Human Capital: The talents, abilities, and (of course, above all) work potential of the grimy, unruly masses. It is this intrinsic value which makes them slightly more useful to us than if we were to systematically club them to death, and reduce their remains to tradable chemical compounds.

Globalization: The carefully orchestrated flaying of other countries? cultural, spiritual, and economic values in order that we can continue to load our Voyagers and Hummers with cheap, worthless plastic and electronic crap, and year-round bananas and pineapples. (see Imperialism)

e-Commerce: The mall never closes. You can run, but you cannot hide.

Facebook: See ?Electronic Signature.?

Sustainable Development: Nobody really knows what this means, but it’ll give us a brief distraction?something to talk about while our air and water are filling up with poisons. In environmental terms, It’s probably analogous to someone saying, ?Here’s an idea! Let’s make a start on putting out that kitchen fire by turning down the thermostat a couple of degrees.?

National Security: Fall afoul of the machinery of status quo in any way, and we’ll pepper spray you, bring our shiny boots down on your ugly face, lock you up in a deep dark hole, incinerate your sorry ass, then think up a good rationalization for it afterwards.

Green Economy: Here’s another idea! Let’s sell them cheap, pointless crap with some kind of new-agey, socially conscious angle.

Information Society: A Brave New World in which the potentially destabilizing forces of literacy and social contact are cleverly undermined, the self-congratulatory ?educated middle class? are conned into working longer and longer hours without realizing it, and the concentration of news sources in the hands of the power elite continues unabated. And, as a delicious side benefit, we get to sell unprecedented amounts of cheap electronic crap.

Electronic Signature: So you, who always thought you were so ?clever and classless and free,? how long do you think It’s gonna be before we stick a silicon chip up your rear end and implant it firmly in your brain, the better to record and document every passing of wind, every stray thought that flickers across your dangerously unruly synapses?

Imperialism: Globalization. Imperialism. I say ?to-may-to,? you say ?to-mah-to.? The important thing is someone’s always picking the cotton.

The problem is, I have a horrible feeling that I’m going to find myself increasingly on the wrong side of this clampdown. Strangely enough, throughout my life, I have found myself running afoul of minor authority figures, such as school prefects, librarians, by-law enforcement officers, the fraud squad, emergency response teams, and the like. Although I do not personally have any sort of a grudge against fascist wankers who want to curtail my personal freedoms (and in fact, I have a great deal of respect for the important role that such personages play in maintaining order within our society), I am sometimes perceived as having a rebellious or contrarian nature.

Recognizing this perceived (but unfounded) lack of respect on my part for authority figures, I have come to the conclusion that I must take extra care to be an upstanding citizen, a ramrod-straight pillar of society. From this point on, I will no longer indulge in acts of public celebration or frivolity. I will not attend protest rallies or block parties. When confronted by police and soldiers, I will speak when spoken to. I will not raise my voice or spout unorthodox political views. I will keep my lawn neatly trimmed and my opinions to myself. I will not ask awkward or embarrassing questions of the powers that be. I will keep a list of names of the people I know who engage in suspicious activities. I will walk with my head down and avoid direct eye contact with others.

It’s the price that must be paid for liberty.

I would argue, though, that these naysayers have it all wrong. They have no idea of the amount of time and effort that I put into the endeavours and activities that are really worth the effort. They don’t see the hours I spend working out the proper seasonings for the perfect butter chicken recipe, or the rainy afternoons tirelessly devoted to searching through used record stores for an unblemished recording of Gounod’s Faust, or Talking Head’s More Songs About Buildings and Food. They don’t recognize the early mornings devoted to bicycling around the park with my daughter, or the late night hours spent reading W.B. Yeats with a pint of cold ale, or watching DVD recordings of the old PBS Mystery series with a pot of rooibos tea and a plate of reheated Shanghai noodles to ward off the galloping munchies. To these deluded types, living the responsible life has only one possible manifestation: rising out of bed in the morning and trundling off to some specially-designated place of work in order to bring home a regular paycheck.

It’s not that I blame these people. All their lives they have been taught to see the world through the sepia-and-grey toned lenses of our dreary North American Protestant work ethic. They have been raised on a steady diet of the television show “Little House on the Prairies,” and strict admonitions that idle hands are Old Nick’s pleasure palace. Any day not spent (at least metaphorically) trudging through knee deep mud in a blinding blizzard with a great sack of barley oats hoisted up on the shoulder is a day spent on the road to homelessness and eternal damnation. Or at least an insufficient old-age pension.

I can’t agree with them, though. There’s far too much work being done all the time in this world. There are too many buildings being built and too many novels being written. There is too much coffee being drunk at ungodly hours of the day and far too many cell phone calls being placed. A tireless work ethic is not the the stairway to heaven. It is the high-speed elevator to cardiac arrest. It is the elevated rapid transit train to exhaustion and depression. It is (to strain the whole travelling metaphor thing way past it’s breaking point) the autobahn to personal unhappiness.

Let me off that autobahn, say I. Keep your mutual funds. And you, gentle reader, can come and join me if you like. Keep your eyes on the road signs, looking for the likeliest off-ramp, the one with the “Scenic Drive” sign, the “Bed and Breakfast” sign, or the “Picnic Area Ahead” sign. Take a detour down quiet back roads. Spread a picnic blanket in the shade of ancient trees. Pass the dill pickles and the egg salad sandwiches. You didn’t happen to bring a good book with you, did you?

* Unlike some other service professionals, such as chimney sweeps and hot tar roofers, hygiene can be an important consideration when choosing a dentist. Take notice of such details as the cleanliness of the equipment being used. Everything should be bright, shiny, and spic-and-span. Oily residue, corrosion, and things that are caked onto the drills and other wang-doodles being used are generally not a good sign and neither is sawdust on the floor.

* Avoid dentists who appear to be operating another business out of the same premises in order “to make ends meet.” I know that if I were employing the services of a taxidermist, for example, I certainly would not want him or her to be operating a dental clinic on the side, and I feel the same way about my oral health professional.

* You can tell a lot about a person’s professionalism by the way they comport themselves. When choosing a dentist, she or he should come across as bright, confident, and attired in crisp, sterile garments. One should probably avoid health care workers dressed in soiled overalls, egg-stained undershirts, or feather boas. Be cautious too, if they appear sweaty and shifty, appearing to constantly keep an eye on the office door in case of a sudden police raid.

* Although there are no absolutes, it is always best to find a dentist who has had some formal medical training, preferably with hands-on experience. If you can find one who has actually graduated from a post-secondary institution, so much the better — even if it means paying a little bit extra.

I hope that the foregoing advice has done just a little bit to make your lives easier and put your minds at rest. In next week’s column, I plan to talk a little bit about the dos and don’ts of choosing a reliable proctologist.

The first thing I intend to do in order to address the problem of not living in the moment, is to eliminate the temptation of living in the future. I will do this via a technique I like to call “aversion therapy.” How it works is, I will systematically plan a variety of unpleasant, even obnoxious events for myself throughout the day. First thing in the morning, for instance, I will drop a ball-peen hammer on my right toe. This will be followed by an hour-long meeting with a life insurance salesman, to be followed in turn by stuffing uncomfortably warm semolina pudding down my shorts, etc. Basically, my life will be a never-ending series of minor traumas and calamities, stretching far forward into the foreseeable future. This, of course, will eliminate the possibility that I will be tempted to live in the future.

To eliminate the temptation of living in the past, I will undergo extensive psychotherapy in order to erase every trace of a positive memory from my mind. I will work with hypnotherapists, Jungian psychologists, psychiatrists, dental hygienists, and each and every professional that I feel has the capacity to help me. Slowly but surely, all remembrances of my past will be reduced to the most mundane, tedious, painful and downright humiliating moments of my life. Gone will be the memory of my first kiss, my hot-dog eating championship in grade six, the glorious memory of the time last winter that my doofus neighbour Cedric Idris Idris Jones slid off his roof while installing Christmas lights. Instead, I will recall only the times that I spent my summer vacation helping to trim Uncle Rufus’s nostril hair.

If everything goes as I suspect it will, by this time next year, I’ll be livin’ in the moment, baby! I can hardly wait.

There are, however, certain things that will forever remain a part of my collection of earthly delights, as such the various little pleasures of life that consistently fuel my desire to remain clinging to this mortal coil. One of these things is French-fried potatoes. Another is perogies smothered in sour cream. Yet another is French-fried potatoes, with a side of perogies, followed by a baked potato. I suppose it is fair to say that, when it comes to monitoring my food intake, I am more inclined to the modified Atkins diet, i.e., a drastic increase in red meats, in combination with a smaller but still not insignificant increase in carbohydrates. It’s drastic, but it works for me.

It seems to me that we are living in an increasingly puritanical world. Everywhere I turn, people are giving up smoking cigarettes, drinking liquor, drinking coffee, eating meat, and eating white rice — for fuck sakes! Just the other day, an acquaintance of mine actually told me that he was going to give up eating strawberries and bananas, because they are too high in calories and sugar. I was forced to break his nose with a cast iron frying pan. What kind of sick world are we living in, where everyone suddenly wants to live to be 108 years old, so they can enjoy a few more decades of abject misery?

In case people out there have forgotten, if the good Lord had wanted us to live forever, he wouldn’t have made all of the things that are bad for us so fucking good. Life is not some Nordic walking marathon. Life is supposed to be an adventure, a thrill ride, a roller coaster. At the very least, it’s supposed to be somewhat enjoyable. Now, what would make it enjoyable? Let’s see… Maybe, gluten-free bread and wheat-grass pancakes? Nope. Sexual abstinence and sunflower seeds? Don’t think that was it. Wait a minute — I think it had something to do with cheap sex and expensive whisky. That’s it! It’s all coming back to me now! Gambling at the racetrack, Cuban cigars, fast motorcycles, dirty jokes, vampire movies, Boston cream pie, Peking duck, high-grade weed, and laughing out loud. I may not live to see ninety, but I guarantee you, I’ll enjoy whatever’s left!

Nevertheless, some of the over-the-top fanaticism to be found in lifestyle magazines these days is going just a bit beyond the pale. I am proud to say that I don’t mind having a carrot once or twice a year, perhaps a sprig of parsley on my fish and chips, or even the occasional leaf of iceberg lettuce alongside my chicken-fried steak. But I happened to be flipping through Vegan Hairshirt and Ashes Quarterly in my holistic dentist’s waiting room the other day, and I came across a particularly creepy article about making healthier eating choices. There were the usual tips about how to liven up a dinner party with pureed nettle leaves, how to reduce guilt by completely eliminating all forms of potential pleasure, and how to stabilize your chakra whilst firebombing fast food franchises. What really made me lose it, though, was a “Healthy Eating Choices Tip Of the Day” sidebar that recommended ways to reduce dietary fat by “making some simple substitutions.”. “For instance,” the article stated, “instead of having that slice of molten chocolate layer cake or a slab of banana double cream pie for dessert, how about trying a healthy carob and soy fig bar instead? You’ll be glad you did!”

I’ll be glad I did? I’ll be glad I turned up banana double-cream pie for something that, beyond any shadow of a doubt, tastes exactly like the dehydrated dung of a rhesus monkey? Sure, okay. But why stop there though? While we’re at this substituting business, why not cut back on calories by chowing down on fair trade bean meal instead of prime rib? Unpasteurized Tibetan yak milk is far healthier than single malt scotch and almost identical in taste. And who in their right mind would want a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich when, for just a little more money, you can have sun-roasted squash rinds on unbleached rice cakes?

That crazy ass bullshit is likely to send any red-blooded carnivorous man into the sort of frenzy that can only be satisfied by drinking the blood of a factory-raised cow, followed by a mainlined chaser of red dye no. 2. Bon appetit!

In fact, it has taken me some time to recover from a rather nasty trauma that I experienced several months ago. I was enjoying a late morning umbrella drink on my front lawn when I saw my globular neighbour, Cedric Idris Idris Jones, puffing past in what appeared to be a pair of under-sized jogging shorts. I assume, by the vast quantity of perspiration being thrown aloft and the locomotive-loud death rattle emanating from his throat, that he was engaged in some sort of athletic activity that might (for lack of more accurate terminology) be described as running. Really, though, the actual sight of this phenomenon is something that beggars the imagination, and I don’t mind telling you the whole thing threw me into a sort of post-traumatic-stress-syndrome-induced depression, wherein I was forced on a daily basis to medicate myself somewhat beyond the norm, if you get my drift.

At this point, I have more or less put the revolting episode behind me, and am ready to carry on with my life. And now that I’m writing again, although I have no wish to elaborate any further on the dreadful aforementioned event, I would like to offer some Dutch Uncle advice pertaining to the whole phenomenon of exercise and wellness.

Firstly — and this cannot be stressed strongly enough — always! always! always! check yourself out in the mirror before leaving the privacy of your own home to ensure that the sight of you will not shock or offend any innocent bystander who may be trying to enjoy a pina colada or two.

Secondly, perhaps it would be wise to more closely monitor one’s intake of foods and beverages prior to things becoming so completely out-of-control that such drastic measures as jogging are ultimately required. This is really not rocket-science; a little moderation is all that is needed. The key, though, is to be realistic about it. Rather than trying to eradicate all so-called unhealthy lifestyle choices at once, it may be wise to retain two or three little vices or personal pleasures, just to reward yourself. I, for instance, although being somewhat of an ascetic in many ways, still allow myself to indulge in such simple pleasures as intoxicating substances, foods that are salty and/or sweet, and all forms of temptation.

Finally, and perhaps above all else, it should be remembered that healthy people are, as a general rule of thumb, irritating. I’m sorry, but somebody had to tell you.

Clearly, the point I am trying to make is that my wife should stop asking so many questions and sign that damn retroactive pre-nuptial agreement that my lawyers have drawn-up. Granted, like the majority of legal documents, most of it is written in a combination of Middle English and Latin. That does not mean that there is anything to hide. Nor does it mean that we should start playing Little Miss Got to Have All the Answers every time the subject comes up.

Personally, I blame the news media for the level of cynicism and mistrust that pervades every level of our society. Day and night, we are bombarded with reports of hijinks and corruption in politics, business, religion, you name it. If it weren’t for the fact that I like the word hijinks so much, this would be even more aggravating. Far better all this nastiness should be covered up, say I. Why accentuate the negative? Better to concentrate on uplifting public interest items, such as the many success stories coming out of my own Busby’s Discount Hair Replacement and Penis Enlargement Clinic. And surely, the listening and reading public would rather hear that Athabasca University students are entitled to a three per cent discount on all orders for pre-owned marital aids placed by credit card through my website before March 31st, than have to worry their heads over the latest scandal involving U.S. military brutality. Did I mention that that’s three per cent off of my already deeply discounted prices?

In summary, it is only through opening our hearts to our fellow brothers and sisters, as well as all the furred and feathered creatures that surround us, that we can truly make a difference in this crazy old world of ours. As we enter into the Chinese Age of Aquarius, then, each of us should make an extra special effort to learn about and understand other cultures, and to embrace the spiritus mundi in all its forms. Like Alanis Morrissette, we should contemplate the ironies of life. We should fling open the doors of our homes, unbatten the hatches of our hearts, throw wide the transoms of our souls, lubricate the orifices of our…well, you get the point. Above all, we should sign whatever documents come our way without it being made into such a federal case. Peace out.

For what it’s worth (and I know my voice in this debate will be welcomed by both the scientific and the hip hop communities), I believe that we should just keep expanding the solar system like the waistband of a pair of cheap velour track pants. I mean, what the hell, it’s not like we have to pay increased wages or royalties or something to a bunch of goggle-eyed, nine-limbed Plutonians or whatever they are up there. It’s not like, if we let this one go, every little piece of space junk will be demanding official this and official that. And it does seem more than a little cruel to deprive Pluto of its standing at this point. It would be like going back to Ross Rebagliati, re-opening that whole marijuana-as-a-performance-enhancing-drug debate, and then ripping his Olympic gold metal off his chest. Besides, without its planet status, Pluto is nothing. Washed up. Finished. It’s not like it can start a whole new career as a dental hygienist or something. No, planet is pretty much all it’s got going for it. Without that, it’s just a miserable, remote, frozen, and generally uninhabitable wasteland. It’s sort of like Prince George, but without the shopping malls. Even Starbucks would be reluctant to set up shop there.

Admittedly, I do have something of a vested interest in this whole planet / not-a-planet brouhaha. I’ve checked the rules, and the fact is, if I continue ordering in-home meal delivery from Honest Joe’s Jumbo Burrito House, specifically the Meat Lover’s Chimichanga with Mexi Fries and Super-Sized Vanilla Coke, then in about six months time I myself will be of sufficient circumference to apply for official planet status. Although the egghead astrologists or astronomers or whatever they call themselves at NASA have so far been too busy to return my calls, I’m pretty confident that it won’t be long before Planet Busby makes the cover of scientific journals and swimwear magazines around the world. Just remember that you read it here first, sky watchers.