David Sherman   When the joints ache, pain not preceded by recent good times, I’m known to bellow, “Ayoye, ça me fait mal,” title of a hit by the Québecois pop group, Offenbach and its front man, Gerry Boulet. He died at 44 from colon cancer so he had lots to scream, “Ayoye, ça me fait mal,” about. It’s a rough translation of “Oi vay, it’s killing me.” Most medical people up here in the Great White North understand Yiddish about as well as Gerry Boulet did. The admin at the o

Little lass, is thy consort fled? Left thee lone in the lamplit stead? A blister burns in my breast’s attire — Heart’s hearth hurteth hot: I’m afire. Tell, tender one, is he kind to thee? Can his craft quick thee as mine could be? My breath could bear thee heaven’s higher spire — Sings scorch and sigh: afire, afire. Ah! Some dull blade, edge-drab, unkeen, Hath cleaved my soul — six inches clean! Through marrowed me the mortal lyre Sings scorch and sigh: afire, afire. At night

Art and story contributed by Montreal painter/writer John Pohl.   Previously on Fluffy and the Clown, a humble artist known as Mr. Cobb was drawing in a park along the Lachine Canal, when he witnessed what appeared to be a dognapping. Thinking there might be a reward for finding the dog, he rushed back to the compound where he lived with a captive group of con artists making dog paintings. But Mr. Cobb didn’t return with a salable drawing – as punishment, he was sent to bed w