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Learning Day: Canadian Handbook for the Recently Embarrassingly Deceased🌭
🕑 Added 2025-10-22 12:00:20 +0000 UTC
So: you've died in Canada. And as the famous saying goes, when you die in Canada, you die in real life, bud. There are plenty of dignified ways to go in the Great White North: crushed by moose, run down by zamboni, cut in half by Shania Twain. And then there are the deaths so specific, so embarrassing, that we never thought we'd have to warn people against them.
But here we are. You fucked up big-time, pal. So big, in fact, that we've had to make bespoke PSAs to ensure that no Canadian ever suffers the same fate. Let's be real: they probably weren't going to anyway, but we've got the magical combination of a small entertainment industry and government funds to blow, so at least your incompetence got some PAs paid.
Wow, dude. We tried to warn you about these. We made a whole puppet show. But you still thought about it. You thought about taking drugs.
There you were, wandering through a dark alley with your lumpy-ass potato head and your lumpy-ass potato-headed friend, looking like a couple of dried-up Mickeys Rooney.
You shouldn't have been walking around in a desolate alley that's straight out of the 1994 Greydon Clark film Dark Future, potato Rooneys. Do you want to get reverse Westworld-ed? But there are worse things in life than becoming a slave or prostitute to a jumpsuit-wearing robot. Things like David Cronenberg.
When David Cronenberg offers you Eastern Promises in a grimy Toronto backstreet amidst the discarded Tim Hortons cups and National Post issues, you tell that lanky national treasure to go finger his disturbingly erotic chest orifice.
We thought that was obvious. It's David Cronenberg! He made The Fly! He made eXistenZ! He made Fast Company, which was kind of just a straight-up action movie about drag racing and not viscerally disturbing at all. The point is, you can't predict the guy. Speaking frankly, you got off easy just having an inexplicable vision of Elvis and then immediately dying. By all rights you should have had a surreal experience blending flesh and machine until you couldn't tell where your immersion blender ended and you began.
So there we are. Don't take drugs from David Cronenberg. If you must accept drugs from a Canadian director, make it James Cameron. At worst, you'll probably just have a sweeping, cinematic vision of alien hair sex. Atom Egoyan is probably fine, too. Smoke that shit and you'll have a non-linear trip in which you believe yourself to be a member of the Armenian diaspora.
A stranger is just a captor who hasn't mailed parts of you to the cops alongside taunting letters yet. And there isn't anything necessarily embarrassing about getting got by someone you don't know. I mean, maybe that guy offering you a ride really does know your parents, and there really has been an emergency. It could happen!
But you were something of an innovator in getting kidnapped and murdered by a faceless maniac, weren't you? Let's review the facts: someone called your home phone. You answered, and they asked for your parents. When you said they couldn't talk at the moment, they asked, "you aren't home alone, are you?"
You said yes, you trusting little fool. The voice in your ear cackled. "Excellent," they whispered. "That's just what I wanted to hear." You'd fallen right into their trap. Somehow, admitting the negligence of your parents empowered this nefarious caller to compromise you to a permanent end.
Sure, it's probably worth feigning the presence of a responsible adult on the outside chance that a caller is a random child murderer making their way through the phone book. But even if they're hungering for tender young flesh and emboldened by the absence of a parent/guardian, how did they go from there to locating your home and gaining access to it? If you're telling an unfamiliar adult who knows you're unattended your GPS coordinates and the location of the spare key to your front door, then you might actually be too stupid to live. Radical cartoon rabbits on hoverboards could not have saved you.
Hey, why doesn't the girl rabbit have whiskers? Is that how rabbit sexual dimorphism works? Well, in any case, we made them siblings, so nobody's ever going to draw them exploring each other's bodies.
We figured calling the place "Planet Danger" would be enough to keep people away. Should we have called it "Planet No Great Deeds Are Esteemed Here?" Maybe you thought we were goofing. We weren't.
It's a planet made up of grinding gears and surprise buzzsaws. We don't know why it exists. Maybe it's a factory world long-since abandoned by its creators, churning out alien smartphones until the sun explodes. Maybe it's one of God's little pranks, like horseshoe crabs or benzodiazepine tolerance. Nobody's sure. But we're sure of one thing: you don't fuck around with Planet Danger.
But you did, so now there's a PSA about it. We couldn't show a real person getting horribly mangled, of course, so we used a robot. We called him Ass-tar, in honor of your dumb ass… tar.
Hopefully, seeing a dead-eyed machine crafted in the shape of a skeletal child getting its arm severed by a flying buzzsaw will be enough to dissuade anyone else from following your example.
We are all descendants of the ape-men who didn't go around just eating whatever vaguely edible-looking objects they found on the savannah. And then you went and dishonored their legacy by chugging the first bottle of alluring blue liquid you found under the sink. That inspired us to create a PSA where two off-brand muppets tell kids not to do that.
I'm going to be honest. We were just fucking around with this one. We didn't even try to make them look like anything. We had the girl monster try to eat the guitar for some reason.
And when they sing their little monster song, we thought it would be funny if the refrain was "don'tcha put it in your mouth." Because you can put things other than food in your mouth, right? I mean, not you. You're dead. But like, dicks, right? You can put dicks in your mouth. It works on two levels, singing beet.
We capped the whole thing off with a solemn talking lion that looks like he's stroking out. This is the kind of lion the other apes would have laughed at you for getting mauled by, and in a way, this entire PSA is our way of laughing at you for shoveling loose poison into your face.
Sigmund Freud once said, "there is no such thing as an accident, penis penis fathersex." You should have listened. Maybe then you wouldn't have fallen face-first off a ladder into a glass display case or horribly scalded your face with a giant pot of boiling oil.
Oh yeah. We showed a real person with their skin melting off. To kids. We're done with that pussy-ass robot shit.
Workplace safety is no joke. One minute you're breaking the fourth wall, explaining to viewers that you're a beautiful young woman in line to be head chef, a week out from getting married, and the next you're Canadian Deadpool.
Wearing proper safety equipment, getting the right training, and refusing unsafe jobs are all part of— Jesus Christ, what the fuck is that?
It's a fucking zombie! The dead have risen from their graves and roam the earth in a state of endless torment, an agony from which the only reprieve is the consumption of our living flesh!
Fucking run! Fuck! No amount of workplace safety could have prepared us for this! We were fools to think we could stave off the inherent risk of living in a chaotic universe with PSAs! Arrgh! Save me, David Cronenberg!
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: OrneryWeevil, a doomed soul who failed to heed the advice of a fellow wanderer, now cursed to an eternity reading every comment posted under internet porn videos.
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Comments
drake godzilla
We need more PSA like these for modern problems and dangers, like crypo and NST and fanfic. Some of deadly things the world have ever known
Christopher Horne
A new contender for my favourite Merritt article, and it’s a competitive field! Oh, and trusting David Cronenberg was a poor choice, but have you heard that man’s voice? It’s somehow sex, menace AND reassurance… his vibe scans as “Daddy Jigsaw” (killer, not puzzle).
