The Mailbag: Tiger Woods, a pair of beavers, Michael Ignatieff's eyebrows

Scott Feschuk answers your questions

Welcome to the Tuesday Mailbag on Wednesday, where we answer all the pressing questions of the day, save for the question of why I lied just now when everyone knows this column is in fact all about boob jokes and David Hasselhoff references.

Queries for future mailbags can be submitted in the comments below, sent to me via KITT or dispatched using electronic – or “magic” – mail at scott.feschuk@macleans.rogers.com. Next week’s mailbag will give priority to questions dealing with your most personal and intimate problems, including relationship queries and urgent medical advice. So staunch that bleeding and start typing.

Remember – there are no stupid questions, unless Helen Thomas somehow gets involved.

Dear Scott:

What would you do right now if you were Tiger Woods? – Dan222

Dan –

Right now? I’d duck. In fact, I’d probably spend most of my time around the house ducking. But when I’m not ducking – which wouldn’t be that often – here are some of the things I might do – duck! – if I were Tiger Woods:

1. Start doing porn. Sounds insane, right? But think about it. He’d get to have all the sex he wants, plus at this point porn stars are actually more highly regarded and respected than Tiger by society at large. Two birds, meet one stone. (That could also be the title of his first movie.)

2. Pay a guy to get rid of this whole so-called “Internet.” Shut ’er right down. Bury it in a landfill somewhere in Jersey. Damn thing is nothing but trouble.

3. Construct an alternate reality in which the events of the past two weeks have yet to transpire, then miss the fire hydrant, speed past the tree, break it off with all the ladies and become a devoted family man. Shouldn’t cost more than $50,000 if he sources his own lumber and super villain.

4. Amnesia. Just pray to God that his wife gets the amnesia.

5. Buy Elin a pair of Isotoner gloves. Kept the important people in Dan Marino’s life happy.

Dear Scott:

Is it polite to stare directly at Michael Ignatieff’s eyebrows? – Michael (aka Mike514)

Michael –

Not only is it impolite, Michael, it’s terribly unwise. Many foolhardy souls before you have stared into the HypnoBrow™ and instantly lost control of the part of their brain known as the Judgment Centre.

Ian Davey stared into the HypnoBrow™ and came away convinced he’d seen the future prime minister of Canada. Bob Rae take a gander and was suddenly persuaded that he couldn’t win a leadership race. And Peter Donolo cast barely a fleeting glimpse in the general direction of the HypnoBrow™ – yet here he is today, living in Ottawa, having abandoned a lucrative Toronto consultancy to work with Joe Volpe and Hedy Fry.

Turn away, Michael. And run. RUN!

Dear Scott:

I’m sick and tired of celebrities telling me what to do. Don’t get me wrong I don’t mind so much when they wear those disease ribbons or even when they tell me who to vote for or whatever but I lose it when I hear them talk about the sacrifices needed to fight global warming and then they fly their private jets to one of their five mansions. Something must be done but what can be done? – Sarah L., Toronto

Sarah –

I admire your disdain for hypocrisy and punctuation, Sarah, but your allegations are far too sweeping. Sure, there are famous people who urge others to “go green” while simultaneously powering entire legions of emissions-spewing hookerbots (think of the children, Mr. Sheen). But there are a number of recent examples of genuine achievement in environmental sacrifice among the rich and famous.

Consider these revelations from just the past month alone:

Nov. 5: In an inspiring example to up-and-coming celebrities across Hollywood, Lindsay Lohan and Tara Reid carpooled to rehab.

Nov. 10: With tiny solar panels installed behind his ears, Russell Crowe announced that his ego is now self-powered and completely off the grid.

Nov. 18: Mel Gibson arranged to be pulled over on suspicion of drunk driving for the expressed purpose of blaming global warming on the Jews.

Nov. 23: In an exclusive cover story, Us Weekly reported that Paris Hilton has switched over to a hybrid vibrator.

Nov. 26: Orlando Bloom received a prestigious award from the Sierra Club for maintaining, for the 10th consecutive year, a zero level of charisma emissions.

Nov. 30 Rapper 50 Cent spent four consecutive hours trying to come up with a rhyme for Copenhagen. (Result: Donald Fagen.)

Dear Scott:

What flavour Jell-O, and why? – NotBea

NotBea –

Clearly, your question stems from my reference in last week’s mailbag to a theoretical wrestling match pitting Scarlett Johansson against Megan Fox.

Now, some might say the flavour of Jell-O in which they wrestled would be secondary in such a scenario – that any old favour would do, so long as Scarlett and Megan were waist-deep in it, tugging at each other’s long, sticky hair, wildly grasping at each other in an effort to get a firm grip on any part of the body that… umm…

[Four minutes later. You heard me, Sean: Four minutes.]

Point is: these people are all idiots.

The Jell-O needs to be translucent as possible, to ensure no critical appendage ever disappears from sight. Sorry, strawberry, cherry and berry blue. The Jell-O needs to give off an aroma that’s pleasing to the olfactory senses. Later, watermelon and green apple. Most important of all, it needs to look good with marshmallows in it, because I always have marshmallows in my Jell-O, even in my wrestling Jell-O.

So: lemon.

Dear Scott:

I never thought I’d say this, or even think this, but I’m pretty sure I miss the Bell beavers. What were their names again? I can’t even remember their names but their ads, although stupid, were better than the boring Bell ads that are on now. Question: what do you think those beavers doing now? – Sam D.

Sam –

Hang on, I’ll yell downstairs and ask them: Hey, Gordon, some guy wants to know what you guys are doing right now?

They’re making a protein shake, Sam.

What’s that? You hadn’t heard? Well, the Bell beavers are staying with me. Been crashing here for some time now. Built a lodge out of my Billy bookshelf.

When last we left Frank and Gordon, things seemed to be going pretty well. Remember their last big ad? They were living in a luxury condominium. They’d impressed a couple foxy ladies with their number of HD channels and the speed of their Internet connection. And they’d brought some food in from the kitchen. They seemed poised to seal the deal and … well, that’s where their problems began. Turns out that implied cross-species mating isn’t a big selling point in the ultra-competitive television and telecommunications markets.

Hey, honey, we need to get an HD provider for our new high-def plasma. Should we go with Rogers?

No, the one with the bestiality ads. Chicks on beavers.

Anyway, that was the beginning of the end for Frank and Gordon. Bell phased them out as spokescreatures. They lost their place when their condo went no rodent. I found them on a street corner, Frank in a cowboy hat and fringed jacket, selling his body to the night; Gordon hunched over and looking tubercular in a ratty trenchcoat. I hope you understand: I just had to get them out of that life, Sam. Their pimp was the Mazda Zoom-Zoom boy – and that kid has grown up to be big. And angry.

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