True Fact: I Am NOT A Fetus Thief, Despite What Some Might Say

I attended the Our Body exhibit at the Science Centre on Saturday, June 19th. Aside from the fact that I spent over two hours touring an exhibit of dead people and their various dismembered parts, it was a pretty innocuous event, or so I thought, until a couple of nights ago when a friend of mine leaned over and said the following:

"So I heard you stole a fetus."

"Huh?" I said.

"I heard you stole a fetus from the exhibit at the Science Centre."

"I took a picture of the fetus from the Our Body exhibit," I said. "It's on my phone. I'll show it to you."

And then I showed it to him:



And then he apologized for having questioned my integrity, as well he should have, and I truly appreciated it, because it is insulting to know that anyone I know would think I would steal a fetus, living or dead.

If you've ever been the focus of a spreading rumour, especially one that is so ridiculous, you will know how it is at once so laughable and yet so infuriating. I mean, REALLY. Like stealing fetuses from science exhibits is how I would decide to while away a Saturday afternoon.

Although I initially laughed it off, that someone I know has perpetuated this ridiculous bit of misinformation by telling other people I know has caused me to become increasingly annoyed, so I went back to my weblog entry about going to the Our Body exhibit to see if I might have written something that made it sound like I stole a fetus from it. I found this:

Then we went into the Our Body exhibit with all the dead humans impregnated with polymers. We were instructed to turn off our cellphones and not to take pictures, but I'm all badass and took this one of a three-week-old foetus.

I think that it's pretty clear that I took a photo of the three-week-old fetus and not the actual three-week-old fetus, and I think that it is also pretty clear that someone with poor reading comprehension skills gathered the wrong takeaway from my entry.

Just in case the rumour's originator is reading this in that same less-than-careful fashion, I will draw their attention to the next two sentences with all-caps and boldfacing and a larger font size and yellow freaking highlighting:

I DID NOT STEAL A FETUS FROM THE OUR BODY EXHIBIT AT THE SCIENCE CENTRE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. CHECK YOUR HEAD.

Got it? Good. And also? Shut up.

Have any of you ever been accused of being a fetus thief? Let's entertain each other with ridiculous rumours.

What's Up Schmutzie's Butt: Cab Drivers Who Relentlessly Question My Choice of Wine

Schmutzie: Could you pull around to the Empire Hotel first so I can pick up a couple of bottles of wine?

Cabbie: Sure, but they have terrible wine.

Schmutzie: Most of their wine IS terrible, but they carry a couple of wines that aren't too terrible.

Cabbie: I took someone there yesterday, and they had me drive all the way to the south end of the city to get better wine because the wine was so terrible there.

Schmutzie: They have a pinot grigio that won't peel the paint off the walls.

Cabbie: I doubt it.

We arrived at the liquor store. I bought the non-paint-peeling pinot grigio and some variety of Lindemans, admittedly not their best, and got back into the cab.

Schmutzie: Thanks for waiting! The next stop is [my address, redacted].

Cabbie: You going to drink those?

Schmutzie: No. These are for the cats.

Cabbie: What?

Schmutzie: Nothing.

Cabbie: Why don't you drink better wine?

Schmutzie: Because it's too late and the better liquor store is closed, and I am not going to pay you more than twenty dollars to drive to other side of the city for a better selection of 12- to 15-dollar bottles of wines.

Cabbie: Maybe you should have picked up some beer instead.

And then I did not strangle him from the back seat not only because I did not want his offensive cologne to rub off on my handwoven alpaca scarf but also because I am mostly sure that I am a good person who does not murder cab drivers for being assholes.

What's Up Schmutzie's Butt: Joe Q. Public's Opinion of My Hair

See, I cut my own hair. I like to keep my hair on the extreme end of short, and a few years ago I was saving my pennies and spending $45-60 a month on haircuts. Every hair dresser I went to would ask me if I wanted them to "feminize" my haircut, by which they meant "keep it too long for my liking". I would say no, but they simply couldn't bring themselves to give me a man's haircut, and so I ended up hating most of my haircuts.

After I figured out how ridiculous it was to spend that kind of money on haircuts I hated, I multiplied that number by 12, realized that my haircut expenses equaled the annual income of many of our world's citizens, and I invested in a set of $26 clippers a couple of years ago.

Aside from shampoo, conditioner, and pomade, that is the last $26 I spent on my hair, and my wallet's not complaining.

I use the deepest one-inch attachment all over my head and trim up the edges, save for the very front, with the 7/8-inch attachment. It's nearly a brush-cut, but I always feel clean and fresh and damn sexy once I'm done, and it's become a tradition for me to call the Palinode to meet me for a drink after work so that the general public can absorb some of my awesomeness.

Invariably, though, someone from that public says "It looks good, but I like a little more length on it."

What? Seriously? I mean, really. I just cut my hair, I am feeling all fabulous, and you tell me that it will be another month before you approve of my hair?

Just like it took me a couple of years to figure out what to do with my hair, it's taken me another couple of years to figure out the public with regard to my hair, and the verdict is in: the public is full of assholes.



Joe Q. Public, this booger's for you.