Dear Diary (as imagined by the sleeveless T-shirt)

“What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”

— Juliet Capulet

Hah! Poppycock, pure and simple. What other word than “simple” should you use to address some besotted sixteen year old? As if those sixteen years provided here with any depth of wisdom.

Kunta Kinte knew that. His name was Kunte, not Toby Waller.
Do we really think Reek is the same person as Theon Greyjoy?

No, and that’s why I insist you call me by my true name, Sleeveless T-Shirt.

I am not a muscle shirt. Skinny and underdeveloped men and women the world over revel in my comfort and coolness. Why restrict my use to the muscled?

I am not a tank top. Tank suits were bathing costumes worn in the 1920s. I’m not your grandpa’s upper body clothing. This is the 21st Century, baby. Climb on board.

Tube top? Forget it. Completely different garment, best suited to well-developed females highlighting their mammalian properties. Un, unh. No way, baby. I’m an equal opportunity piece of clothing. Men and women both. And I have straps, baby. STRAPS! Aint’ no tube top got what I got. Straps, I say baby, straps.

Guinea tee? Derogatory and racist term. Enough said.

Derogatory? Listen to this. The worst, absolute worst …. god, I hate to even say it … is “wife beater.” Wife beater? Are you kidding me? What the hell does spousal abuse have to do with a comfortable and cool garment which can also be used to absorb perspiration when worn as an undergarment? Puhleeeze!

Sleeveless T-shirt, that’s who I am and I will thank you to call me by my proper name.

(You in Britain are allowed the use of “vest” and you in New Zealand “singlet.” I am nothing if not versatile and international.)

Dear Diary (as imagined by your old friend, the 3-litre milk jug)

Dear Diary,

What a great week! Indeed, it is to laugh!

Those stupid, stupid Canadians. So stupid they think they are on to my evil plan to subjugate humanity when they, in fact, are my means of accomplishing it.

This week, that standard-bearer of the command-and-control economy, the nation that was handed the gauntlet upon the collapse of the Soviet Union — I speak of…dare I say it? It hurts to let its dastardly name pass my lips…okay, here it is then — Canada, banned….verily I say banned my use in the sale of milk products in its frozen land.

No milk shall be sold in 3-litre jugs unless and until a study pilot project perhaps taken years down the road could assess the value in selling mammalian secretions in bodies such as myself ordered the government-appointed dairy board.

How lucky the lactate-lovers of the Great White North appear to be to have such guardians of the public weal. Without such restrictions who knows the dangers that could be involved. Although such wise legislation may well result in otherwise law-abiding Canadians producing their own 3-litre milk jugs, buying bootleg jugs from neighborhood dealers that contain product adulterated with all sorts of unhealthy fillers, either for recreational or medicinal purposes, don’t be fooled. 3-litre milk jugs will undoubtedly act as the gateway for other prime-numbered lactose delivery systems. Other more potent delivery agents: 5 liter containers, seven, eleven…even, gasp, into the high teens.

Now other countries (New Zealand) claim that they have decriminalized and even legalized me, the 3-litre milk jug with little public harm. One New Zealander even claims the practice is so harmless he would buy 4-liter milk jugs “if they would fit in the door of my refrigerator.” You see where this is going, don’t you? The complete collapse of the refrigeration industry as it is inundated with demands for new space dimensions! Where will it end then, with citizens questioning every aspect of the cozy social order that leaves the elite at the top?

We all see it, that is why I am such a danger to you. It is symbolic, after all. Is not the definition of the verb “to milk” something as “to bleed, extract, cheat or extort from someone”?

Do what you want, Board of the Dairy Farmers of Ontario. Have your little victory, for it is I, the 3-litre milk jug, who has already achieved world domination by using Canada itself(The Mouse That Roared) to become the entire planet’s greatest obsession and thus, master: Pamela Anderson’s luscious three liter jugs.

Who controls the world now? [sound of evil laughter fading into the distance]

Dear Diary (as imagined by the Dominion of Canada)

Lordy, lordy what is a middle-aged Dominion and ex-colony to do? You try and make these visitor/tourists happy. After all, most people won’t even consider coming for a visit unless it’s for the 48 minutes of summer we have each year. So I try and make myself presentable, I cleaned up the attic (if you don’t count “dumpnado”, the simmering unextinguishable garbage dump in the far north that just won’t go out), swept the front steps, and invited all my old friends back (free trade agreements with Korea, Europe and some S. American neighbours — the ones who really make it a party]).

So what do I get?

— A snippy British woman who came with her girlfriend for a visit and wasn’t happy with all the cars she inconceivably encountered within major cities of all places.

— short term guests who come to Alberta for visits from Denmark and China and end up getting attacked by bears and complain that cars don’t come quickly enough to come cart them to medical facilities.

— a smitten Galway lad who encounters one of my own fair daughters on a Ryan Air flight to Dublin and thinks he’s charmed his way into her knickers only to lose contact with her at Passport Control.

So what is it to be world, more cars, less cars or should we just make out in the back seat so we don’t have to play Marco Polo in the Customs Hall?

Best let us know, we middle-aged gals ain’t got much time left until the mosquitoes go into hibernation and we start pulling out the woolen undies.

As they say on Game of Thrones, “Winter is Coming!” And you saw how that turned out for the Starks.