Here we go again: Even with a diet of Advil and Jos Louis, I still blame you people for my internal bleeding. Not even the stink-wads who work here give me any respect. Notice, the last issue I wasn’t even in the makeshift masthead. If I have to stay here much longer, my sanity will join my liver on an unannounced retreat somewhere south of Tijuana. All work and no whiskey gives me the shakes.

Molson scares me: Can you believe 20,000 Canadian sucker-fish actually tuned in to the iam.ca site to watch a commercial? You’ve been right all along! People really are watching tv to see your ads! Finally, you can start rolling credits at the end of spots. Thirty seconds? You only have to produce three. Picture this: Blackscreen. A voiceover comes up, ‘This beer is brewed for Canadians by Canadians.’ Roll credits. Besides, shorter shoots mean more time to look at your reflections and preen your perfectly professional pompadours.

Someone talk to Moses! Let’s make a commercial station – all spots, all the time. You know, this commercial for Ford is brought to you by the good folks at Toyota…

Note to critics of OTS: Hello? Who gives a shit about the font? Maybe you should try getting those dumb-ass commercial writers fired if you want an improvement in the paper.

Expense this: Turns out one oft-investigated freelance producer is under the interrogation lights again for some suspicious expense reporting. Madame, if you’re going to cheat on your expense claims, you might want to be a little less obvious. Here’s a lesson in expense-form cheating from an old master. Do not expense: brand new cars, cases of Dom Perignon, black-market babies or nights of Vegas lust. They always set off alarms – I know from experience.

Strike two: There’s no longer any question that we have become a haven for productions seeking refuge from the labor troubles south of the border. Here’s an idea: let’s offer to billet the cast, crew and production teams in our homes. I want Tiger Woods for a round of mini-mini-putt-putt in my backyard. Hey, it’s gotta be better than hanging in Kitchener. ‘Yo! ‘N Sync! Mow my lawn, you perma-teen geeks.’

Don’t worry, you dung-daddies can host the American agency execs – cause they’re such a good time.

Sing with me: I have prepared a song for you to serenade American producers as they bend you over.

(To the tune of This Land is Your Land)

This land is your land,

This land is my land

There are scabs on

Our producers’ glad-hand.

And if you’re coming

For our low dollar –

This land was made for shootin’ free.

For all our crews here,

There is no sleeping

But all our helmers

Are on the dole.

So if you’re fearful

Of nasty unions

This land up here is picket free!

We’ve got your Tiger,

We’ve got your Britney,

We’ve got your bad, bad,

‘N Sync too.

And we will be here,

We’re at your service

And Britney can stay to service me.

rricketts@brunico.com