  He designed illusions performed by Criss Angel during a three-season contract as creative consultant for Mindfreak on A&E. In addition to his hundreds of international performances, Ben is a favorite at the world famous Comedy & Magic Club in Hermosa Beach, CA, a headliner at Catch a Rising Star comedy club, and a frequent performer at the Magic Castle in Hollywood.”


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Another article for April 18th’s issue of Indecent Xposure.

Long live the King and Queen:

We all know Jay-Z and Beyoncé are perfect people in every way, but now they are also billionaires. Gone are the days of them being bought-you-a-sportscar-for-your-bday-rich, and in rush the years of having-sleepovers-with-Bono-rich. Yesterday, it was formally announced that Beyoncé Knowles and Sean Carter (and by default, Blue Ivy) are the world’s first billionaire couple in the music industry. I think they deserve every penny.

International Business Times were the first to announce this pop-music milestone, and really, it comes as no surprise. Beyoncé recently launched her Mrs. Carter Show World Tour, which is set to hit eighteen countries in the span of 4 months, earning an estimated $116 million dollars by its completion. She is currently the new face of H&M, and has collaborated with a slew of other well-know brands including Pepsi, L’Oreal, and Nintendo. Honestly, you could put Beyoncé in puke-yellow, plaid overalls and I would buy them. Meanwhile Jay-Z has been lighting his cigars with Benjamins as he rakes in the revenue from his 40/40 clubs and as he casually trades his shares of NBA Brooklyn stock. Let’s also not forget the royalties from their combined 125 million albums sold.

All these figures combined are to say that Beyoncé and Jay-Z were the highest paid couple in 2012 and now hold a historical post in pop music’s, finances’, and even the world’s history. According to The Sun, the two are looking for a quiet private island to escape to as a family, where Beyoncé will likely lounge in the sun looking like the most amazing person ever to have lived, and Jay-Z will nod in silent awe.


The news of Beyoncé and Jay-Z’s incomprehensible wealth pleases me on many levels. For one, it’s just nice to know that they love the universe feels for them comes back in a tangible form. If aliens came to earth tomorrow and attempted to glean earthly societal hierarchies from pop culture, they would likely assume that our rulers were Beyoncé or Jay-Z from the ubiquitous plastering of their faces on every surface area in sight and the tears streaming down teenage, adult and elderly faces as they listen to “Halo.” Being the richest couple in pop history almost confirms their rule as true.

Most importantly this milestone marks a huge shift in the hierarchy of pop music. Producers and Sony BMG executives were always at the top of the food chain, mostly if not entirely due to finances, while recording artists were treated as near-bottom feeders. Like in most industries, the workers responsible for the bulk of production actually had the least amount of power within the system. The hope is when artists begin making as much as the label executives, if not more, it is reflected in the control they have over their own product. If Beyoncé and Jay-Z are kings of pop, then there is revolution in the air: the old rulers are being overthrown and artists now reign supreme. This is something I can totally get behind…especially if one ruler has perfect hair and the voice of an angel, and the other is “the motherf%$#^&* greatest, HAHA!”


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Hey guyssssss,

So I started writing for Indecent Xposure, a Montreal-Toronto-NYC pop culture and arts magazine and so far so good. It is pretty exciting to have free reign on contribution ideas and to be able to tell everyone to like the things you like. What is art if not narcissism, AMIRITEEEEE? If you want to check out my first article, which was published April 19th, here it is:

“I can’t really remember the first time I watched the Tim and Eric Awesome Show. This is likely because I suppressed the memory as some sort of trauma. I am sure though that I recovered quickly. I have since risen like a much stupider phoenix from these ashes of hilarity to laugh at the most inane, confusing, and scary of comedy. Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim have helped pioneer the genre of anti-humor, which Wikipedia defines as, “a type of indirect humor that involves the joke-teller delivering something which is deliberately not funny, or lacking in intrinsic meaning.” Sounds hilarious right? The show is a fine tuned pop-culture mash-up: a blender-full of MTV era throwbacks, public access homages, and references to 1990s advertising and television tropes. Add to this a dash of flashing catheads, schizophrenic guest stars and celebrity cameos including Jeff Goldblum and Weird Al.

Great Job!

If you haven’t seen the show, let the opening video below give you an idea of what it’s all about.

My Tim and Eric consumption has reached dangerously high levels in the past years, probably giving me some sort of repetitive eyestrain and irreversible psychological damage. My patient devotion seems to have paid off. Tim and Eric have recently launched a series of webisodes called Tim and Eric Go Pro, which feature the inner workings of their minds immortalized in HD. Admittedly, the skits are pretty transparent infomercials for the Go Pro camera, but effective and hilarious infomercials nonetheless. The show is put together by JASH, a comedy troupe brainchild of Sarah Silverman, Michael Cera, Reggie Watts, and obviously, Tim and Eric. As the company states on Youtube, “boundaries will be pushed, and disorientation will ensue” and, with this cast of characters, it promises some pretty solid laughs as well.

The webisodes are one big reality TV parody, with enough jumping edits, musical emotional cues, and slow-motion interludes to make Hell’s Kitchen look like an art piece. There are also, thankfully, some incredibly bad cameos. The first episode aired April 15th and there will be six in total. If you believe that nothing has any inherent meaning and love to question the purpose of existence, then this is the show for you. If you like laughing, it also does the job.

Check out the first episode, in which we get an intimate view of Tim and Eric, admittedly though through a “weird angle”.

Still know where you are sitting? There are still two episodes released; hopefully that’s enough to get you suitably disoriented.”

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Oy Vey: An All Expenses Paid Trip to The Holy Land

Virtually everything in this article for The Red Herring was true, especially my trist with an Orthodox man. This would make my parents either very happy or very disappointed in me.

This is my friend Alex trying to eat a cactus on our first day of hiking. He is going to be a cop one day. This is the world we live in, folks.


Oy Vey: An All Expenses Paid Trip to The Holy Land


I had the luck of being born into a tribe with enough accountants to swing sending its people oversees, and this summer I took advantage of it. Going on the ten-day free trip to Israel known as Birthright erased any regret of a lifetime of bacon-less breakfasts.

As with all good religious philanthropy, Birthright was not without a catch. Luckily, the main ulterior motive is a hope you’ll get knocked up by Shmulik after your fifth Yager bomb at a Tiberius bar, and decide to stay with him and his aging parents in Natania while he scrounges to make ends meat on an army salary. That, and maybe you will attend a couple less Apartheid Week events (despite the FREE BAKLAWA). None of which is too harmful an agenda to resist an interview process.

I had my doubts as to how Birthright would help me discover my Judaism in the first place. I had always thought of myself as pretty Jewish, between the photo my mother took of me at the Streitz Matzah factory and the four-years worth of visa receipts I’ve salvaged so that my dad can make sure I’m never overcharged. And I guess if I had to let Smulik seem et ha-zayin sheloh ba-tusic sheli, I would survive. (Do not get your elderly Israeli relatives to translate that).

My doubts were confirmed upon stepping foot in the Land of milk and honey and trance music. There were no epiphanies as I stepped onto that soil, except for the insomniac headache of not having slept in 20 plus hours because I may or may not have been trying to convince an orthodox Jew to help me join the mile high club. Later, in Akko, as my fellow Birthrighters marveled at the glory of an ancient city, I barely even felt a spark as I took a photo of my friend Alex lying in a pile of garbage with a couple of stray cats. And in Jerusalem, as my new friends reveled with soldiers honouring the Sabbath by dancing with M16s, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. Days passed, and all around me people were experiencing a spectrum of emotions as they discovered their Jewish roots, while I could barely feel anything at all except hungry or, sometimes, gassy.

It filled me with envy to see my brothers – whose prior connection to this ancestral land had been no more than the occasional smoke of hash from a hookah – proudly purchasing yarmulkes for 45 shekels more than the local price and changing their facebook profiles to their Hebrew names. My politic-neutral tank top seemed to pale next to their Israeli Defense Force t-shirt/American Apparel hoodie ensemble. All around me high tops were being paired with tefilin, “Sababah” taking the place of “cool”, and Arab jokes replacing the traditional north American gay joke. I was beginning to feel left out.

It was at the airport on the way home, upon reuniting with a friend, that I was to finally experience this self-discovery. A simple question produced it: “How was the rest of your stay in Israel?”

I could have mentioned the beauty of the eastern night sky, or the ethereal wail of the muezzin, but instead I chose to complain about the blistering heat, the falafel-induced diarrhea, the yelling, the car honks, and “Oy gevult, what’s with this no buses on Saturday? They want that I should wait till sundown?”

And that is when it dawned on me. I had been discovering my Judaism all along: the morning when Alex and I woke up from camping in the Negev and I could only comment “God my mouth is so fucking dry”, to which he replied; “Yeah, it feels like I went down on the dessert”: that was a revelation. Each zaatar that I thought was too oily: that was a revelation. Each Israeli I rolled my eyes at for butting in line; another revelation. Complaining was my tefilin, my IDF tshirt, my facebook status update. Complaining was my Judaism.

As I flew back home and heard around me the glorious whining that the humus was too salty or the water had too much water in it, my eyes began to tear. I truly felt that I was among my people. And when I heard their “yeeshes” and their “oys”, I did not hide my face in shame. No. I proudly raised my voice to join the choir and yelled; “Would it kill them to put more than two grapes to this fruit salad?” Yes. I could now complain and complain proudly, for I was a Jew in the land of Israel.

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Hot Dating Tips for the Flirtation-Impaired

Another Red Herring memory. I am secure sharing this because I have grown a lot since then. I can still remember that shy, awkward girl who could barely get a date. How things change…Now I have plenty of men not calling me back!

Hot Dating Tips for the Flirtation-Impaired

Hey Ladies. Ever wondered what all those girls lugging 190 pounds of hot, sexy man-flesh on their arm have that you don’t have? After reading this article, the answer will be: nothing, except for maybe a glitter g-string shaped like a butterfly and lose morals. However, with a little perseverance and hard work, you can have that too, and the man of your dreams!

I know we all long for the days of etiquette classes, when all the enigmatic ins and outs of flirtation would be integrated into a curriculum in the stead of the worthless knowledge that is science, math and spelling. I know that I long for the days when the only education my sex merited was learning how to maintain a flattering posture while carrying a book upon one’s head and curtsying in a way that best displayed one’s heaving bosom to Mr. Darcy. If only modern society provided us liberated women with the skills to appear super DTF with sophistication. Unfortunately, I can’t give you these tools which might have rendered you barefoot and pregnant at sixteen. I can, however, give you the next best thing: the Globerman Guide to Flirting.

Many have tried and failed in describing the subtle blend of feminine wiles that comprise my sex appeal, using words such as: inept, confusing, and “is she having a seizure or is she batting her eyelashes”.  I prefer to think of my mojo as a Geisha-esque mastery of the art of seduction. However, this art is no easy task to master. For one, there are several things to remember when flirting.  Most important, is never to be yourself. Yourself sits at home in sweatpants with a worn-out crotch, crying at Battlestar Galactica reruns, and farting with the carefree abandon of someone who will die alone. Instead, try acting like a better, more high-maintenance and less moral, you. Do things like talk about your hair, your lack of underpants, and how little you know, like, so little about current events. Due to deeply ingrained hunter-gatherer instincts, men like it when they detect the potential to instruct a woman.

Conversation is also bad for flirtation: how does he expect to fit his dick in your mouth when it’s full of adverbs and conjunctions? Instead of conversing with him, try just laughing at everything he says, regardless if it is a joke or not. This way he will see that you have a great sense of humor and little to offer him besides your body. THAT MEANS SEX GIRLS! When you have no choice but to talk, offer one word, randomized responses: Ex. “Oh, how am I? Morgan Freeman.” By not paying any attention to what he is saying, you will appear aloof and hard to get; and we all know men like a challenge, especially when it refers to a mental challenge!

There is not one, but two crucial elements to flirting: the entrance and the exit. When entering a situation with flirting-potential, it is important to show that you are a confident, independent woman; this way he will be convinced that you are into some pretty progressive shit. Approach him unflinchingly, like you are walking away from a series of high-impact explosions, out of which a series of flaming motorcycles speed forth, impeded only by the fantasy wind-machines that blow back your radiant mane. The maneuver relies on the sort of unbridled confidence gained by a first-year management student after his fifth Yager-bomb, coupled with that earned by Lady Gaga at a drag competition.

As for the exit, make sure to leave before you make a fool of yourself, because knowing you, it’s likely to happen at any minute. Appropriate times to exit the premises include: while he is in mid sentence, while you are in mid-sentence, when he sips his beer, when you sip your beer, when a song comes on that he might want to dance to, and during any suggestive silence that might lead to hand-holding or intercourse. This exit can be accomplished as a dash, a trudge, or even a cower, and might be accompanied by all sorts of mumbled incoherence’s and evasions of eye contact. There is no limit on the variations you can attempt: don’t be afraid to try something new. Remember, guys like it when you shake things up a little.

The beauty of these flirting tips is their diversity; they offer so many ways to give off those craved mixed-signals that will leave him wondering: is it her libido or her mild turrets? Sticking to this advice will provide you with endless COCKed eyebrows, ENGORGED frowns and the STAYING POWER of his general disapproval. Although you might not be able to cross your heels when you walk or crochet a murkin from wool left over post-sheep-shearing, with these tips you will be able to wiggle and giggle your way to a very satisfying love life (though possibly one that involves only one person and a LOT of batteries).

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Yet another throw-back to my McGill era days writing for The Red Herring Magazine. This is probably the longest humour piece I have written and sadly, it is about juggalos. As I went riffling through my old comedy pieces I found another article, on top of this one, that was also about Juggalos. It is a phase every girl goes through in her youth. Then hopefully she gets anti-biotics and marries a lawyer.

Juggalove isn’t online anymore, fyi. I may have received a death threat for writing this, but those guys are now living a life of celibacy, so who has the last laugh?

Without further ado:

I Juggalove You: Looking for Romance the ICP Way

  As we near Valentine’s Day, we are reminded of how important love is to each and every one of us.  Yet, I’ve often found it hard to believe that anyone could love a certain posse of face painted buffoons whose pastimes include candlelit diners, Faygo showers and break dancing in clown suits. This select group otherwise referred to as “juggalos” and “juggalettes” are followers of the influential ex-cons-cum-troubadours known as the Insane Clown Posse.  I set about satisfying my clownish curiosity the way most people do: online. is the ICP interpretation of PlentyofFish except with less middle aged mothers of three and more teenage mothers of three. Thus, armed with my love for comedy, child hood clown related trauma, and kinky penchant for grease paint, I decided to venture into the twisted romantic labyrinth of the Juggalo.   Step 1: The Identity   After watching a 12 hour marathon of Jenny Jones, Ricky Lake, Maury, Jerry Springer and Montel (the thinking man’s midday trailer talk show host), I was ready to venture into the heart of Juggalove.  Like most juggalos, the website introduced itself by panhandling. begged followers to save their Faygo funds and donate to updating the site to a 2.0 version. This pinnacle development in software – the likes of which Isaac Asimov ne’er dreamed – would offer adult photo albums and “more juggalettes!!!”.  Pioneering this path to Singularity were ZING and DJKittieX, members of Juggalove who had already donated 250 dollars to the greater good; quite a feat considering Walmart only pays minimum wage. After giving a cursory look at the volume of neck tattoos and dropped g’s in the user profiles, I figured “Jordana Globerman – McGill U1” might be a little to elitist a persona for Juggalove. I decided to go undercover.  With the suave mystique of a Dana Carvery’s Master of Disguise, I assumed the virtual identity of Candie Rice, alias shaggysgurl. Candie was my dream juggalette: young, borderline illiterate, and looking for love – specifically the type of love that can be traded on craigslist. She spent quality time “jus chillin” and “hangin out with her fellow los and lettes” and she urged many and all not to hate. Her use of emoticons was almost erudite in precision, underscoring her thoughts and feelings with meaningful expression. X’s and O’s lingered after her name like a subtle perfume, a stolen kiss, or a distant memory. Candie xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo.   Step 2: The Lure   Two days had passed and still no one had “hit Candie up”. To make matters worse, her member status was “scrub”, and it is common knowledge that a scrub is a guy – or gal – who can get no love from me. Candie’s lack of profile picture was a turn off. Without it she was just another piece of meat painted in smudged primary colours. I hadn’t given up hope on my alter ego.  With the help of “personal information” questionnaires I hoped to truly convey Candie’s Juggalescence by answering questions like “How much do you enjoy oral sex?” and “How do you play with food during sex?” I wish I made up the following questions, but their staggering genius is solely the property of the great minds at   “What is your education?” a “School of life” (That was actually an option)   Q: “What was the last thing you read?” A: “I just finished reading a wicked autobiography of Mankind (that dude is sweet) and I am half-way through Ulysses.”   “What STDs are you comfortable with your partner having?” q Genital warts?                             q HSV Type I?       q What about type II? q STD free (tested regularly)? q HIV positive?      q AIDS? q Hepatitis?                                    q Gonorrhoea?        q Syphilis? q HPV?                                           a None of the above?   Step 3: The Soulmate   It’s been a few weeks and Candie’s still clownless. I try to tell myself it’s not me, it’s them; but getting rejected by a bunch of guys named Bubba tends to take its toll on your self esteem. I filter through potential suitors for Candie over at the “Hot or Not” section of Juggalove – a sort of soulless Customer Satisfaction Survey where Candie can rate other single pierrots. Here we find such lookers as mrBones, posing in a hockey mask a la Jason. I give rate him 9 out of 10 since all Candie’s ever wanted is a man who will chainsaw her to death in her sleep. I stumble across one upstanding jester whose only criteria for soulmate is a gal who celebrates 4:20 everyday. There is some potential in one candidate; sure his face is half obscured by his bandana and his grammar is less that MLA but he’s kind hearted and I don’t get weird “he’s going to rape and kill me although possibly not in that order” vibes from looking into his eyes. He’s also funny. He says he could make me laugh just by texting me, which I assume will be a regular occurrence when he’s off away in jail.  He continues; “I like pain,” he writes. “I like to be bitten. It’s a must.”  Ok, I get it. We all have our things, but is this really how you want to introduce yourself? Does your resume read “Personal Skills: Open communication, able to multitask, owns a ball-gag”? Candie’s becoming a nun. I thought of messaging some of my fellow Juggalos but I could never bring myself to do it. It seemed cruel. Going into this I had made up my mind about Juggalos; they were a pathetic excuse for a subculture, one step below Furries.  I let my bias against bands signed to the same label as Bubba Sparxxx overrule my impartiality as journalist. Candie taught me a very important lesson: deep down, every one of us wants to feel accepted.  We don’t want to be judged by the color of our face-paint or the brand of our sugary pop drink. In that vein, are we really so different?  Does the tired business man differ so greatly from the single mother working at Arby’s, or the hotel heiress spreading her thighs via internet, or the poor disenfranchised youth who paints his face like a clown each morning upon waking up, before grabbing his hatchet and heading off for school?  I think the real moral of the story here – the ICP universal truth – is that we are all brothers, and that it is our actions, not our outward appearances, that will determine our lot of neden received in Shangri-la.  And let us all say: I will be down with the clown until I am dead in the ground.

By: Jordana Globerman

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An oldie but a goodie

This is probably the oldest humour piece I had published (aside from the anti-pitchfork music zine I made with friends in high school, but that’s a whole other post). Thankfully, the institutionalized posturing that is English Literature education has an eternal pretention that keeps this piece hip with the kids. I hope I never have to write another paper on how everything is really a penis.

Teacher’s notes are also written by yours truly.