Regale me, please

I love the Globe and Mail, but recently I realized this is because I'm obsessed with the odd and the outré.

The Globe's blood-on-the-wall M.O. is to freak you out, man, and my desire for the "miraculous" and bizarre is always satisfied. (If you doubt this desire in yourself, I recommend that you sit in front of a History of Medical Deformities book for 5 minutes, and if you still haven't peeked, you a) have not fully explored your investigative urge. b) are still scrutinizing the deformed man on the cover.)

The paper is like the World Fair in bits and bites: my perfect intellectual snack.

Last weekend in the Style section, they featured a fishbowl bong filled with bees that you breathe into to see if you're sick. One of the things the bees can detect is whether or not you have cancer.

Bee #1: That breath is fuckin terrible!
Bee#2: Yup. It's cancer.

I can imagine all the terrible playground insults that will result from this knowledge. Cancer breath! Flu spit!

The bees can also tell whether you're pregnant. I don't think I would trust this conclusion to bees rolling around in breath particles, but hey, it could be a fun party game for guests.

The same article highlights the LED Dog Tail Communicator for pet owners who "wish to converse with their furry friends." The device draws words in the air with lights when a dog wags its tail. What will happen if I say something and the dog doesn't wag its tail? Will 'fuck you' will appear in the air? Generally that's what I feel my dog says to me when we're not engaged in our medieval greeting ceremony of bows and verbal/tail courtesies.

If you are ever in doubt of the supra-bizarre science-fiction reality that we now inhabit pick up a copy of the Globe. Even the business and news sections are creeping with stories that make excellent lunch conversation fodder in a "Isn't this shit crazy?" way. As my dog might say when I refuse to carry her up the stairs, "regale me, please."
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