Tony (37/261)

I’m having a bad hair day. Tony is having a bad all-round day. “That bloody lawyer! Charging me $20,000 for nothing!” he bellows, brandishing the scissors over my head. I try to make my hair look as nonconfrontational as possible, afraid of a stylish homicide.

Patricia (36/261)

She was insulted when I said that she looked like a cross between Audrey Hepburn and Rowan Atkinson. An unlikely and unpedigreed breed to be sure, but one that resulted in a very beautiful (the Audrey gene) and very expressive (the Rowan gene) funny face.

Joe (35/261)

Joe persuaded even the most disparate of workers to unite. He eavesdropped on phone conversations, bellowing at the unfortunate sod who stumbled over the script. Repeat offenders were brought before a firing squad that issued the parting shot: “it’s about time that you fucked off.”

The Fuck Family (34/261)

My neighbours the Fuck Family were spartan yet creative linguists, using the same word to express each of the eight major parts of speech: noun, verb, adjective, adverb, pronoun, preposition, conjunction and interjection. They even managed to employ it as an occasional term of endearment.

Alan (33/261)

He preferred the end of the movie, where Harry and Sally sealed their friendship with a kiss. I liked the middle, where Harry and Sally were friends without any gonadal interference. We ended at the beginning, where Harry decided men and women can’t be friends.

Paige (32/261)

Mystery #1: Did her hair go to obedience school? It heeled perfectly, even through gym class. Mystery #2: How many pieces of clothing did she own? She wore the same outfit EVERY day. Mystery #3: How could someone so predictable be so full of mystery?

Benjamin (31/261)

If I had had a son, I would have wanted him to be just like Benjamin. Three months after the family dog died, he cried all night when his mother suggested they get a new one. His love was way, way beyond the puppy stage.

Mikey (30/261)

One needs a finely tuned ear to distinguish a cry for help from a cry for attention, and the demands of your baby sister probably rendered your parents tone deaf. I wonder if they have ever shed their double breasted cloaks of guilt and grief?

Guy who always falls asleep at the end of yoga class (29/261)

Limbs stretch to infinity, skin slides away, bones dissolve. I sink into bliss. Suddenly, across the room, a crescendo of pigs unearths the mother lode of truffles. Suffused with venom I slither back to my body, vowing eternal damnation on the snorers of this world.

Thekchen (28/261)

They perched high on a cliff, sipping rum and watching the fiery remains of the day. A steel band serenaded sun, sea and seers. “Aah, paradise” sighed his mother. “You can’t eat it” remarked his father. Only their Buddhist son remained equanimous in the aftermath.

Cameron (27/261)

Like Forsyth and Parkhurst Whitney, who sent a buffalo, 2 raccoons, 2 bears, a dog and a goose over Niagara Falls in a schooner in 1827, Cameron tortured animals as a form of entertainment. May his soul be wrested to pieces by an avenging pitbull.

Karen (26/261)

Karen had an endless smile (except once, when I surprised some tears), and everyone said what a catch Mike was. But she never invited us to her home, and never visited her mother without Mike tagging along. There were no visible bruises, but I wondered…

MM (25/261)

Her favourite book is To Kill an Adjective. She stalks modifiers, pen held high, slashing and leaving trails of bright red across the page. When she’s done you wonder if the prose can be saved, until you realize you’ve confused the surgeon with the murderer.

Gerhard (24/261)

You’re a bit like the abstract art you do: open to interpretation and most people can’t really figure you out. The occasional expert says you’re worth the price tag, because that thing that we assumed was just a streak actually symbolizes our collective existentialist angst.

Lorne (23/261)

Beware of those who use terms like “honey” and “sweetheart”. These are only endearments from the mouths of waitresses in restaurants where the menu doesn’t include foccaccia; otherwise, they’re an early warning system signaling that a missile carrying another’s name could land in the vicinity.

Dental hygienist with an abysmal chairside manner (22/261)

“Oh my god!” she exclaims, withdrawing the modern instrument of torture from my orifice as I recline in the dentist’s chair, body mimicking rigor mortis. I’m surrounded by walls painted a mellow yellow and music that is designed to be soothing but fools no one.

Wade (21/261)

A 6’7” blond with 2 PhDs, he went to Papua New Guinea to film a documentary about headhunters and was proclaimed the Great White God. Even in the face of such divinity we remained loyal to our Canadian heritage, inquiring:” What was the weather like?”

Mrs. Best (20/261)

She waved her bologna sandwich around like a metronome, making the circuit through living room, dining room and kitchen while shouting “1 and 2 and 3 and 4” in between mouthfuls of pressed pig. I never did master the piano, and am now a vegetarian.

Bonnie's Father (19/261)

Short and swarthy with tightknit hair, Bonnie’s dad owned a bar that employed go-go dancers and exuded odours of illicit sex and drugs. Rumour had it he that he would have robbed his own grandmother, although in reality it turned out to be his mother.

Bonnie's Mother (18/261)

She was a whiff of French elegance in our Anglo Saxon neighbourhood. While our mothers played badminton and used Campbell soup as a meal replacement with clumsy indiscretion, Bonnie’s mom cruised the streets of Montreal in her convertible, scarlet hair rippling like a matador’s cape.