My MP3 Playlists Are Random, My Drug Tests Are Not

Greetings, gentle readers.
I'm going to try for a big one today, so here's hoping for some endurance.

Would Everyone Please Be Quiet

The old joke goes something like this:  a man asks a woman if she'll have sex with him for a million dollars.  She says yes.  He repeats the offer, but for fifty dollars.  Her response: "No!  Do you think I'm a whore?"  The man replies that she has already said so, he is now haggling.
If you think human rights mean anything, then shut the hell up on social media about Omar Khadr.  Any complaint whatsoever about any facet of the case means that you care nothing for human dignity or rights, much like any admission of cash-for-sex means that you are a whore.

Burning In My Heart

I live at an intersection where passing trains regularly cause motorists to be delayed for 5-15 minutes and back up traffic for blocks.  Temperatures over the next few days are expected to soar into the thirties in terms of degrees centigrade, or near triple digits Fahrenheit.  That means a lot of cranky, sweaty, thirsty people are going to be idling their vehicles all day in front of my house.  A lot has been made of the human ability to turn human misery into financial gain.  Since I'm sidelined, I'm unable to take advantage of this sort of suffering, but I can offer any potential entrepreneurs a prime location for an ice cream or lemonade stand.  For a reasonable percentage of the profits, of course.

To Be An Invalid

Speaking of being sidelined, as I eagerly await the Canada-Honduras Gold Cup showdown tonight, I am also cognizant of my appointment this afternoon at the nearby medical diagnostic laboratory.  Once there, I am expected to provide a urine sample.  Of what medical or pharmacological condition am I suspected?  The answer is none.  In fact, the sample to be analyzed is for the purpose of proving that I am on drugs.  I have been on prescription opioid analgesics for some time now, and  the College of Physicians and Surgeons in this province have a policy that I need to be tested in order to show that I have in fact been ingesting the medication, and not selling it off to nearby addicts.  In short, I need to have demonstrable evidence that I've been baked out of my tree consistently, and not slipping meds to the druggies.  Should be the easiest test I've ever taken.  It still sounds ironic, considering the discrepancy between the expectation of the purpose of a drug test, and the fulfillment of that expectation.

Musical Interlude

As I've already taken a couple of breaks, I'll try and wind this up succinctly.  Here are the tracks that accompanied my last shower session:

• Counterfeit Blues, by Corb Lund
• Savoy Truffle, by The Beatles
• Zingane Zami, by Johnny Clegg and Juluka
• Spunky, by Eels
• Africa, by Toto
• Bullet with Butterfly Wings, performed by Frida Snell; written by Smashing Pumpkins (Billy Corgan)

If one is unable to find any pattern or predictor within this list, one should by now be able to draw some conclusions about me from the aggregated tracks from all of my posts.
That's it for me.  I'll likely be unable to do much until tomorrow, so I'll try and get some more notes down.
Goodnight England and the colonies,
—mARKUS