I Love You, Man
A message from Mike: This guest post is written by blogger superstar Le Clown, from A Clown on Fire. I still don’t know how I managed to get him to do this, but I am excited that he kindly accepted. Le Clown, I owe you a big one… This post is more of a marathon than a sprint. It will take a few reads to be fully savored. Let go of your guns and turn off your television sets, my American patriots, just like I did when I typed this preface—my main man and role model Charlie Sheen can wait—and enjoy true art, for once. Your pal, Mike.
I met Mike back in 2009, during my first trip to Cleveland. Around the end of our vacation, we stopped by Ambiance, the Store for Lovers, to visit the owner, and our friend, Jennifer. When I initially saw Mike, he was looking at Ben Wa balls from the exclusive Eartha Kitt collection—he would later reveal that he had been training his anus with these balls, to loosen it up, something about being less of an ass, if I remember correctly… As we were in Ohio, I thought I had stumbled upon The National‘s Bryan Devendorf, but as anyone who knows Mike will tell you, at 5’4”, he’s way too short to be anywhere close to The National’s drummer towering god-like magnificence™ (from what I have gathered from my years of knowing Mike, he isn’t much into The National anyway, but into my Canadian peers, Nickelback. Mike’s quest to look like lead vocalist Chad Kroeger has been an incessant one throughout the years). So we chatted, about the Catwoman venus balls, about the night out he was planning that same evening with his friends to Cleveland’s Christie’s Cabaret, while his girlfriend was in Riverside County, California hoping to meet one of the leaders of the Church of Scientology to inquire about joining their ranks. It was an eventful chat, and our friendship solidified itself right there, at that very moment, between Jack Rabbit vibrators and Paris Hilton blow-up dolls.
Mike couldn’t fly to Montreal when our daughter Tiny Geek was born in 2010—he was winning his battle with forniphilia, and a trip to La Belle Ville (the Beautiful City) could jeopardize his recovery. Mike is a class act, any of his friends will tell you the same thing (even though Mike regrets emptying the open bar by himself at his BFF Brandon’s wedding, and subsequently trying to have sexual intercourse with the wedding cake knife), so he sent us a card from his favourite movie Twilight, something about imprinting on our newborn daughter as they were destined for each other, à la Jacob and Renesmee—the pinnacle of modern romance, according to Mike. Somehow, the card never made it, and I blame the recycling trash bin.
As some of my readers know, I married my soulmate Sara on September 10, 2011. Mike and his lovely—and much taller—girlfriend, Marti, joined the festivities. Before their departure, Mike recalls reading on the US internet (which is radically different than our much more polite Canadian version, which is also gun-less and welcomes all visible minorities) that the mosquitoes in Canada were the size of polar bears. Mike smuggled his arsenal through our borders (the Canadian border guards didn’t think much of Mike, being that he is shorter than Tom Cruise). When he realized our bilingual mosquitoes were the same size as the American speaking mosquitoes, Mike drowned his sorrow by guzzling all the free booze, and vented his frustrations by shooting the protected species of herons resting safely at the Park national d’Oka, where our wedding was taking place. (Mike, I never sent you the thank you card for your contribution to the wedding potluck. Even though no one touched your shark fin soup and bushmeat, your thoughtfulness was appreciated).
Mike we’ve been through so much together, I feel as close to you as penguins to Santa, or as Dennis Rodman to current affairs. I love you, man.
Post Scriptum: Mike sent me this postcard from North Korea. At the back was the message: “Soylent Green will cure us from the United States citizens“… I don’t get it.