The prodigal son

I would like to be able to spin a yarn of deceit, forcible confinement and travels, trials and tribulations in far-off lands as a glorious prelude to this: my triumphant return to the omniscient blogosphere, clad in fine-spun silks and laden with riches and treasures never before known to man.

But that in itself would be the deceit. There has been no kidnapping, no enslavement and no travel of any kind, unless you count several unpleasant jaunts to the far reaches of Mississauga's wastelands.

I''ve never worn fine-spun anything. The closest I've ever gotten to silk was staring into a glass encasement at the zoo when I was 12 or so, feverishly failing to spot the exotic worm species that allegedly stalked its boundaries, according to the boast on the enclosure's small bronze plaque. It was neither the first nor, as I've learned often since, the last incidence of false advertising I was to experience. Still, its a cruel lesson to learn, or re-learn, each time I pick up yet another miraculous nose-hair trimmer or can of Axe deoderant and disappointedy feel up avocadoes in the produce section of the supermarket while women disinterestedly pass me by -- no commercial-like half-naked tackles, no suggestive eye-fucking, not even a sexy longing growl.

So as of now I refuse to believe in any product claims, including the "Where There's Smoke There's Hydrogen Cyanide" warning on my cigarette pack.