I graciously thank you for allowing me to partake in the most wonderful of civic duties. My friends tell me that it is a colossal pain in the ass, but don’t worry about me—I’m totally guilty as charged for loving Pauly Shore in Jury Duty. I’m writing you not to be exempt from jury duty, but to make sure there are no surprises on trial day. For one, I feel you should be aware that my psychic abilities may impede my ability to remain objective in the matter. You see, I can tell who is guilty simply by looking at them. I’ve really honed my aura reading skills the past four months, but it usually works best if I’m on acid. Don’t worry, I’ll bring my own. Being psychic means that I am always surrounded by the supernatural world. This week I’ve been seeing the ghosts of Brittany Murphy and Mel Gibson’s career—would it be all right if they voted during the deliberation too? I promise, they are very reasonable people as long as the defendant isn’t Jewish or a Double Quarter Pounder with cheese.
Now, I don’t mean to be a wet blanket, but I also hear that these trials can go on for some time and that you cannot leave the court room until there is a recess. I have a pretty overactive bladder and I don’t think a single pair of Depends can absorb more than one bathroom break. The only other option I’d have is to rig up some sort of catheter device, but I’m not sure how others may feel about this. I can only imagine that having a bag of steaming hot urine strapped to my calf for 8 hours won’t exactly emit the most fragrant aroma. The only case where my urine-sack would be beneficial is if the defendant was a sting ray. You’d all be looking at me all like “give me your pee, my sting hurts so bad.” Then whose bladder control problems will be the hero? Oh, and speaking of aromas, would I have to bathe? Because, as most of my friends can attest to, I tend to go for 4, sometimes 5, days without a shower.
Okay, I promise this is my last stipulation, but it’s just so embarrassing. I know most women get their period for about four to six days but my uterine lining sheds a few days longer. Like, 21 days longer. I’ve gotten used to it at this point, but there’s a 94% chance that the trial and my period will overlap, I feel I should warn you, I get a little moody and emotional—like, cry-when-I-see-those-commericals-for-straws-made-of-Oreos-emotional. I also get the worst cravings. Have you ever had popcorn covered in ranch dressing? You’re missing out. I’ll be sure to bring enough for everyone. Anyway, I can’t wait for jury duty and neither can Morris (he’s my Madagascar hissing cockroach).

Thank you and Godspeed,
Elinor Keshet

P.S. Will you sign my petition to release a sequel to Jury Duty?

Not only do I enjoy watching movies about random acts of unspeakable perversity, but I’m currently working on a few films of my own. Thing is, if I fail the way my grade 11 math teacher said I would, I’m looking at one hell of a future for myself.

Meet Richard, Your New Mommy
A precocious youngster played by Freddie Highmore, that kid from Finding Neverland who cried a lot, and his vapid whore of a sister (Lindsey Lohan) come to terms when their Dad divorces their mom and brings home a flamboyantly gay boyfriend. Watch as the kids get new wardrobes, and learn about getting pedicures, non-fat lattes, and snorting E in night club washrooms. This film is sure to delight all those who voted NDP.

Testosterone Force: Men vs. Metrosexuals
As for leading men go, today’s field is pretty weak. Jake Gyllenhaall, Chad Michael Murray, and Paul Walker are prissy wusses compared to the heroes of yore (Ed. Note: But what about Vin Diesel?). They’d be too busy shopping or getting Starbucks to kick Commie ass like the old timers did. Enter the Testosterone Force: Clint Eastwood, Steve McQueen, John Wayne, Gregory Peck, and Bruce Lee. These five badasses have more male hormones than a female East German swimmer. The plot doesn’t really matter, but it goes like this: metrosexual ninjas have kidnapped the American president and are threatening to give him a full body wax and spa/facial unless Banana Republic holds a 75% off sale within 24 hours. Due to the rampant homophobia within the U.S. Armed Forces, the government must call upon five real men to rescue the president and restore man’s role in the world.

The Olsen Twins’ 16^th Birthday Bash: Director’s Cut
Directed by Roman Polanski.

~Elinor Keshet

Redpath Basement: The Mecca of delicious day-old meals invitingly offers up its coffee to the consumer via vending machine. It’s a rich black colour, much like that of volcanic ash. However, the aroma leaves much to be desired.  It has that airport coffee scent: rejected coffee beans mixed with 115-octane jet fuel. The taste isn’t much better.  After dumping in five sugars, I was still swallowing a mouthful of scalding horseradish.  Two more packets did absolutely nothing. The only reason it garners points is because it’s fair trade and the lady with the hairnet behind the counter smiled at me (I feel beautiful on the outside now).

Score: 2/10

Starbucks: The purveyor of the whole “coffee shop” culture should technically make the best coffee, correct? Incorrect. Their coffee tastes as if their beans were roasted using a WWII era SS-issue flamethrower. Even with the coma inducing amount of sugar I shoveled in, I couldn’t escape the “over-roasted” flavour. Their coffee is the most expensive and their sizing nomenclature is irritatingly pretentious (a small coffee is called a “tall”). Their sub-par beverages were served to me by a neanderthal 16-year-old cashier with a dirt ‘stache who had the nerve to scowl at me after I asked him where the all-important sugar was.  Listen buddy, my tax dollars are going to the Student Job Grant that is paying your salary, so you better direct me to the sugar before I fire an extra shot of soy milk through your urethra.  Starbucks also pipes a variety of musicians through their well-concealed speakers, and sells CDs in stores. It sounds like puppies being kicked through industrial air-conditioning units.

Score: 3/10 for the free newspapers

Second Cup: Drinking Second Cup’s coffee is the same as listening to an NDP MP deliver a speech to the House of Commons about global warming. You know it’s crap, but somehow it’s compelling enough to listen to.  Similarly, their coffee has no real flavor and is so utterly unremarkable I can’t even remember how I would describe it. It’s as bland as uncooked tofu on white paper and can be summed up in one word: meh.

Score: 5/10

Tim Horton’s: When you walk into Timmy Ho’s the floors are often dirty and unwashed. The line stretches as far as the eye can see and is filled with bleary-eyed striped-shirt-and-chino-wearing office workers and vapid low-rent Mischa Barton look a-likes from nearby private schools.  They don’t take debit cards either, yet they make the best coffee. No less than 5 seconds after you place your order, your coffee materializes in a paper cup, scalding hot – so hot, in fact that it melts through the cup to burn your hand. But once you take a sip, and get over the pain of having seared your tongue, it is nothing short of magical.  The coffee is just strong enough, and after my sugar doctoring, it’s sweet and pleasant-tasting. This, ladies, gentlemen and half-grown freshmen, is what coffee should be.

Score: 10/10 I love it so much I actually donate my spare change to their charities.

                                                                                                                                                                        ~Eli Keshet

3480 McTavish

Montreal, QC

H3A 1X9

Dear first years,

1135. This figure was arrived at by the number of honey balls I eat per day squared and plotted as a function whose area under the curve is inversely proportional to the laminar flow of tubal nutritive across a Bernoulli distribution. It is also the projected number of days since I first stepped foot into my “cozy” dorm room during the first year of my studies at McGill. The building looked old, smelled like the Louisiana Superdome, and most of the water fountains didn’t even seem fit for Nicaraguan peasants to drink out of.

McGill has a nice cross-section of people from different racial and socioeconomic backgrounds, but just incase you have the vision of a cataract-stricken 80-year-old, I’ll tell you now that if you think this is going to be one of those schools where everybody has a Volvo or a BMW and wears clothes that cost more than your last paycheque, then you’re perfectly correct. If you’re a Goth or an Emo kid, or belong to any other social clique I consider sub-human, do yourself a favour, buy some Polo shirts and lose the black makeup and hair dye. You’ll be saving yourself four years of torment and physical pain by assimilating and blending in.

I know what you’re thinking: “But Joel Madden from Good Charlotte didn’t conform and he dated Hillary Duff!” Listen, Joel likely got thrown into a garbage can by the football players at his high school every day. Meanwhile, he has more money than you ever will, and that’s why he’s dating Hillary Duff.  Besides, her shoulders are as wide as an offensive lineman’s. Coincidence?  I think not.

McGill is filled with many interesting people, especially first-years—mainly because they’re all awkward and socially retarded.  Don’t worry, you’ll find a few good friends and inevitably form a pack. You may stick with them, you may not, but hey, that’s life. My suggestion: make yourself invaluable to the social cohesion of your group. Prevent anyone from getting anyone else’s phone number, bring tons of cheap hooch wherever you go, steal someone’s EpiPen—anything you can do to ensure that nothing gets done without you there.

To all you folks not in the math and science pool, stay on top of all academic shit.  I like reading school-related articles about as much as a Klansmen would like an Ethiopian Jew for a daughter-in-law, but you do what you gotta’ do.

And finally, I’m sorry to single you out, but freshman girls: Don’t do E or chug a whole mickey of Sour Puss raspberry liqueur in a back alley behind Lodge before ‘90s night (you know who you are) and then puke all over the dance floor, only to get carried away by the paramedics.  Chances are you already dress like a 2^nd-class whore working the corner, and have very little dignity or respect, so do yourself a favour and don’t lose your last shreds while getting your stomach pumped in front of your floor fellow.

Also try not to piss yourself.

Welcome to Canada’s highest ranking upholder of nepotism. Here’s to a prosperous and fun-filled year

~Eli Keshet, Esq.