Formerly published in the Other Press. Jan. 7, 2013
Humour
It’s worth a laugh or none.
Chapter 3 of “Toasted”
An erotic fiction, sponsored by Quiznos
Formerly published in The Other Press. July 3 2013
By Elliot Chan, Passionate Lover and Sellout
When he suggested that you both meet at the local Quiznos for dinner, you were surprised. After all, it’s one of the finest establishments you know. Sure, you often find yourself being frugal and going to Subway instead, but you get what you pay for. Mesquite, Honey Bacon Club, Prime Rib Peppercorn: the selection is endless, or perhaps you’re just indecisive—like your selection of men. Negative thoughts, go away, and think only of Quiznos today.
You arrive a bit early, a force of habit. The cute mustached high school student behind the counter smiles at you. You smile back. Don’t play these games, you tell yourself; he’s not the one you’re waiting for.
Sitting near the glass window by the door makes you feel like an animal in a zoo, people walking by glance at you. What are they thinking? Did they see how pretty you look? Did they see how desperate you are? What will he think of you when he enters? Tension is building, you want to flee, but it’s too late.
Your eyes and his connect like a laptop to Quiznos’ free Wi-Fi connection. “Come here often?” he asks as he embraces you with his strong, masculine arms, engulfing you with the scent of Tag body spray.
“Not often enough,” you reply with a coy smile. “But I always enjoy myself when I do.”
So this is how the courtship begins. As your sandwich is being made, you imagine the two of you lying on the flat bread and layering lettuce, tomato, cheese, and honey mustard all over your bodies. You lick your lips and look up to him. His eyes glow seductively; he might have just been reading your mind.
“Toasted?” the lost Mario brother employee asks.
“Always,” you answer with a wink. In your mind, they fought for your honourable hand using sandwich meat as weapons.
You take your sandwich, find a seat, and wait. He arrives moments later with a tender smile, just like the savory Black Angus Steak in his sandwich. “Hungry?” he asks, unraveling his meal with the meticulous dexterity of a certified sandwich artist.
“Starved,” you say while peeling back the wrapper clumsily. You take a bite, the crust crumbles, the meaty inners tear apart and the sauce dribbles down your chin. You wonder as you look up at him: can a man compare with a sandwich in bed? You’re compelled to ask, but you’ll find out soon enough. Toasted? Always.
Beautiful women a hazard for male commuters
Traffic accidents increase due to the sexy summer fashion
Formerly published in The Other Press. June 4 2013
A satirical article, by Elliot Chan, Traffic Hazard
Summer is a beautiful time of year, unless you’re a male commuter. Research released early last week by The Men’s Automobile Limitation Experts (MALE) has confirmed that during the summer months, men are 32 per cent more likely to be involved in an automobile accident.
Dr. Carson Donovan, head researcher at MALE, explains the breakthrough discovery: “It’s not that men are bad drivers when it is sunny. They are still far superior,” he chuckles, “It’s just that beautiful women become a greater disturbance. They hide themselves in the winter, and then bam! Summer arrives. Imagine having a stripper pole at every intersection. I won’t give any change to dirty panhandlers, but I’ll drop a dollar for the honey leaving the petrol station. You know what I mean.”
“It is unbelievable how some chicks dress at bus stops,” Dr. Donovan adds with a wink and a masculine elbow nudge. “If we want to protect the safety of our male drivers, they should not be allowed to wear such revealing clothes—even on a sunny day. Sorry boys, but it’s safety first.”
Close behind driving under the influence and excessive speeding, attractive girls at bus stops are the main cause of male-related traffic accidents. Every minute a man across the province is getting injured due to a hot girl sighting.
Benjamin M. Williams, loving husband and a father of two girls, wants the government to make a change. “I am a man that worries about his family,” says Williams, “just the idea of other guys getting distracted by women on the street frightens me. I often drive my daughters to school and I would hate for anyone to get distracted and hit my 2001 Subaru. Beautiful girls should not be allowed to dress so provocatively.”
Dakota Patrice, executive and founder of the Mind Your Own Business, I’m Not A Helpless Woman Foundation had this to say: “Women don’t dress for men to notice them. We dress because we need to wear clothes. Men should just watch where they are going. What? We should wear sweaters when it’s 30 degrees out? We’d get all hot and sweaty.”
When asked to introduce a new dress-code bylaw for female transit users, the mayor of Vancouver, Gregor Robertson, replied, “Distraction is a natural part of driving. God knows how many times I’ve nearly ran into the car in front of me just because I was watching some dog poop. Stunning girls are just like pooping dogs; you can’t stop them.”
Acceptance speech for the Award for Best Background Performance
A satirical article, formerly published in The Other Press. Feb. 26 2013
As transcribed by Elliot Chan, The Extra Extra
Leonardo Deniro – Professional Background Performer
“Wow! Uhhh… Okay! Wow! I was so not expecting this. Wow! What an honour. When my agent first called and told me to show up on set, I did not know I was going to be playing such an amazing role. Unfortunate Bystander Number Four was an extraordinary exploration into the human dynamic; it has changed my life—so I would like to thank my agency, Meat Prop Inc., for giving me such a fabulous opportunity.”
(Pauses for a moment of introspection)
“Secondly, I would like to thank God for giving me a human body. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to be such an exceptional background performer. Next, I would like to thank my beloved mother for teaching me to stand still and then move naturally when someone shouts “Action!” I thought you were crazy at first, mom, but…(Resisting the urge to cry) Mothers know best and you were preparing me for a gurgling life of following directions. Without you, I would not be so obedient. You gave me the cues for success. I love you.” (Breaks down, dramatically)
(Milks applause for several more seconds)
“Next I would like to thank my colleagues. Gosh, any of you could be up here tonight, accepting this award. Denzel Washington DC, you were simply brilliant as the man walking the dog in Zero Dark Thirty. And then there is Daniel Night-Lewis; you were truly inspirational as that orc in The Hobbit, my eyes just somehow seemed to go to you. Who said being M. Night Shyamalan’s relative is a career curse, huh? Spinoff, dude, imagine a television show called Orc! Finally, how can I forget about you, Tobey Maguire. Where have you been, dawg? That was an incredible performance as the elephant in Life of Pi—I know your scene on the boat got cut, but damn! Incredible. I really don’t deserve to be in such an illustrious company… but I’ll keep the award anyways.”
(Pause for insincere pompous laughter)
“Background actors often don’t get the respect they deserve, but it is an art form.”
(More laughter)
“Sure, we might not be as good-looking and we don’t end up in the credits or whatever, but that’s not the point. We are a valued part of the movie experience. Like sets, props, music, and costumes, we complete the film. Just because we’re blurry figures in the background doesn’t mean we aren’t working hard. We are some of the hardest working people in the industry. You think sitting in a tent for 16 hours is easy? You think waiting for Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson to say his lines is easy? No, can CGI characters do that? Fuck no! Sorry, I didn’t mean to cuss. (Fakes embarrassment) Bottom line is that there are a million background performers losing their jobs. Students coming out of background acting school with nothing, absolutely nothing, not even as a Walking Dead zombie part.”
(Music starts playing)
“Wait! Hold on, I’m not finished! (Pause) The industry is evolving and it is time for us, the background performers, to stick together and come to the foreground of the problem. We might be extras on set, but no more. We are the leading actors of our own lives. So thank you, the academy, for the recognition. Martin Scorsese, you are a legend! Thank you!”
Breakup letters
Formerly published in The Other Press. Feb. 5 2013
From Elliot Chan, Heartbreaker
Breakup Letter #3
Dear Idiot,
Okay, I’ll try to make this short—just the way you like it. We are breaking up. So please don’t leave your Skype on anymore for me to watch you sleep. The sound of you snoring no longer soothes me—and yes, you do snore. You wouldn’t know that because you’re asleep! You snore and fart too! Argh! I’m so glad I don’t have to have those arguments anymore. And last week when I wore a new sweater and I asked you how I looked and you know what? You said that I looked good. God, I hate you! That is not what I wanted to hear. You didn’t even notice my new sweater. It was like you don’t even care that I looked good. It was a really nice sweater, you asshole! And FYI, my mother didn’t like you even though she was nice to you when you were over. She does that to all the boys I bring over. And out of all of them, she liked you the least. Please return all the things I brought to your house and left there as a means of making sure you were mine.
Have a good life—Not,
Disillusioned teenage girl
Breakup Letter #26
For my Platonic Love,
It was a mistake falling for you—a grave mistake and now we are both in danger. I have not been completely honest with you or completely faithful. It shames me to tell you this, but I am in love with another. Don’t be cross, for he is a sweet boy that treats me nice, although he does have flaws. You see, he is a fallen angel-vampire-zombie…I know, I know… it has been done, but that is not the point. The thing is that he knows about you and me. He said he’d fight for me, for he is ever so noble. However I chastised him for being so stern, for you are a mere mortal who doesn’t eat the flesh of the living after judging them Yes, I have seen you without your shirt on and I know that you are reasonably fit. I’m certain you’d put up quite a harrowing fight, but still I care for you and never want to see you hurt, especially for me. So go on, leave me to die in his arms forever.
Painfully dramatic,
Disenchanted fable chick
Breakup Letter #33
To Client #1664,
Dear valued customer, on January 22, 2012, you signed up for an account on DatingLive.org in hopes of meeting compatible people and developing lasting relationships. We at DatingLive use a complex algorithm through extensive research along with our secretary’s assumptions to find the perfect match. Over the past year we have set you up with numerous women. After each date, you have left comments showing your satisfaction, but still you remain single and a proud client of DatingLive. We are convinced that our secretary was right about you and have matched you with one perfect partner after the other. We regret to inform you that we must terminate your account on the fact that you, in our secretary’s words, have “no game.” You are playing with us and we don’t like being played with. Each and every girl on DatingLive is like a sister to us. So if you hurt or toy with any of them, we’ll find you and fuck yo’ ass up.
We apologize for any inconvenience,
Disengaging automated response unit 7421 of the DatingLive Organization
A love letter to the capital cursive G
Formerly published in The Other Press and Cupwire. Jan. 8 2013
From Elliot Chan
Dear Letter G,
I didn’t think much of you the first time we met. I was young and ignorant and you were just amongst the other 26 letters hidden somewhere in the middle, quiet and passive. I apologize now for the way I neglected you. Remembering all of those hours wasted with vowels—those damn popular vowels. Hell, I still find myself asking sometimes, “Why?” Why couldn’t I see something so obviously in front of me? Can you blame a fool for learning? It was as I matured that my view changed about you. Learning cursive was like seeing the tomboy dolled up on prom night.
Stunning. Suddenly the “Plain Jane ‘G’” I remembered as a child was all grown up. Your curves, your points, and the way you swoop up at the end when I write you. You are like no other letter in the alphabet. Nay, there is no other character in all of language like you. You are the perfect symbol, the perfect image, and the perfect mark. There is something about that little loop on your top left, like an eye. I know you see me, winking at me. I see you too, but you know that already.
I envy the Ginos, the Gunthers, and the Guys, because I too wish I had the privilege of scripting you every time I sign as myself. I’ll think of you in every cheque I write, in ever contract I receive, and in every credit card purchase I make. Sadly, you are a rarity and a treat. I find you in intimidating moments when I open sentences with “God,” “Gun,” or “Girl,” but then you sooth me with inspirations such as “Glorious,” “Great,” and “Glad.” Regardless of the meaning, every word with you in it is significant.
I can’t help but pity other letters. The lower case “A” with its ambiguous form, the loop, the vertical line on the right, but what about the arch above? Like many others I neglect that extra modification, but some believe lower case “A” needs cosmetics. Some letters are just the means to an end. Such as the cursive lower case “R” and lower case “N,” they always look the same when I write too fast. I see nothing in them. There is no other letter with your distinct characteristics, but that is not to say they don’t try. There is the capital cursive “Q,” uncommon unless it is used as the number 2. The capital “Z” built with impressive curves, but it’s aesthetically a “J” that workouts. Your closest comparison is perhaps cursive capital “S”, but the extra flourish it requires takes away from its beauty. “G,” you remain my one and only.
I know it is crazy, because we are so different. You, the seventh letter in the alphabet, and me, a human man going through a complicated phase, but I believe we can make this work. Consider it a game or consider it growth, but whatever it is we are doing, I know you are write for me. So take a step back and look at the big picture. If your love is a prison, then I hope my sentence begins with the letter “G.”
From the tip of my pen,
E-Unit
All-inclusive adventure
Formerly published in The Other Press. Sept. 24 2012
A diary of a domestic male in the Dominican
A satirical article, by Elliot Chan, Vacation Aficionado
Looking for some adventure and excitement when it comes time to travel? Not us! Our intrepid travel writer Elliot Chan takes on exotic locales from the unique perspective of a scared sheltered suburbanite.
The Dominican Republic is one of those countries that travel guides suggest you get a shot before entering. I don’t mean a tequila shot; I mean the doctor needs to pump medicine in you so you don’t die. So you’ll excuse me if I sound a little wary when calling it paradise. To me, there is nothing heavenly about potentially dying from Malaria or another contagious epidemic.
Regardless, I tried to be in good spirits. With my wallet, passport, and iPhone 4 tucked into my travel pouch hidden beneath my breeches, I headed out of the terminal to the charter bus. Then came my first fright. A local man dressed in what appeared to be bus driver garb calmly approached me and asked for my bags.
I nearly wet myself in terror!
Here I was, barely off the plane and already getting mugged. Fortunately for me, I watched a ton of Bruce Lee movies before I left to learn self-defence. However, before I could karate chop him, a fellow tourist, who was a white male between the age of 25 and 40, stopped and informed me that the robber dressed in fake bus driver clothes was actually the bus driver. “Oh,” I said, and then handed him four more bags to carry.
The culture shock was stunning. Hotels in the Dominican cannot compare to the ones in Vancouver. I mean, Best Western is awesome, but the place where I stayed was the Hyatt to the power of 10. I explored the swimming pools, veranda chairs, and even the buffet table. I loved the attempts to incorporate exotic Dominican culture, such as the make your own sundae bar!
On the third day after waking up from a hangover, a friendly man approached me and asked if I was interested in taking a city tour. “Is it safe?” I asked, puffing my chest out in a burly manner. He nodded his head, smiled, and gestured to the bus with 20 other tourists. “Well, when in Rome,” I said, thinking that I should have gone to Rome instead.
It was a long bumpy ride into the city. I sat beside a cute German girl, who exhausted all of the English that she knew during our exchange. It turns out that someone had accidentally given her a book of English sex phrases instead of a dictionary. The rest of the bus ride was filled with an awkward silence.
When we arrived in the city, the guide beckoned us off and suggested that we explore. Once the locals caught the scent of my Axe body spray and the sight of my sunburnt skin, they swarmed me. One after the other, drones of merchants harassed me. I bought authentic bracelets for all of my friends. I’m sure that they’ll be excited to hear that it’s a traditional accessory—at least, that’s what the merchants told me.
Afterwards, I stumbled back to my hotel room in agony. I had the itchiest bug bite on my left ankle and I scratched at it till it started to bleed. My sunburnt nose and shoulders were also peeling, which led me to believe that maybe it was a sign. That perhaps the shedding of my skin was a metaphor or a symbol for my spiritual growth. I took a moment and soaked the epiphany in.
Then I ordered room service and an in-room movie, which was Ocean’s 12.
Elliot Chan 