I was basically minding my own business at the university, as I usually do. You know, just eating some inexpensive plain rice, and watching girls go by.  Maybe this is a bit autobiographical, but ever since 1/3 of The Correctness went back to school, a lot of the young girls seem way more retarded than they seemed the first time around.

So, there I was eating my rice and watching the fifteenth or sixteenth 19 year old girl get snowed by some 3rd year psychology student who wanted to just go somewhere private with her and “Just people-watch for fun.”, when my friend Kimura came over. He gave me the usual hello by allowing an implausible large smile to appear instantly on his face, blushing violently, and having his eyes disappear into tight lines in the folds of his cheeks.

Anywho, suddenly the sky in the student centre went all multicoloured and blurry, and the camera panned around to my arch nemesis Hiroko. For those of you uninformed, you can easily spot Hiroko as my arch nemesis because his hair is taller, more spiky, and more blonde than mine.

“So, RobbieRobTown, we meet again, only this time I control the DrakkBattle Cubes!” said Hiroko, as the multicoloured pastel background reflected in his huge glossy eyes. He held aloft his Battlecard BallPower StickSpoon 9Mech.

“Oh no!” Said a terrified Kimura, “Hiroki has come to battle your DigiGen GI-Force BakuSushiMon, but your HamsterMon is weak from battling the KudoChan Rin Tin GunTulli Force X!”.

Kimura could not have been more right. Only last week while I had been waiting in a very long line for rice (Because it is shorter than the Tim Horton’s line by a significant margin.), I was forced to battle my tired HamsterMon.  The KudoChan Rin Tin GunTulli Force X was in line ahead of me, and changed his order several times.

The camera (I already mentioned the camera, but there is a camera in the student centre that follows me) snap-zoomed in on my face, and I held an angry stare with Hiroko.

I turned to face Hiroko. “Not so fast, Hiroko, I have been training my trading card/ arm holstered/ real life creature/ video game thing HamsterMon, and I  have already played the MechaTornadonite Cretttt Nort, and I am ready for this battle!”

Suddenly, the card-stock illustrated character creatures on our cards magnified to 50 times their original size. My once cute HamsterMon sprouted green spikes and razor sharp teeth on his Digigyoza Anus.

Hiroko’s TurtleJesusNondaiMon Red Series drooled acid onto the floor, melting a 19 year old girl.

“You cannot defeat me now!” Said Hiroko. “Your HamsterMon is too weak! And with the DrakkBattle Cubes activated, you have lost all your reversal MonCheeto Ran Ran Reduxite points!”

“But you have forgotten one thing!” I said, pausing for dramatic effect while our giant drooling monsters didn’t actually fight, but instead waited around while we discussed a card game/ plastic ball battle that was somehow simultaneously literal and metaphorical. “I have activated the Gotogoto Tenfive Z lore cards! And because I have Jandu’s Ring of Lunghat, Your DrakkBattle Cubes are in reversal Clamato mode!”

Suddenly, our two montsters leapt into the air, and yet with very little movement, attacked each other! They made several quickly edited but limited motions, and as they collided and struck each other flashes of light obscured the action.

Finally, without any sense being made, HamsterMon shrunk back into a regular hamster, and nuzzled into my neck. Meanwhile, Hiroko’s hideous TurtleJesusNondaiMon Red Series turned back into a collectible playing card, instead of a small living creature.

Then I bled profusely from my eyes due to massive brain trauma. That was pretty much my Thursday.

Dear Square Enix:

I have a couple questions about Kingdom Hearts.

1. Why in your advertising do you pronounce “385/2 days” “three-eight-five days over two”, when logically it would be “three hundred eighty five over 2 days” or even more logically “192.5 days”?

2. WTF is with Kingdom Hearts? And, can you also explain the story of the game to me? Whose Nobody made Dixie the Waitress do what to Akira?

http://na.square-enix.com/khdays/

3. What does that have to do with Mickey?

4. What is an Enix, exactly?

Thanks.

RobbieRobTown

Dear Reader:

Some of you have been wondering what exactly has been going on with Canadian cable television? What is this argument between the large cable providers and the networks in Canada? Likely you have seen the advertisements with the sincere looking broadcast school graduates doing their best to represent either side of this issue, whilst also gamely trying to disguise the knowledge they surely must have that, because they accepted the work as the spokespeople for said companies, they will never work in Canada again, for either cable or network television.

Basically, what is happening is this:

Canada is a vast nation that is sparsely populated. Really, to comprehend just how vast is difficult, because so many of us live along the US border, anxiously awaiting an invasion because we still have some clean water. This, by the way, is the reason that we are actively using up all the water we can in the oilsands. If you Americans come for our water, and we have already poisoned it all, first point goes to us. We’ll burn the crops all the way to Moscow, this is just preemptive.

In any case, Canada is huge, and there are literally only 12 advertising dollars to go around, and not that many companies willing to maintain the infrastructure required to build, oh, say, cable towers, or transmitters, or amusing scripts. Canada is a the proud nation of the monopoly. How many phone companies are there really? Well, essentially three, and they also provide cable. Ask about our airlines.

Meanwhile, these telephone companies which also provide cable have bought, sold, and traded ownership of the original Canadian television networks dozens of times over. Evidence of this is in the logos displayed the end of our local news broadcasts, but also in the naming of many sports arenas.

Consequently, some of the monopolies want to blame the other monopolies for costing them money to do things like stuff and things. For this reason, they are running low-production-value attack ads about each other, and have set up tedious websites about how correct their monopoly is compared to how incorrect the other fellow’s monopoly is. These ads are intentionally low-production-value so that you won’t get the impression they could afford do better ads with more sincere spokespeople, and sexier actors pretending to be real people on the street. Who doesn’t trust the man on the street? Only an asshole, they hope! Caveat Vox Populi.

Now, I know strictly speaking, these are not technically monopolies, more like oligarchies, or, if you prefer, a retarded cartel, or “retardtel” which is another telephone company name.

Some of the issues stem around the purchase of American television shows, which all Canadians prefer to watch, because you cats throw crazy dollars at your sit coms, and we have 75 cents. Quality is subjective everywhere, some Americans liked Degrassi, and some Canadians can watch “The Hills” and still sleep at night. Personally, I believe The Hills is responsible for my chronic diarrhea.

Other issues surround the creation of local content, which actually should read “news” because all that hilarious cable-access-local-tv has long since gone by the wayside. So, they say “local content” but they really mean “local news” and having local news gives some broadcasters and some cable networks a chance to redistribute the $12 advertising dollars in Canada somewhat more regionally. There was a time that Canadian television looked a lot like SCTV, and now, it looks a lot like everything else. Oh, and the local news is full of syndicated packages from other stations.

In any case, the CEOs of both the networks who provide “local programming” and the CEOs of the cable companies both have a problem. The $12 in advertising is not enough to pay for the hookers and blow they purchased before the recent financial issues, and now they have already booked appointments for said hookers, and said blow, and being blown by said hookers while sniffing said blow off of said hookers, and this has brought about a moderate financial crunch.

Once the hookers have been hooked, and the blow has been blown, and the TV executives have been blown, they will need to find places to hide the bodies, because they have killed the hookers-This is simply what television executives do. Consequently, they will have to dump the hookers in the ENG vans, or the cable vans, or whatever, and drive them out to the rural site of some kind of transmitting infrastructure, and pay everyone slightly less than $12 to shut up about the whole thing. This makes regionalization a real concern, because if I only have $3 in western Canada to shut up the police, farmers and cell phone tower maintenance guys about my dead hookers and obvious severe coke habit, it is simply not enough.

Luckily, the Canadian taxpayer is being asked to take it up the ass on taxes, or to pay more on their cable bill. Wait, did I say luckily? Oh, I meant “retardtelly”. Fortunately, no matter which side wins, taxes will inevitably go up, and my cable bill will inevitably go up.

Oh, and on a final note, I’m not paying an additional $2 a month for a digital cable box, because you are obligated to provide this service by law in the upcoming years, so it shouldn’t cost me $2. Improve your analogue service first, or, credit me for the shitty analogue service.

I hope that clarifies the Canadian TV issues for you.

As many of you know, I have been working almost unceasingly on several writing projects this year. In between screenplays, and my shaky-to-start novel, I was asked to pitch something to Disney!

Some years back I co-wrote, with a good friend, a talking-dog script for Disney called “Dirty Dog”, which was, at the time, in some very preliminary consideration for production. I am always happy to do work for Disney, even if it doesn’t get picked up.

This time though, I was thrilled to death when my business partner told me Disney had asked us specifically to come up with a premise for a new Miley Cyrus project! Hannah Montana! Miley was to be the producer, but she wanted the series to have the same hip, teen feel of Dirty Dog. Apparently she had read our old script! How flattered was I, even if it was one of those showbiz lies? Answer: Totes flattered, for realsies. I really pride myself on doing the most fashionable, “now” writing possible for screenplays, and this show had everything that would engage current TV audiences.

Well, I worked to my usual standards and produced 13 episodes of a new series, perfect for her demographic called, “Miley Cyrus Presents: MIley Cyrus’ Unicorn Rainbow Rescue Team”.

How shocked was I when the whole series, after weeks of encouragement, was roundly rejected? Answer: Totes shocked, for truesies. I felt completely manipulated. Here are some samples from the letter written to me by Miley Cyrus’ production team.

“…Completely inappropriate for the target demographic”
“…Zero merchandising potential, and a larger potential for fostering mental illness, but at a bare minimum psychologically destabilizing”
“…An incalculable indemnity nightmare”

I was just shattered. I was Dasboard Confessional Emo-Stricken. I had worked so hard to pitch Disney something fresh, incisive, and cutting edge. Something to challenge the viewers, and avoid all the lowest common denominator bullshit that pre-teens see through in a second. Kids today are SMART and deserve our respect for being able to address adult topics in a forthright, mature manner.

So, my dear friends, here, for you, straight from my heart, because no one else will ever enjoy this, are some excerpts from my personal favourite, Episode 3 of Miley Cyrus Presents: MIley Cyrus’ Unicorn Rainbow Rescue Team.

MILEY CYRUS PRESENTS: MILEY CYRUS’ UNICORN RAINBOW RESCUE TEAM

Episode Three: The Longest Goodbye

SCENE 1

INT CHIEF TWINKLEBERRY’S OFFICE- DAY

CHIEF TWINKLEBERRY hangs his unicorn head over his desk. Case files form impossible towers around his desk, and dank sticks to the room like cold sweats on a junkie. His hoofed foot pushes aside a now empty COFFEE MUG emblazoned with the words “World’s Greatest Dad”.

(C/U) He glances at a photo of his murdered unicorn family, kicks the MUG against the wall where it shatters (SLO/MO) into cruel shards. He takes swig out of the dregs of a cheap whiskey bottle. Aggressively he hits the intercom on his desk.

TWINKLEBERRY:
(On intercom)
Send in Sunsparkle Unicorn. NOW!

SUNSPARKLE UNICORN enters. He pushes his AVIATOR SUNGLASSES off his face with one hoof, revealing bloodshot eyes. Sunsparkle sits heavily onto a chair across the chief.

TWINKLEBERRY:
Are you high again, you useless piece of shit?

SUNSPARKLE:
What do you care? See if me not coming baked brings your family back Chief.

TWINKLEBERRY
You leave my family out of this!

SUNSPARKLE:
What am I doing here, Twinkleberry.

TWINKLEBERRY:
You’ve got a case. and I need you together on this. You
screw this up, and i’ll be on you like a hawk… on rice…
like a… shithawk on fuckrice, you get me, Sunsparkle Unicorn?

Sunsparkle takes a long drag of his cigarette, and extinguishes it on his yellowed unicorn horn, the once ivoroid majesty losing the last of its blue sparkles. He reaches out to the closest file on the chief’s desk.

SUNSPARKLE:
This rape case- the M.O….

TWINKLEBERY:
That’s right. Grumplepuss is out of prison.

SCENE 8

INT LOCKER ROOM DAY

GLIMMERSHINE Unicorn is in the showers. He lets the water run down his pink mane, and splash onto the tile floor.

FLOWERICIA UNICORN enters. Along a line of empty shower heads, he selects the one beside Glimmershine. He brushes his unicorn horn against Glimmershine’s horn.

GLIMMERSHINE:
Not here. Not now.

FLOWERICIA:
I thought you wanted me to surprise you.

GLIMMERSHINE:
This is work- we can’t get caught, they won’t- nobody will understand.

FLOWERICIA:
We can’t stay hidden forever. This is tearing me apart.

Flowericia nuzzles Glimmershines withers. Glimmershine stamps a rear hoof in pleasure. The steam of the shower build up around them, disguising them in in an intimate fog.

GLIMMERSHINE:
Wait…wait…

FLOWERICIA:
Too late…

Suddenly the two are fucking like- uh- like fucking wild unicorns can. Their unicorn horns glow and tremble, and so do their unicorn cocks. It is a hot, steamy, pointy, blur. Cocks, horns, cocks, horns. Impassioned whinnies echo in the empty locker room. The clattering noise of their shoed hooves is like some wild Victorian cobblestone street.

In a heightened moment, both of the unicorns emit jets of rainbows from their unicorn horns and penises, filling the room with sparkling iridescent rainbow juice. It hangs in the air with the steam.

Flowericia is crying.

FLOWERICIA:
Please, let’s just tell them. I love you so much.

GLIMMERSHINE:
NO! Get the fuck away from me. I’m not, I don’t…

FLOWERICIA:
Please…They can’t…

GLIMMERSHINE:
Go. GO!

Crestfallen, Flowericia canters out of the room. Glimmershine hangs his head, and returns to the shower.

SCENE 17

EXT DESERT DAY

Beneath a long line of high-tension electrical towers, TWINKLEBERRY and SUNSPARKLE have their guns trained on an unarmed cat in an orange jumpsuit. It is GRUMPLEPUSS. Speeding away is a courier van. Sunsparkle is near tears. High above, a police helicopter circles pointlessly, unable to do audio surveillance through the electrical interference.

Grumplepuss smiles wanly, serenely. handcuffed, yet somehow in charge. He stands in front of a plain, rectangular box- large enough for-

GRUMPLEPUSS:
She begged for her life, Sunsparkle.

SUNSPARKLE:
What’s in the box, Grumplepuss?

GRUMPLEPUSS:
In the end, they all, beg.

SUNSPARKLE:
(raises his gun again, cracking)
WHAT’S IN THE BOX?

TWINKLEBERRY
Don’t do this, Sunsparkle, this is what he wants!

GRUMPLEPUSS:
Become wrath, Sunsparkle. Become wrath.

SUNSPARKLE:
AW, WHAT’S IN THE BOX? WHAT’S IN THE BOX!

Sunsparkle rushes over to the box, kicking the lid open. Inside, a carefully combed blue mane, an ivory horn with a pearlescent caste. Is it her? His wife? Sunsparkle screams, and fires his gun, a direct hit on Grumplepuss. He fires again. And again. And again.

TWINKLEBERRY:
No! Sunsparkle- no! It’s… it’s… it’s what he wanted. Oh God. It’s what he wanted all along.

Sunsparkle turns the gun on himself. He fires.

SCENE 18

INT RAINBOW RESCUE TEAM HQ CHAPEL – DAY

A priest unicorn is reading the last rites for SUNSPARKLE., his body stilled and preserved. Several overweight pixies flutter and struggle to carry incense censer. They sully an otherwise beautiful moment.

CHIEF TWINKLEBERRY is evidently drunk, and barely hanging on to the last threadbare edges of his decorum. Scattered about, the rest of the Unicorn Rainbow Rescue Team are in various states of despair.

In the last row of pews, GLIMMERSHINE slips in beside FLOWERICIA. Flowericia turns away as he arrives. Pleadingly, Glimmershine slips his hoof on top of Flowericia’s.

Flowericia looks down. In his hoof, he finds Glimmershine has handed him an engagement ring. Something everyone will see on the tip of his horn. Flowericia looks up to meet his eyes.

In silence, hand in hand, the two watch the rest of the funeral. Both are crying.

FIN

I stopped by the woods on a warm summers eve,
By a mending wall drenched in sun.
And deep in my bowels, from odours so foul,
Twas time that I baked a fresh bun.

I dismounted my horse, a brown one of course,
And waddled off into the trees.
Made a chair of a log near a treacherous bog,
Where the water was up to my knees.

My horse raised a brow when I dropped trow,
But his face was a grim as a statue.
“I know it’s a sin”, I said with a grin,
“But you poop when I’m looking at you!”.

And so, by the woods by the summer sunset,
I pinched off a pretty good load.
My shame turned too quick to a laugh of regret,
When my poop was received by a toad.

I dusted him off with nary a scoff,
For the amphibian oh-so-surprised.
Like a lamb to the slaughter, he returned to the water,
And revisited poopy demise.

“I pooped on you toad! I pooped on your head!”
I called to the skies like a bard.
And I gathered my pants , as I watched where I tread,
“That toad is a fucking retard!”.

But a toad full of vengeance is a toad full of hate,
And his heart was as cold as his blood.
He must have spent hours devising a plan,
To summon revenge from the mud.

As I slept that same night, in an innocent state,
The toad had arrived by my house.
He snuck onto the window, bran muffin in hand,
Which he’d eaten, as mute as a mouse.

Then he downed four espressos and a gingerbread cake
And he raised his stub-tail to the moon.
“Never crap on a toad!” he screamed with delight,
As he splatter shat throughout the room.

I awoke in a horror I’d never live down,
As reality leaked down my face.
No fathoms of bleach or cleansers could reach,
The worst of the stains in this place.

I turned to the toad first in rage, then I stopped,
And I gazed at my adversary.
“What I do unto others, you marvelous toad,
Is precisely what you did to me”.

With a glint in his eyes and a shine in his heart
He said “now, I truly do see ya”.
With a delicate hop from the window, he dropped,
I was left to clean his diarrhea.

It was many long years till I saw him again,
Now we smile and lock eyes when we pass.
For we both know the truth about who pooped on who,
And toads have the worst smelling gas.

The Correctness received this impassioned plea for wisdom a few days after the close of our contest, but we felt it warranted special attention, due to the serious public health concerns:

Dear Correctness,

Could you please help me and my friend with a problem we are having. As residents of South East Asia, it has come to our attention that many people are afraid of contracting H1N1. This in itself is annoying, as the current strain of the virus appears to be as terrifying as dermatitis, and quite a lot less irritating.

However, our real issue is with the fucktards (and we do not borrow the term liberally in this case) who think that they will save themselves from this disease by wearing crappy paper face masks they purchase in the local pharmacy.

How do we cope with being surrounded by morons who believe a non sealed paper mask, worn throughout the ENTIRE day, and possibly even recycled into the next, will operate as a droplet infection barrier?
What do we do when we witness again and again these same plankton brains having conversations while LIFTING THE MASK AWAY FROM THEIR FACES, and then replacing them?

We do not know why we get so angry. My friend saw one with a Pooh Bear picture on it. This particular mask caused an overwhelming desire on her part to shove it into the gob of the idiot who was wearing it, whilst coughing all over them. If I had been there, I worry that I may have actually rugby tackled the person and held them down for her.

Is everyone else in the world stupid?

kind regards

Everyone Very Indignantly Livid Because In This Country H1N1 Equals Stupidness.

Wow, you are really angry EVILBITCH(1N1)ES.  But let’s get right down to it. H1N1 is a present, unstoppable risk to all humanity, and bacon. Bacon, EVILBITCH(1N1)ES, Bacon. While I am no expert on South East Asia, other than which hotel has the most whores off the strip despite their comical efforts to be a “family” business, what I can tell you something about is Canada. Every year in Canada, about 10,000 people are killed by the garden variety, boring old flu. You know, the “jeepers I’m feeling a bit under the weather, was I drinking last night, no because i’m a teetotaler” kind of flu.

Similarly, in Canada, well over -1 people died of H1N1, and I assure you it is A REAL, TERRIFYING, LEGITIMATE THREAT THAT IS WAITING FOR YOU TO STOP LOOKING TO SNEAK UP, INVADE YOUR ASS, AND GIVE YOU EBOLA LIKE SYMPTOMS. Do you want your intestines to turn liquid, leaving only sagging sausage casings inside of your body to feebly attempt to digest your food?  Have you ever fought a ninja? Do you know what it is like to get ninja stars in your eyes? Because I assure you, that’s what H1N1 will be like- it will be like ninja stars in the eyes, while shitting razors, while listening to The Doodlebops, or possibly the Wiggles.

The reason so few people can be considered confirmed fatalities with H1N1 is that the virus is too goddamn smart for you. It knows you are trying not to think about it, and it will be back, and in greater numbers. It will be back like Sand People. It will be back like your ex girlfriend. It will be drunk, it will be angry, it will be demanding you let it in. It will be holding one broken high heel in it’s hand.  It will be back like Arnie. It will be back like the oral herpes you forgive yourself for because that was college, and it’s different from the other herpes, even though, really, no it isn’t.

EVERYONE MUST PROTECT THEMSELVES OR FACE HIDEOUS RAZOR-ASSED DEATH.

Safety basics:

1. A paper mask is imperative. The size of the pores in the paper through which the majority of your air flows are larger than the H1N1 virus. This will assure the airborne virus passes through the paper mask like water passes through a drain- all swirly like. If you are in the southern hemisphere, you must wear your mask upside down, due to the Coriolis Effect. The efficacy of a loose paper mask cannot be denied. Most major epidemics have not started near paper masks or any large sources of paper, like stationary stores. This is based on years of research. I never once got AIDS at Staples.

2. Have Winnie The Pooh on your mask.  This is important for several reasons. First, take solace in your childhood, this may be the only thing that saves you. The small amount of joy brought to you in the face of your certain doom by having Winnie the Pooh on your paper mask is one of your few lines of defense. Second, and this is a medically proven fact, Winnie the Pooh will be exposed to the virus first before you are, because he is in front of you. This is more than science, this is simple logic. If you don’t have Winnie the Pooh on your face, you’d better get something, anything, like  a photograph of someone you hate, and then strap that thing right onto your paper mask. They will totally get H1N1 before you do because viruses are transmitted in linear rays, from the infected to the first object they bump into. Winnie the Pooh is really taking one for the team here, but nobody wants to see Christopher Robin shitting mucousy blood while Eeyore laments everyone’s inevitable suffocating death.

3. Take off the mask to talk to people. This is just polite. Viruses respect courtesy, and won’t betray you. This is also why I never got AIDS at Staples.

4. Panic. Look, I know we just met. But H1N1 is out there, and it has been watching you sleep, and taking notes on you, and it has a whole log book of your behaviours. Once people start turning into bloodthirsty God-forsaken zombies and begin consuming the flesh of the living to satiate their unstoppable lust for infection and death, we may not have much time left. I think the only place we might be safe here is inside of this stock room at the Staples. What did you say your major was? Marine Biology? You’re going to swim with the dolphins someday, for sure you are. No, no, even though both of my friends with Marine Biology degrees ended up counting fish stock and sorting species of kelp , I just know YOU are the one Sea World wants. You’ve got something special kiddo. No, I’m not just saying that because we are going to die. We’ll get out of here somehow. Now bring over one of those boxes of glossy cardstock, and let me take your pants off. It’s all we can do to survive this. No I didn’t bring a condom. This is STAPLES. we are in a defensible, paper filled fortress. Don’t mind my cold sore, it’s going away.

Be safe out there everyone, and get with the program, EVILBITCH(1N1)ES, because you are at real risk of dying too. Now take your pants off.

Here at The Correctness, we are getting a lot of questions about time travel. Oh, and by “a lot” I mean “none” but the sentence “Here at The Correctness we get none questions about time travel” is not grammatically correct.  Nonetheless, we have commissioned an ongoing series of articles addressing your FAQs about time travel. This first one is from our “Intermediate Time Travel Forum”, so this is for those with a basic working knowledge of some of the practical techniques for travelling through time.

Be sure to stay tuned for upcoming posts on the more basic elements and fundamentals of time travel.

Q: A popular technique for time travel that I often hear discussed is “folding time”. How does folding time help to travel through time?

A: Well, it’s a simple as this: Imagine time is this piece of paper (Rob holds a piece of paper). Now imagine we could do this (Rob bends the paper to touch in a couple of places) so we could pass from one point in time to another.  Well time travel is not at all like that.  It’s more like if I did that paper bending thing, except with time instead of paper. Paper is more like paper than it is like time, it’s just serving as a physical analogue in this case. Like, I guess you could create similes about how paper is like time, but why bother?

Q: Okay, so how do I fold time?

A: Carefully, or it will wrinkle.

Q: I mean practically:

A: One can fold time using the following technique:

Step 1: Gather up time on your hands and hold it loosely, but above the floor. Don’t let time get dusty. You could save time in a bottle to prevent that.

Step 2: Tuck the fitted corners of time into each other. Time is meant to conform to the shape of your box spring, so time passes every night at the same rate as your inevitable aging. You can lay time flat on the bed to get started of you like. This is the American method. Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way, the time is gone, the song is over, thought I’d something more to say.

Step 3.  Get your hands inside of time and kind of wiggle it so that the gravity wells align. Or, use any household black holes you may have created to do this (See: Large Hadron Collider  http://www.thecorrectness.com/correctness/the-large-hadron-collider-and-your-certain-doom/ ).  A clothespin is simply not going to do the trick, you really need to get in there with your hands and shift time around until all the wormholes are gone.

Step 4: You can see from the illustration above that you should now be able to lay time flat and time should be roughly in quarters. Now, please keep in mind that this is a three dimensional illustration of a four dimensional process, at least, if not more than four, so it might look a lot like a sheet, but also it might look like a swirling psychedelic hole into nothingness that swallows your soul to look upon. It is useful to wear your safety goggles, and have a strong faith in whatever God you choose to believe in. This should help minimize the psychic shock. I mean, yes, your life could still be torn utterly asunder by some rogue-wave traumatic event, but you are the one who is choosing to fold time. I mean, you could have just left well enough alone, but here you are tinkering with the essential fabric of your existence, and for what? Higher thread count time?

Step 5: Take the quartered sections of time, and fold them into thirds. You will now have 21 layers of time- or, in four dimensions, you started with 16 layers of time, and you now have 48. The layers of time are a bit like philo pastry, except that they are intangible strands of the stuff of the universe, and not really delicious.  One good thing about that is time isn’t going to be a gluten bomb to your colon. You can digest time, and you will find it high in fibre. This is due to Quantum String (Bean )Theory.

Step 6. Take the last strip of time,  and fold it again into thirds. You will now have either 63 layers of time, or 144, depending on your perceptual ability and skill at mathematical topology. Since we are working in the fourth dimension, a perfect square like a gross, or 144, is just the right amount of time to travel through, though it wouldn’t appear as a square, it would appear as maddening cauldron of foreverness. Forever. 

It is imperative that you remain quiet if you can, time can never mend the careless whispers of a good friend.

Keep in mind folding time is just one possible technique, and frankly, not our favourite here at The Correctness. Others will be explored soon, and we hope that you join us!

(The following is a true account of Correctness correspondent TBinns and his bride on their honeymoon as they tackle the Met in New York City. Between this and his recent Shakespeare post, we feel he is steering toward real culture instead of pop culture. The Correctness has taken him aside and spoken very sternly to him, and he assured us that he is still working on his 100 page thesis on why Transformers should not have testicles.)

After spending a few days kicking around Times Square, which, fun though it may be, can also be compared to having your eyeballs gang raped by advertisers, my new bride and I decided to take our honeymoon up a cultural notch and go to Metropolitan Museum to take in one of the world’s great art collections. I offer the following as a guide and also a cautionary tale. Losing your way in the Met is not unlike getting lost in the woods, sure it looks gorgeous, but when the finger pointing, bickering and aching feet start, you’ll begin to wish one of you brought along a map and a compass.

We went in with a plan…we definitely wanted to see the visiting Rembrandt exhibition, some Ancient Greek and Roman stuff, and some Impressionists. Then we’d be out in time for our dinner reservations and off to the Great White Way to see Spring Awakening. The plan breaks down almost immediately.

10:35 am

We take our traveling companion; a beanie baby sloth named Frederick, and place him on a pedestal next to an exquisite 20000 year old Herme. Other tourists giggle as we snap photos. I’m shocked that no one attempts to stop us. I make a mental note to put Frederick in the thinker pose if we stumble across a Rodin today.

11:15 am

The nerd in me lingers far too long looking at medieval weapons and armor. My wife punishes me by making sure for the rest of the day she reads every single placard at every single exhibit.. Twice.

12:20 pm

Lunch on the steps, hot dog and pretzels. Depending on one’s tolerance for pigeons this is a much better option than the overpriced museum food.

1:08 pm

The sloping glass wall that overlooks Central Park in the heart of the Egyptian exhibit looks familiar to me. Then I remember where I saw it from. I share this knowledge with my wife through the power of annoying movie quotes.

“Waiter…there is too much peppaaar in my Paprikash….but I would be proud to partake of your pecan pie….peeeecaaaan pieeee” I say with a grin. The wife continues to reread a placard. I try again
“I think hieroglyphics are just an ancient comic strip about a character named “Sphinxy”.

Nothing.

“It’s from…”

“I got it.” She says moving onward.

2:12 pm

The Rembrandt exhibit is jammed. It seems that when there’s a visiting exhibit the native New Yorkers turn up as well, making it very difficult to get near the surprisingly small paintings. I did manage to display my profound ignorance by pointing to Rembrandts famous self portrait and proclaiming “Hey, it’s the guy from the Masterpiece game. Check underneath, it might be a forgery.” I seem to recall running into similar problems when I embarrassed my sister at the National gallery in London by cheerfully pointing out which of the paintings had been used in various Terry Gilliam cartoons on Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

3:35 pm

A wrong turn at furniture has led us to a large area that looks like storage space. I’m not even sure we are supposed to be here. It looks like a Costco filled with fine art and antiques. The afternoon wears on and The Impressionists continue to be elusive.

4:06 pm

My wife is no longer speaking to me. The warehouse area goes on and on. In desperation I squint at a portrait, in the hopes that it would look more impressionist painting. For the record, it doesn’t.

4:25 pm

We finally emerge into what looks more like an area we are meant to be in, right next to a gigantic portrait of Washington crossing the Delaware. We sit for a bit, not out of any misplaced patriotic fervor for Washington and his famous whitewater rafting trip, but because we needed to get off our feet. This was the first painting we recognized in awhile, and dammit we were going to get our moneys worth out of it.

5:15 pm

Neither of us have any idea how we ended up back at Ancient Egypt. I forgo the joke I was going to make comparing the mummy we have now seen twice to Nicole Ritchie. We opt for the “Hail a cab” exhibit outside the main doors so we can make dinner and curtain..

8:35 pm

Midway through Act 1 of Spring Awakening, a rock musical set in the 1800’s where the characters all hold microphones and make anachronistic references, I realize that I had last found a little bit of impressionist art in New York. And it was even better when I squinted.

This woman is married to 1/3 of the Correctness. Weep for her

Ah, Broadway! The Great White Way, the place where dreams are made, and Disney movies (and the homeless) come to die. It is at once dazzling, alarming and expensive, but fear not. Before you spend your hard earned tourist dollars to seat yourself down in the theatre wearing your I Heart NY T-shirt under your suit jacket, and stow your statue of liberty salt and pepper shakers securely ‘neath your gum laden seat, check out our picks and pans to make sure your money is well spent. But before you venture further please take a quick look at a few etiquette tips for seeing a Broadway show.

-Please turn off your cell phones, pagers, blackberries, Iphones, pacemakers, R2 astromech units, electronic quarterback games, and in the case of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, hearing aids.

-Refrain from shouting “This is nothing like the movie!” at the actors. They are aware that the movie that “Big Mommas Musical House” was based on did not have any singing in it.

-If the complexities of Disney’s latest musical adaptation vex you, please check the convenient idiot approved synopsis in your program, rather than asking the extraordinarily loud bank employee from Toledo on your left.

-When discussing the show in the lobby, do not wish aloud they served dinner with the show like they do back home. You might get punched in the throat by The Correctness, or some other random theatre fan. In fact they may not even be theatre fans, New Yorkers can be hostile with little or no provocation.

Understand?

Excellent

Then let’s begin.

Glengarry Glen Campbell
Richard Rodgers, 226 W. 46th St (Broadway/8th Av)

Mamet and 70’s soft country make strange bedfellows in this tale of a group of real estate salesmen on the Wichita County line. The song “Rhinestone Fucking Cowboy” certainly brings the house down (Way down …to the point of clinical depression) but on the whole this would be one to avoid, especially if you are sensitive to bad language and worse songwriting

Tony N Tina’s Funeral
Helen Hayes, 240 W. 44th St., (7th/8th Avs.)

This hilarious, fun and interactive show allows you to attend the services for the two titular characters, eat finger sandwiches and offer your condolences to the actors. Anne Hartney steals the show as Mama, who manages to push past the broad stereotypes of her character and deliver a real performance. Her tear filled Eulogy is especially hilarious.

Oedipus n Boots
Barrymore Theatre, 243 W. 47th St. (8/9thAvs)

Greek Tragedy meets English Panto in this mixed bag production that is not without its charms. A personal favorite scene is when Oedipus gets the whole audience involved in his wacky mix up.

OEDIPUS: Wait a minute…THAT’S not my MOTHER!

AUDIENCE: OHHH YES IT IS!!!

OEDIPUS: OHHHH NO IT ISN’T!!!

Pap Smear : The Musical
St. James Theatre 246 W. 44th St. (7th/8th Avs)

With such show stopping numbers as “Just Scraping By” and “Cervix with a Smile” this smash hit is sure to run for years. But make your appointment now, you may have to wait three weeks to a month to get in to see it.

The Odd Couple (Revival)
Eugene O’Neill, 230 W. 49th St., (Broadway/8th Av)

This revival features Brody Jenner as the slovenly Oscar, and Spencer Pratt as the neat freak Felix. There have been some updates to the script as well, Oscar is a sports blogger, and Felix is a club hopping shallow douche bag. In a related story Neil Simon has announced that he will be committing suicide, specifically so he can roll in his grave.

My Hilarious One Woman Show That Also Pertains to My Ethnicity
Hirshfeld, 302 W. 45th St., (8th/9thAvs)

Mina Scanderoupalanditranfergusdentannetenburgesshecorelizondoplolis shares what it was like growing up in a family of undermined ethnicity. Utterly heartwarming…if there was a slight blip in the time/space continuum in which the meaning of the word “heartwarming” was changed to mean what we currently understand to mean “repugnant”

Gay Pride and Prejudice – The Musical
Lyceum 149 W. 45th St., (Broadway/6th Av)
Redundant as it may be to put “Gay” and “Musical” in the same sentence, this is actually pretty good. And Dave tells us the book was excellent.

Tix Booth
213 West 42nd Street (7th/8th Avs)

We were under the impression that this was a brilliant conceptual show being put on in the heart of Times Square. Turns out we were mistaken. On an unrelated note, we happen to have two tickets to the Lion King we don’t want….

So there you have it. Save us a seat at Sardi’s! But don’t tell them you are waiting for us…they are still pretty sore about “The Woody Allen Incident”