Dear Steve, I kind of have a crush on a local columnist/ cartoonist for a ‘national’ newspaper, but he doesn’t know I exist. What should I do?
Signed, Single
STEP ONE Finding this columntoonist should be relatively easy. If he’s a columnist, he’s probably drunk at a bar. If he’s a cartoonist, he’s probably alone in that bar. So, print out a photo of this (I’m assuming) man and check in at all the low-end (I’m assuming) Toronto bars and ask the bartenders if they’ve seen him. They may also know him by his catchphrase, “Let me give you some advice.” Then, when you hit the jackpot, start frequenting that bar until he shows up later that afternoon.
STEP TWO You sit at the bar, nursing a drink until you hear a slurry, nasal voice bark, “Pennies are still legal currency here in The Great Republic of Harper so don’t you gimme me your sass mouth cause I have earned that rum and Diet Coke and vodka.” This is your man. While he is what the coarser of the women’s magazines would call “a sure thing,” it will not hurt to slide him the cheapest beer on tap to seal the upcoming deal. He will look at the beer, warily, look at you, look back at the beer, and start lapping at it like a dog. This is normal.
STEP THREE He will immediately invade your personal space, as if he has some sort of condition denying him proper spatial awareness. His breath will smell of onions and sadness and he will be letting out a strange, high-pitched whine. He will smell your hair. You will be taken aback, wondering if your interest in this man’s work will be enough to overcome his repulsive behaviour, looks and spirit. But you have made worse mistakes, like when you took home a Toronto Star food columnist last summer, so you just continue to play it by ear. He then presses his weird, multi-coloured lips against your ear and says, at a normal volume, “Let me give you some advice: Let’s get out of here, female/male.”
STEP FOUR It’s one in the morning and you step into his house. It’s not at all the dungeon you pictured it to be, which sets you at ease. He’s a full-face kisser, wrapping his lips around yours repeatedly as if he’s a fish trying to pick something up. You move to the bedroom and both flop down on his queen-size mattress, about to take this to a whole new freaky level. You hear a woman say, “Steve?” and the lights go on. There, in bed with you, is a woman just waking up; confused, yet moving swiftly into “angry.” Everyone hops out of bed and she breaks Steve’s jaw with a powerful cross-hook. Her screams of “Again??” surely wake the neighbours. You run through the hall and out the door, fuelled by terror. As you dart down the street you hear a voice cry at you from the window, “Email your advice questions to smurray@ nationalpost.com!”