Birthday Parties

I’m curious. When did the whole birthday party thing change?

I picked up my daughter from a party the other day, and while she was getting her boots on I was handed a beautiful Donna Karan original handbag filled with lotions, cosmetics, makeover gift certificates, a new transmission, and piles of candy. It was worth nine times the value of the toy we had purchased for the birthday kid, and I was hurled into fiery pits of guilt as a result.

Isn’t it the birthday kid who’s supposed to get all the loot?

I hate to sound like an elderly person who’s always spouting off about how things were in THEIR day, but in MY day we went to birthday parties just for the sake of going to a party.

We’d eat a hot dog and so much cake that we’d barf multi-hued icing for hours, and revel in the fact that little Billy got a cool set of walkie talkies and a Tonka truck that we would destroy in under five seconds, thus freeing us to run around the yard shooting each other with sticks.

WE didn’t get anything – it wasn’t OUR birthday. It was just a party!

Actually, kids at our parties did get something. It was a tradition in our house for Mom to insert nickels into the cake before icing it – each piece of cake containing a little prize for each adorable child.

There were times, however, when kids either didn’t listen to the message about the cake currency, or didn’t hear it in the first place as they ran around the yard, foaming at the mouth in anticipation of a sugar rush that would last for weeks. “Where’s the cake? I want cake, cake, cake!!!! Must have cake!” they’d cry, eyes rolling into their foreheads, zombie-like, as they approached the gaily decorated carousel cake that was about to meet its violent demise.

Things would go quiet at some point during the cake devourment as one kid or another would turn blue, choking on a nickel that had been inhaled along with their slice of Betty Crocker Double Chocolate Billion Calorie Nirvana.

Mom, ever the gracious hostess, would run around the table, initiating loud “KA-HAACK!” sounds as she deftly performed powerful Heimlich maneuvers on our choking party guests.

Or, some kid would bite down on a coin and lose a tooth or two, then be ably assisted by my Mom and her favourite pliers.

Parents arriving to pick up little Billy would find him silent, biting down on a piece of gauze to staunch the hemorrhaging in his jaw – an effective way for us to keep little Billy from opening his yap about foreign objects embedded in the cake.

Wasn’t it amazing that his baby tooth decided to come out during our party? His and six other kid’s teeth? Wasn’t that a coincidence? “See you next year Billy, and remember what we told you about what happens to a rat fink now won’t you? Run along now and thanks for coming!”

Despite the bloodshed and frequent tracheotomies, there were only a few arrests and ours was always a popular party house.

Nowadays, parents would be horrified at the prospect of having filthy, germ encrusted metal thrust into their hypoallergenic, gluten-free, decaf, non-fat children.

As for goody bags, lawyers will slap you with writs within seconds of kids leaving the premises, suing for bruised self-esteem and lost earnings and mental duress incurred by their precious snowflake who didn’t receive an original Turner landscape painting with the box of gold-plated gummy bears and Crayola fountain pens in the silk Gucci bag we just handed over.

Well let me tell you something. We didn’t have goody bags back in MY day. We had sore throats and bleeding gums and plier marks on our lips and we were happy to have them and if WE were to ever get a prize or a piece of candy because we stumbled dizzily into the donkey’s butt with a pin – well that was just the multi-hued icing on the cake.

My kid’s birthday is coming up. Cake supplied.

Bring your own pliers.

Burning Desire

We’re allowed to burn leaves in our city. If you obey the rules and get a permit you can burn all your yard waste and leaves and all kinds of things. Handy.

I have built sort of a special relationship with flames over the years. Back when we cared not a whit about choking the atmosphere with carbon and other chemicals (those were the days!), one of my first summer jobs was at a local hotel, where my duties included gathering up and burning garbage. This job taught me the joys of pyromania.

I also learned which storage room was used by waitresses changing clothes, how to staple blankets to tables for illicit poker games, and how to properly clip and light a cheap stogie, and what vigorous sexual congress sounds like when heard in a basement storage room beneath the fornicatorium. But I digress.

To a young lad, an afternoon spent burning the accumulated garbage of an entire hotel was wildly entertainming, not to mention educational. I learned the combustion properties of various plastics, light bulbs, and paper products like commercial grade rolls of toilet paper, for example. On one sad occasion, a ‘dirty’ magazine was burning just beyond the grasp of my singed, horny young fingers.

I would re-enact entire episodes of ‘Rat Patrol’ or ‘Combat’ all by myself, lobbing aerosol spray-can ‘grenades’ into the fire and then running for cover. Since it took several minutes for them to cook off, I would amuse myself by heading inside to the closed lounge where I’d squirt various sodas directly down my throat using the bar squirter hose thing, or steal a scoopful of maraschino cherries from a barrel in the cooler.

After a few minutes of diversion, I would proceed back outside to check on my ‘oven’. I would soon witness a satisfying “Crump!” of an explosion, the shock wave bulging out the rivets of the incinerator and belching skyward huge clouds of burning paper towels, cleaning rags and other experimental effluent. Lovely.

I was ruminating on all these fond memories as I raked this years’ leaf pile on top of the wood waste from last year and set it alight, accompanied by a few ritual Toronto Maple Leaf jokes for good measure.

Things were progressing well when I had one of those moments that are usually reserved for when you see the keys in your car ignition just as the locked door is closing crisply.

In this particular instance, I discovered the large can of WD-40 I had misplaced last summer. A split second later I realized the can was in my fire.

In ‘Matrix’-like bullet time I did several things simultaneously. I performed an interesting lurch with my upper body towards the conflagration, thinking I could remove the blackening can and save myself from imminent fiery death. Simultaneously I performed a twisting motion with my legs as they tried to immediately vacate the area. I appeared to be performing some sort of gyrating break-dance maneuver as the can reached combustion temperature and proceeded to "Crump!" enormously. Robert Oppenheimer flashed before my eyes.

I awoke flat on my back at ground zero, staring skyward through smoldering eyebrows at the large mushroom cloud that was roiling its way toward the lower cumulus. I began asking myself questions like “Where am I?”, “What happened?”, and “What’s that smell?”

Face blackened like a cartoon character, remaining hair blown dramatically backwards, singe marks everywhere, I was miraculously unharmed.

“I SAID I WAS MIRACULOUSLY UNHARMED APART FROM THIS RINGING IN MY EARS! I’M FINE THANKS! WHAT?!”

I think my leaf blower converts to a mulcher. I’ll go get the manual.

Fashion Week

“We’re live, here in New York City, for the unveiling of an exciting and mysterious line of men’s clothing which called S.L.O.B. Wear, by new designer David Crawford.”

“We say mysterious here on Fashion Television because no one seems to know who this designer is or what kind of fashion he designs, so we’re all looking forward to watching the runway this morning. Over to you Chantrelle!”

“Thanks Enoki! I’m seated beside the runway here, waiting for the first S.L.O.B ensemble to be shown, and there seems to be some sort of security breach. There is a large homeless-looking person up on the runway, wearing what looks like an old awning or tent. Oh dear. He’s spinning and twirling around like he’s actually a model! This is hilarious! I think we’ll need a wide angle shot for this fellow. He’s quite large.”

“I’m sorry but my producer has just asked me to describe what he’s wearing and I’m not sure if I can. It’s making me feel quite nauseous. Let’s see. He is wearing a torn and wrinkled blue short sleeved shirt that may have fit him about 100 pounds ago, over top of a torn undershirt, and some really old shorts which have a back pocket torn off. There is also a pair of pliers in the other back pocket. He’s wearing white tube socks and a large pair of old Birkenstock sandals. This is dreadful. I can’t go on. Oh the humanity!”

“Well, as Chantrelle composes herself, let’s look at the next model coming out from behind the screen.”

“Oh, it’s the large homeless-looking gentleman again. Uh, I’m just being told that this is actually the designer himself – David Crawford! Oh my. This can’t be right. This is a fashion runway, not a thrift store aisle. It looks like he’s wandering around eating something. He’s scratching himself too – like he’s just wandering around his own house or something. I’m feeling faint. Over to you Shiitake.”

“My God this is terrible! He’s wearing a beat up old bathrobe and he’s taken his socks off but he’s still in those dreadful Birkenstocks! You can even see the hideous calluses on his heels! Oh! I just got blinded by the flare off his bald spot there. Ouch! This is putting me right off lunch people…thank goodness. Slimming…”

“Now he’s changed into his outdoor gear. He’s still wearing his old shorts, and the same torn shirt, but now he has a flannel shirt over top, and a black down vest, and a sweaty old ball cap to top it off! Dreadful! Hideous!”

“Oh dear – everyone is jamming the exits to get away from here, and it appears the washrooms are overflowing. Everyone is shrieking and rubbing their eyes! Someone call security! We’ve got to get out of here! And I just broke a nail!!”

“Oh no! Now the guy on the runway is bending over like he’s fixing the sink and I can see his underwear and AAAAAACK!! There’s something shiny visible above his drooping shorts! It’s a quarter! Someone has put a quarter into the crack…I’M GOING TO PURGE MY CELERY STICK!…”

Screen goes black.

“Well, our coverage team seems to be having some difficulty with lunch there in New York.

“We’ll be back after these messages. And some Dramamine.”

Horses

I'm wondering if, before automobiles, did roads have passing lanes? Or would you just yell at the guy in front of you to pull over? Would the guy in front actually do so, or would they make rude gestures like today?

If someone cut you off in traffic it would be extremely satisfying to yell out at the person who did it - maybe hurl a horse muffin at them.

I pine for the old days suddenly.

Oasis of the Seas

So the biggest and baddest of cruise ships is now afloat, and I've been reading up on it.

It's quite impressive - as witnessed by these interesting if useless facts:

• Over 110,000 pounds of ice cubes are produced every day
• The propellers are 20 feet in diameter
• There are 16 passenger decks, plus several large holds filled with filth and squalor for the slaves (I'm sorry - crew) to sleep in.

The ship is broken into 8 different neighbourhoods, including Central Park (includes muggers!), Streetscape (includes a No Stabbing zone for the children), and assorted other entertainment areas, such as pools, climbing walls, theaters, alligator pits, punji stick booby traps, and a bingo hall. I may have made some of those up.

In all - it is quite exciting and I can't wait to go for a drool on it when I'm older.

Getting back to the neighbourhood theme - I think to make it feel like a real neighbourhood, what they should do is string up clothes lines between the cabins in this photo so guests can do their laundry.



That would really make it feel like a borough in New York or some other decrepit slum.

I suspect you'd make more friends and meet more interesting people by hanging out your undies each day than you ever would dining with the snobs in first class. Just sayin...

Christmas Light Rap-sody

Also known as "Middle Aged White Men Shouldn't Rap"



So I went to garage and got out a box
I was lookin for lights, not bagels and lox

There was string after string of LED's
Gotta string them up for the Christmas seas'

My fingers got numb and my butt got cold
I arranged them bad, I arranged them bold

I got out the ladder and set it up
All my homies in the hood said "Hey Dude - sup?"

"I am decoratin' this crib of mine
Gonna dress it up for Santa so fine"

Then the time it came to climb it on up
Gotta get them lights to the very top

Now I ain't likin them steps so high
I know from the past I cannot fly

'Fraidy Cat Chicken is what I am
Don't wanna go slidin down, makin a "Bam!"

So I tiptoe up to the view so fine
I clip on the lights then make my decline

I got them up with no injury
But a rose bush did put some prickles in me

Then a breaker blew and a cuss word flew
Gotta have the power for the strings to view

Got a timer for the lights, got a cord or two
Now we're all set up for the Santa crew

Posting False Start

Like most fathers out there, I also have children.

Well that didn't make any sense at all. Lemme work on that. I'll get back to you.

Digestive System As Taught By Plumber

The shortage of qualified surgeons in this country has led to drastic measures being taken. Here is a transcript of a lecture recently given to new surgical interns, as conducted by Master Plumber Fred Johnson of Johnson’s Plumbing and Heating.

“Let’s just go over the design plans briefly here people before we begin our operation.

We’ll proceed from the top of the vertical structure, here at the access panel, down to the end of the system, known as the waste stack, here.

So behind the access panel you’ll usually find several enamel or porcelain fixtures in a curved array, with multiple small valves supplying fluid to the fixtures and the upper end of the system. The fluid and the material introduced to the system are pushed into the drain by this auger unit, down a three degree slope, to this 90 degree ell-coupling here. Be careful if you’re working around this elbow area since touching any side of the pipe wall will cause the system to immediately back up.

Now below this fitting there are 1/2 inch drain lines for both gas and solids, which converge here in this flow control valve. This control valve is responsible for separation of gas, liquid and solid mixtures, as well as functioning as a PA system for the overall structure.

We’ll only concern ourselves with the fluid and semi-fluid lines at this point people. We’ll let the other guys work on the gas lines right now.

Further down the line we come to the central reservoir which is an acid tank holding all the in feed from the drain line above. This tank has control valves – one at each end, and after suitable mixing has occurred, the contents of the tank are slowly drained through the lower valve into the 1 inch sewer line here.

The sewer stack, as we call it, is approximately 28 feet long, made of flexible tubing, and winds around the central interior of the structure, through several 90 degree bends, elbows, and 45 degree offsets. As it proceeds, some of the material inside the structure is siphoned off using various branch lines.

Two of these branch lines are connected at T’s here and here, where all fluids are filtered through these two strainers and waste liquid drains into a P-trap holding tank here, which connects with the rest of the sewage stack by completely different route - what we in the industry call the fire sprinkler system. That’s a bit of anatomy humour there.

Other holding tanks contribute fluids and chemicals to the mixture as it moves down the stack, but generally the material continues without interruption.

The processed sewage then enters this 2 inch stack, which is in essence another, larger holding tank. This tank regularly empties, usually into a municipal waste system, through this flow control valve, here. Yes it does look like a politician Joe – good one!”

This plumbing system operates with high efficiency, but can occasionally slow to a crawl, or speed up beyond system capacity. The reasons for slowing down can be anything from too much cheese entering the system to a lack of water – a problem familiar to most plumbers.

The system can also work at extremely high speed, particularly after hot wings and beer specials down at the local pub, or after over-consumption of a single foodstuff such as prunes, spicy food, or an overdose of cod liver oil.

When operating in this system, care must be taken with open flames or spark-producing tools since flammable and explosive gases are known to accumulate in this system on a regular basis. Venting is as important in this system as in any plumbing system so remember that as you solder or weld anything

Maintenance is pretty routine – regular flushing with water is about all that’s required and overall the system is pretty resilient.

So that’s the works folks! A pretty complex system but most of us are familiar with the basic operating nature of it – so no worries.

Any questions before we begin our first operation on this patient? No? Good. Someone get my work gloves and Smithers can get started with the pipe cutters. Someone get a work light in here!

We need to hurry people – we have to assist the electricians next door with their brain operation."

Santa Sabotage

I have completed one of the greatest acts of sabotage known to this neighbourhood.

Speaking as a guy with a childish sense of humour (sorry - I'm being redundant), I came up with a devious plan involving a neighbour's inflatable Santa.

Operating under the cover of darkness, moving like a shadow, as only a grossly overweight, huge man dressed in one of his kids ill-fitting Ninja costumes can, I slithered (well, stomped) towards my target.

Carefully I sliced a small hole in the backside of Santa, and inserted (ahem) the working end of an old whoopee cushion. I then glued the edges of the rubber to the fabric of Santa, for a good, air-tight seal.

Feeling much like a Proctologist now, and acting like one too I suppose, I squirted liberal amounts of lubricant into Santa's new, er, opening, then made my escape, just as a great brapping plume of air made its escape from Santa.

It was fantastic! A great, thundering raspberry rent the air and did not stop! As I swished branches over my footprints and safely made my escape, huge volumes of wet-sounding wind escaped from Santa's new posterior. Awesome!

You know, with a wine cork and some fishing line, I could amuse myself endlessly with dog walkers, carolers, newspaper deliverers - all sorts of people! Oh the imagination runs wild!

It's a good thing I'm a mature man with the resources to carry out such a dastardly scheme.

Young guys just don't have the experience for this sort of thing.

The Shower

The shower head in our en-suite bathroom recently went kaput. We think children may have been involved. Regardless, the darn thing leaked all its pressure out, such that it mainly dribbled instead of showered.

Handy Man sprang into action and it was off to Home Depot!

Pick replacement head of suitable size, return home, excitedly replace head in shower.

This was a great assignment for me in that it was short, simple, and able to be accomplished in mere minutes. There was no measuring or cutting, only simple screwing on of the new head.

Lovely.

The new head is, erm, OK I guess. It's kind of like this:

What we got:
What we wanted:

I'm thinking there's some sort of Lo-Flo device within the inner workings of the thing, kind of like a diseased prostate thing maybe, that I might be able to subtly remove/bash out, such that our shower could have more force behind it.

Stay tuned for Shower-ectomy reports as they happen!