Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Name Needed

I need to come up with a name for a certain posture.

The posture is adopted by helpful fathers crouched over in front of their children and their children's chums, doing up ice skates at the local outdoor rink.

The physical nature of this crouching behaviour is as follows: Back at 45 degree angle to vertical, knees slightly bent, skate between legs, frozen and bleeding fingers in use tying up laces at the outdoor ice rink.  Wind howling, nose dripping, fingers beginning to cramp as the 4th pair is secured to the up-stretched appendage.

Part of this peculiar stance comes from clutching the child's skate between the legs, its razor sharp blade uncomfortably close to one's scrotum and other accessories.

The other peculiarity is a result of the fathers pranged up and sore back, the shooting pains appearing as electrical sparks erupting from beneath the back of the fathers winter coat. 

The pain is somewhat diminished by seeing his charges hurtling downwind on the ice, red cheeks grinning, old ladies being bowled out of the way like ten-pins. 

My pain was also diminished by thinking of somehow securing the hot chocolate dispensing license for the new outdoor facility.  I'd make a fortune.

Monday, December 13, 2010

NESCAR Racing


TV Announcer: “We are live at the NESCAR 500 - the biggest race on the National Electric Stock Car circuit, as drivers compete for the Smug Cup.”

“Hi everyone, I’m Bryce Malmsley, along with Hubert Throckmorton, and we are about to start the race.  Let’s go trackside to Jordan Buckminster the 3rd.” 

“All of the major manufacturers are in this race, Bryce…The Toyota Prius is well represented, as are other hybrids like the Ford Focus, Chevy Volt, Pontiac Ohm, Volvo Current, Kia Circuit Breaker, and the Fiat Electrical Meter.  Several cars are even AC/DC – not that there’s anything wrong with that.” 

“Let’s listen in to the track announcer and the famous phrase heard at electric car races everywhere…”

Track Announcer: “Ladies and gentlemen!  Turn on your engines!  Are they on?  I can’t hear anything.  OK – would drivers please wave if your engine is on?  Maybe turn up your radios so we can hear something.  Good.”

TV Announcer: “The green flag made of natural fibers is waving here as the pit crews unplug their cars and we get our race under way.  And they’re off!  We are silently under way and – oh dear!  Number 29 is going backwards!  Someone must have put his battery in the wrong way!  Wow – almost a tragedy right at the start of our race…”

“Number 29 is Dickie Monmouth.  He has a lot of experience in the ‘AA,’ ‘C,’ and ‘D’ racing leagues, but there are a few rookies on his crew.  That mix-up is bound to cause some red faces back in the pits...”

“We’ve got some real action here today, folks.  All of our contenders are bunched up on the back straight as they zoom through the school zone at a reduced 20 miles per hour!  Let’s listen in on their radio chatter…”

      “So Preston, how about a set of doubles after the heat abates?”
“Sounds spiffy!  Say – did you see what Philbert is wearing?  Isn’t that the tackiest jumpsuit you’ve ever seen?”
“You’re not kidding!  Listen – I’ve got to pull into the pits – my seatbelt is chafing.  Let’s chat on the next lap...”

“We have a report from trackside as the race continues…”

“I’m here in the pits as we approach our first fuel stop.  We should be able to hear the driver as he communicates with his crew…”

Driver: “I’ll have a tall latte with a shot of hazelnut please guys!  And a low fat cranberry muffin!  How about some fresh flowers on the dash here?  And maybe a shot of Febreeze – that track just reeks out there.  Thanks…”

“I must interrupt since there has been some sort of incident out on the track!  It looks like one of the cars did not signal a lane change, and the other drivers are gesticulating furiously!  They are yelling back and forth at each other as they zoom around the track at speeds of up to 35 miles per hour!  I can hear them from here!” 

“Number 19 is actually stopping to write a strongly worded letter!  Oh my, the action here is fast and furious.”

“As we go to our first facial and pedicure break, it’s the Toyota Prius in first, the Chevy Booster Cable humming along in second, and the Honda Conduit in third.  And now a word from our sponsor: Scrunch – the new decaf, non-fat, organic, free-range, world-saving, green toilet paper…”

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

The Saye Family Chronicle

Well it’s been another fun and exciting year in the Saye household!  Here is what has been going on:

Son number 1 (Diet Pep) has been busy wooing women with his sensuous and godlike trombone playing.  So far no joy on the job (or marriage) fronts so he remains at home where he remodels train stations to much fanfare, and builds suspension bridges in the back yard..

Son number 2 (Kamika) is travelling overseas and has not been heard from for many months.  If you should see him please ask him to call or write us c/o his sister Newjer at the address below.

Daughter #1 (Keska) is now studying in France at the famous Sore Bun University.  She lives with her cousins Vacant and Patrick Sway

My beloved wife Autop is still the town pathologist so people are just dying to meet her (as we say in the Saye household to much mirth).  She is the source of much turkey anatomy information while we enjoy our holiday dinners that’s for sure!

My brother Upsyday and his wife Current stopped by on the way to find their kids Vacant and Emba recently.  Current is also trying to track down her sister, Shameless Huss, who went walkabout some years ago. 

As for me, your tireless correspondent remains confident this year will be the best ever for the Saye family!

Sincerely,

Whistlingdick Saye

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Silly Job Interview

“So – you’re applying for the position of Level 3 Mandarin Orange Tissue Wrapper are you?”

“Yes sir!  I think I have the required skill and education needed to wrap oranges in those little tissues – absolutely!”

“Let’s take a look at your resume.  Hmmm…BSc from Yale, Harvard MBA, summer fruit picking.  What kind of fruit did you pick?” 

“Peaches, mainly.  Some apricots.”

“You don’t have much relevant citrus fruit experience, do you?”

 “No sir, but one summer they let me put stickers on apples for a day or two.  I thought I’d aim for something in that area someday.”

“Well I’m afraid you’re just not qualified for this particular position.  We do have an opening in our management office, but I’m afraid it would mean having to work with computers and such, for a much higher salary.”

“I don’t want to sound snobby or anything, sir, but I think that sort of work is beneath me.  I went to Harvard for a reason and if I can’t wrap oranges or put stickers on apples then I guess I’ll just have to look elsewhere.”

“Follow your dream, young man.  All the best to you.  And if you ever feel you might want to join the lowly ranks of managers and office workers – you just give me a call.”

“Thank you for your time.”

Friday, December 3, 2010

The Nutmeg Scourge

Poison control centres across North America are being inundated with stupid kids trying to get high by smoking, snorting, licking, basting, and generally hanging out with nutmeg.  Yes - nutmeg - the new 'drug' of choice of really, really dumb kids.

Nutmeg, as we all know, is a gateway garnish - one which can lead to paprika, garlic powder or even cayenne.
From there it is an easy jump to the harder condiments - your mustards, relishes, and, yes - ketchup (shudder).

Speak to your children people.  Just say no to spices!  

This message brought to you by: C.A.V.E. - Citizens Against Virtually Everything.

 

Things That Sound Dirty But Aren't

This weeks subject:

Christmas Trees

  • Big needles usually indicate a large stem
  • Pruning around the base makes it look bigger
  • Don't get over-excited if it's your first time flocking
  • You can smell the bushy ones through the whole house!

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Cat Basin

My wife and I were having a frank exchange of viewpoints...

“Honey!  The cats are in our bathroom sinks.”

“I know – aren’t they cute?”

“Cute schmoot!  I need to brush my teeth!”

“Use a cup of water like when we’re camping.”

“What?  We’re at home - not camping.  I don’t think I should have to ‘rough it’ at home.”

“But the kittens love sleeping in our sinks.  Aren’t they cute?”

“They are getting less and less cute as time marches on.  Once again a family pet is forcing me from my personal zones.  First we needed to buy a huge bed so the dog could sleep with us.  Now the cats are taking over my sink.  Will they be wearing my clothes soon too?”

“No dear, they have good taste.  Why don’t you use the kid’s bathroom?”

“Because I think the Health Department condemned it a while ago.  I don’t even want to go in there, let alone touch anything.”

“You don’t have to eat off the counter or sink in there dear – just brush and spit.”

“That’s not the point.  We have our own, individual sinks, paid for at great expense when we built our house, and said sinks are now filled to the brim with cat.  I can see where you’re going with this.  Pretty soon you’ll suggest we install sinks just for the cats, won’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear.  I would never do that.  I would just move your stuff downstairs so you could use the powder room or the basement bathroom.  That way the cats can use your sink all the time.  Aren’t they cute?”

“I don’t think I like this.  Look, there is hair everywhere in my sink.  That’s disgusting. I assume it belongs to the cats?”

“It must be, dear, you haven’t had any hair to fall in the sink for some time now.  I think you’re just jealous.”

“I am not jealous!  I just don’t see why I have to clean up their hair and my own.  These pets are starting to take over the house.  What are towels doing in there?”

“I put towels in there so the sink won’t be so cold.”

“Honey – they have fur.  Also, this is a sink, not a bunk bed.  Please stop encouraging them to sleep in my basin.  They are probably scratching the counter.”

“It’s granite, dear.  Cat claws won’t scratch granite.”

“They might if I turn on the water.”

“You leave them alone!  Why don’t you just brush your teeth in the kitchen and get it over with.”

“Because I want to go to bed, not traipse downstairs and spit all over the pots!  I just want to do my ablutions and go to bed.  I’m tired.  My life used to be so simple…”

“Well if you had cleaned the pots before coming to bed you wouldn’t have this problem now would you?”

“You’re doing your circular reasoning thing again.  Please can I just brush my teeth?”

“Honey just pick up the cat and put him on the bed, then brush your teeth.  Everything will be just fine...”

“Thank you for your understanding.  Sheesh.”

“…and you can grab a Snuggie and sleep on the couch tonight.  The cats seem upset and I want them to get a good sleep.  Good night dear.” 

Holding the Fort



During a recent pitched battle in our basement, I was being pummeled by pillow fire from the far side of the room.  In a desperate charge, ignoring my many wounds and hurling my pillow grenades, I heroically advanced upon my dug-in foe.

My enemies had well-prepared defensive positions which proved impossible to break through.  I was so close I could see my enemy’s beady little eyes through the slits in their defensive armament. I heard some giggling too.

Retreat was my only option.  Taking a final look at my antagonists, I blew several raspberries at them to show my warrior spirit, then made my way back to my own, battered fortress.

It was apparent I had taught my kids the fine art of fort building too well. 

I come from a long line of Cushion Masons you know. 

Being an expert, I write articles for Architectural Digest about this pastime.  The magazine doesn’t know I write these articles, and the court order does not permit me to phone them anymore, but I do write them. 

As a gifted pillow architect, and not an ‘immature crank’ as some (many) have suggested, fort building is a combination of structural engineering, logistic planning, and mental obsession.  It is art, science, and a way for grown men to make sound effects like artillery explosions and crashing boulders. 

Fort building is innate in most males, and usually manifests itself while shopping with their wives.

The wife will be using her actual brain while looking at a new sofa, analyzing the size, shape, colour, fabric texture and so on. 

Her husband, on the other hand, will examine the same piece of furniture and only think, “These couch cushions would make a great fort.”  It’s the guy way.

Finding your inner fort builder is easy, once you have clarified the fort’s purpose.  Is it massive, to defend against foreign invaders?  Or is it stealthy, where a good book can be read in secret, or where poisonous intestinal gas bombs can be deposited for your little sister to discover at a later time?  

The actual use of a structure is vitally important for the designer/engineer to understand.

With interior forts, for example, big couch cushions are used primarily as walls, which in turn support roof cushions for overhead protection.  A useful way to hoard your cushion supply is to tip the couch on its side, thus freeing your building materials for other duties like tunnel walls, entrance doors, or nuclear ‘bunker buster’ projectiles. 

Blankets make for excellent doors but are not structurally sound, something I learned by attacking a weak-looking blanketed structure via high-altitude bombing, only to find hidden cushions beneath the blankies, much to my chagrin and my kid’s ‘Nya! Nya!’ delight. 

Most forts carry strict admissions guidelines.  Members of the opposite sex, for example, and their attendant cooties, are not welcome, on pain of a face washing with a snowball in the case of exterior forts. 

Structurally, a simple wall or partial snowman will suffice for a winter fort.  Roofs are rare, since all you need the fort to do is be a hiding place while making or lobbing snowballs.  The fort itself can also be cannibalized into snowballs when desperate, life-saving measures are called for (alien invasions, World War III, etc.)

Summer forts are usually in or behind trees.  My fort (excuse me – my kids’ fort) is in the park behind our house and features many modern conveniences, such as a two by four nailed to a tree.  Sticks are added for decoration and/or camouflage, and an old tarp completes the ensemble. 

This fort currently has an occupancy limit of about six kids for secret meetings.  No adults are allowed, of course, since they carry grown-up cooties.

Oh.  There’s the phone ringing.  It’s probably my editor at Martha Stewart Living magazine.  I write for them too, you know. 

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Anomaly


A crowd had gathered…
The screen goes all wavy and blurry as we travel back in time…
“What is it?”
“I don’t know – I’ve never seen one before.”
“Neither have I.  Funny green colour, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.  I’ve never heard of them appearing here.  I wonder if I should touch it?”
“No!  It might disappear!  Just stand back and watch, see what it does.”
“I heard someone say they saw one a few summers ago.” 
“I’m taking pictures with my cell phone.  Hold something up for scale.”
“I can’t believe it.  To think that I’m seeing this with my own eyes…I think I’m going to cry.  I want to tell my grand kids about this…”
“Incredible.”
We were standing around the arrivals screen at the airport, staring in wonder at an announcement that said, as amazing as it sounds, “Early.” 
We were in awe.
“Usually you only see ‘Cancelled’ or ‘Delayed’ ones.  I’ve seen some ‘Arrived’ ones too.  But never this.  What do we do?”
“Dunno.  I work here so I’ll check the Operations Manual, but I’m pretty sure there is nothing in it about this happening.”
“Maybe the baggage guys will know what to do.”
“I just checked with them.  They’re playing football with the fragile stuff.  How about the ticket agents – can they help?”
“I doubt it.  I told them a flight was early and four of them fainted.  Maybe the Fire Department knows what to do.”
“Nah – they’re on break, watching the full body scanner videos with the security guys.  I think we’re on our own.  I’m so scared…”
“This is eerie.  I remember something like this happening on an X-Files episode once.  I think it had something to do with time travel.  Or aliens, maybe.  Or maybe it was just David Duchovny wanting to get into whatsername’s pants.  I can’t remember.  But it was at an airport, anyway.”
“Well that was helpful.  Now listen, people.  We all know airlines say their flights have arrived as soon as they’re within 500 miles of the airport.  This may be a conspiracy of some sort, something to make us think they are doing something about on-time service…”
“Maybe solar radiation caused the plane’s DNA to mutate…into something horrible!  Who knows what we’ll find on that aircraft.  I feel a bad movie script coming on…”
“What a bunch of sissies!  Can’t you just accept there might have been a tail-wind and they showed up early?”
“Dude – it’s the holiday travel season, and its winter.  If arriving early were even remotely possible, the airlines would have a surcharge for it.  Don’t be an idiot.”
“Shush!  Here’s a PA announcement…”
“Your Attention Please.  Listen to the sound of my voice.  You are getting very sleepy.  You will not remember any of this when you wake up.  An airline flight has not arrived early.  There is no reason for alarm.  Your eye lids are very heavy now.  You will remain calm.  You will have a drink of water from any of the convenient water fountains at the airport, and the water will not taste funny...”
“There are no mysterious green blobs aboard the not-early aircraft.  You will not remember coming to the airport.    You will gladly pay the ticket on your vehicle windshield and will not write to the mayor.  You will not remember any of this.  I will now mutter something unintelligible and you will be wide awake and refreshed.  Thank you.”

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Limerick Time


Said a boy to his irksome young sister
“I am going to belt you with fister"
"Please open the app
That will close up your yap"
Then he swung, but his sucker punch mister.

Monday, November 15, 2010

The Roman Empire - Part Eye

I thought I’d take a stab at writing about Roman Emperors, since getting stabbed seems to have been their favourite pastime. 

First, some background.

Rome, known as ‘The Eternal City’, or ‘City of Quality Leather Goods, For You Half Price’, was founded way back, before the fifties even.   Back when years were counted in reverse.  Women loved this time period...

Ancient Woman #1: “How old are you this year, Madge?”
Ancient Woman #2: “I’m turning 28 BCE you know.”
AW #1: “Wow.  It seems only a few years ago you were 39 BCE”
AW #2: “It’s a great time to be alive.  If only we had underarm deodorant…”

It was also a time when mathematics was undergoing a transformation, brought about by chariot drivers like Ben Him…

Ben Her: “Nice move out there!  Gimme Vee, man.”
Ben Him: “Wha?  How about we invent the number five – it will sound better.”
Ben Her: “Okay.  Gimme five.  I like it!  Hey – we’re going for a beer later – say around IX-thirty.  Wanna come?”

So you can see, great changes were under way in the Roman numeral empire.

When it came to leadership back then, around the year Minus 59, a guy named ‘Orange’ Julius Caesar stabbed everyone and began dictating, since he was now a dictator and that’s what they do. 

For his crown, he glued leaves of Romaine lettuce to his head, giving him an idea for a great salad…

Julius then focused on his conquering business and did quite well, despite looking like a goof with lettuce wrapped around his head.  He was quite the rascal, invading places like Gall, Germ, Sputum, Frank and Virus. 

He also invented gold coins, wrote country music (“Ruby Conned Me and I Ain’t Goin Back,”), chased his old partner Pompeii around (a race which Caesar won by a head), invented the swimsuit calendar, and came up with brilliant slogans like “Render all money unto me!”

The problem was, while everyone was rendering unto Caesar, a gink named Brutus was idly rendering Caesar, ushering in another stabbing tournament.  "Masters Stabbing coverage is brought to you by Central Plumbing and Heating of Rome – your one stop shop for hypocausts, baths, and all your aqueduct needs.  In business since Minus 200."
 
These tournaments were held in coliseums where all the wannabe Caesars were seated in an area along the first base line, an area known as…wait for it…the Caesarian Section (rimshot). 

So after Julius got ventilated, his adopted grandson Augie took over and maintained the family business, Caesar Construction and Conquering (“Specializing in roads and ruins.  Offices across the known world.  Legions of fans.  Gaul today!”). 

Augie also found time to name a month after himself (April, I think), and have a fling with whatsername in Egypt (the one with the nice asp).

It was Augie who started off this whole Name Yourself Caesar thing, and after him came Caesars named Tigger, Coagulate, Claudia, Aero, Posh, Vespa, Trojan, Venereal, Hades, Constance, Romero, Shakespeare and a bunch more.  Jeez, you could fill a book with these guys, and get this - they were all stabbed too!

By the later years of the empire, any emperor worth his celery would just hang around all day, drinking spicy beverages containing clam and tomato juices, waiting to get stabbed.  It was a dangerous and lonely existence, especially given all the visible Goths that were allowed into bars back then.  It was these visible Goth people (let’s just call them Visigoths for short), who brought on the Dark Clothing and Makeup Ages, which continue to this day.

Well, we seem to have run out of space for this chapter, students.  In future history lessons, we’ll learn why all the leaders of heroic uprisings resembled Kirk Douglas, and why Roman sculptors could never quite get the arm thing right, probably due to stabbing. 

Until then.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Crime Running Rampant!

Look at these people.  Their ski's have been stolen from them in broad daylight and they just don't seem to care.

Is crime so common these days that criminals just go unpunished?  We've got to get organized people!

This message paid for by the Cross Country Skiing Victims of Robbery Association.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

An Introduction to Classical Music


Scientists have recently discovered strains of classical music that are directly responsible for outbreaks of opera.  Before another major opera pandemic erupts, causing needless and painfully loud singing, I feel it necessary to explain the pathology of this scourge before it is too late.

Speaking on condition of anonymity, scientist Phil Harmonic (16 Parkside Lane, Kelowna), defines classical music as music played mainly on instruments of the string family, which includes violins, jellos, wide-mouth bass and victrolas. When a number of these mutate together, it is called an orchestra, which should always have a positive conductor, a neutral conductor, and a ground. 

Actually, conductors have nothing to do with music – I was just looking at an electrical diagram.  Pay no attention. 

Other components of an orchestra include a brass section (French horns, strumpets, floozies, tubes, monkeys), your windywood section (oboys, baboons, bassinettes, accordions), and your permission section (drums, tiffanies, kettles, woods, irons, putters, snares).  Interestingly, ‘Iron, Putter and Snare’ is the name of my Uncle’s law firm.

Classical music got its start during the Broke period of 1622 when several people in idiotic wigs decided to play with their clavicles (ahem) to create an erotic dance craze known as the ‘polka’.  Composers in Spain simultaneously came up with a craze called the ‘Macarena’, for which they were immediately burned at the stake.    

Other notable times in classical music were the Romantic period which started in 1812 during the Battle of Overture, the Trashy period (1850 and up), Obese period (1910 plus service charges), and the Modern period (1929, marked down from 1975). 

Some of the men in wigs and stockings who started all this included such notables as Franki Vivaldi and the Four Seasons, Bock, Handle, Brahmins, List, Chevrolet, Lou Bait-Oven, John Strauss, and Moe Zart. These men were the rock stars of their time, trashing castle rooms between concertos, dreaming up new types of songs like your Sonatas, Camry’s, Areas, Ditties, Foxtrots, Jives and Heydudes. 

These songs were further sub-categorized into Soundtracks (Star Wars, Godfather, Simpsons), About To Be Devoured (when some moron in a scary movie wanders off alone), Overtones, Movements, Concerts, Plays, Church, Restaurant, Elevator, and Westerns.  Other mutations include cannons by Pickleballs, airline commercials, and marching band noise/music.  

So that is what classical music is in a general sense, but how is it played, you ask?  “With great difficulty,” I answer.

You see, classical music is a series of ‘scales,’ which are found on ‘fish,’ who are not deft violin ‘players,’ but are tasty in recipes of ‘note,’ ‘notes’ having something to do with ‘melody,’ which appear in great number on pages of ‘music.’ 

It takes years of diligent study to figure out how to print these pages, during which time the musician figures out how to put his fingers in his ears while his roommate practices his bagpipes.  He does this (plugs ears) to staunch the blood flow from his head, and also to occupy his fingers to prevent strangling the source of the dreadful sound assaulting his senses.   

The other way to learn classical music is to play piano in some tacky lounge or cruise ship (same thing), tickling out 400 year-old melodies to wretched alcoholics who pound back boilermakers in an attempt to understand why they are actually listening to classical music.  Something like that, anyway.

So there you go – classical music in a nutshell. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to take my kid to chopsticks lessons.  Then I’m going Chopin, so I’ll be Bach in a minuet.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Another Win!

Well I'd like to thank the Academy once again for voting me the winner of America's Funniest Humor Contest again.  It's an honour just to nominate yourself, really. 

My entry, 'Abuzz,' pertains to the sex lives of bees.  Read it HERE.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Good Question

Actual question posed by a son who may have seen too many cartoons:

"Dad, when you get electrocuted, can you see your bones?"

This question came shortly after daughter said the reason she was running around like a maniac previously was because her "legs were full of hyperness!"

And you wonder where I get my material from?

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

And Now: A short, rude Ditty

Sylvia Chlamydia (koala)
Got STD’s from Joe in Walla Walla
This Joe (koala) fella
Made her crotch burn lika hella
She’s onna penicillin now, ya falla?

I have no idea where this came from or why I wrote it.  I take no responsibility.

Thankyou.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Getting to No You

"Dad, can I get a BB gun?"
"No."
"Can I get a knife?"
"No."
"Can I get some new, baggy jeans?"
"No."
"What about this toy?"
"No."
"Dad, is 'No' all you ever say?"
"No."
"Have you ever said 'Yes' to one of my requests?"
"No."
"Will there ever come a time when you say yes to one of my boyhood desires?"
"Yes."
"Yay!  I got a yes! Will you be answering yes to all my questions from now on?"
"No."
"In a different part of the mall, maybe?"
"No."
"Later today?"
"No."
"Tomorrow?"
"No."
"Come on, Dad, these conversations are becoming predictable.  All I ever do is ask for stuff and all you ever say is no.  I don't even know why I try anymore.  Do you?"
"No."
"There you go again.  I can't win, can I?"
"No."
"I still think it's cruel to only say 'no' all the time, don't you?"
"No."
"Can you at least give me some hope, something to look forward to?  Will you ever say yes to any of my polite requests?"
"No."
"What if I give you one of my patented, adorable, pouty child looks?"
"No."
"Dad, I have an important question.  Do you love me?"
"Yes.  With all my heart."
"Then why do you always say ‘No’ to me?”
“It’s an economy thing.  Saves energy.  And money.”
“I’m glad you love me, Dad.  Can we go get some ice cream now?"
"No."
“Dad, let’s switch to ‘Yes’ mode – it’s much more positive.  I am a growing boy and I need positive influences in my life.  It will help with my self esteem.  So – do you think we can start saying ‘Yes’ now, Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Good.  Now – about my requests – are you prepared to exert a more positive attitude towards my development?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean saying ‘Yes’ from time to time?”
“No.”
“Are you going to say ‘No’ to me the next time I ask for something?”
“Yes.”
“Let me re-phrase that last question.  If I were to ask you for a new bike, would you answer the question with a ‘No’?”
“Yes.”
“I’m confused.  Did you just say Yes or No to my question?”
“Yes.”
“You’re tricky.  I messed up the question didn’t I?  I asked for a bike, and I asked if you would answer the question with a no and you said yes, right?”
“Yes.”
“So I blew it didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“You grown-ups are cruel, you know that?  You always twist around what we’re trying to say.  Are you going to do that until I’m in college?”
“Yes.”
“Dad, do you ever say no?”
“Yes.”
“I want to go home, where you’ll probably tickle me while we watch manly car shows, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Any way to avoid being tickled?”
“No.”
“You’re puckering up your lips again, Dad.  Do I have to kiss you out here in public?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ever refuse to give you a kiss?”
“No.”
“Will you kiss me when I’m a sullen teenager?”
“Yes.”
“In public?”
“Yes.”
“Really?  Will I get all embarrassed?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t figured out a way to end this column, have you Dad?”
“No.”
“Maybe just give me a kiss and we can go home.”
“Aww, do we have to go home?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Can’t we stay a little longer?”
“No.”

Antlers


Some animal was out of control on Vancouver Island, wreaking havoc on suburban gardens.  Shrubs had been nibbled.  Vegetables eaten.  Prize strawberries consumed. Nothing was safe from this wild predator. 

Strangely, ominous music played whenever it was about to appear.

A wildlife expert named Cooper accompanied me and closely examined some chewed up bits of vegetation - all that remained from the latest attack.  When he finished he tore off his glasses and remarked “This was no field mouse.  It wasn’t a Rototiller either.  It was an ungulate!”

Residents held a town hall meeting to see what could be done about it.  Tempers were flaring and people were yelling back and forth when an ungodly screech sounded.

People fell silent, the crowd parted, and there at the back of the room was a weathered man slowly scraping a set of deer antlers down a blackboard.  He was seated, munching on a cracker, an old, orange ball cap on his head. 

“I’ll catch this deer for ya." he said.  "But it ain’t gonna be easy.  It’s a bad deer – a rogue.  Not like going down to the petting zoo and giving his ears a scratch.  This deer – he’ll swallow your strawberries whole.  And your cedar trees.  We’ve gotta do it quick if you don’t want to miss out on the farmers market season.  You’ll have to ante up if you want to save your berries and herbs.  If you want to go cheap you’ll all be on welfare the whole winter.”

As Police Chief I had to reply.  “We’ve got a budget of two thousand dollars Mr…what did you say your name was Mister?”

“Quaint.  The name’s Quaint.   I value my neck at a lot more than two thousand bucks, Chief.  I’ll catch him for two.  But I’ll gently tranquilize and transport him up island and organically release him for ten.  Ten thousand dollars – fluffy white tail and everything, all wrapped up with a cute bow on top.”

He stood, smiled knowingly, and walked out.

We knew we had to use him.  The other proposed methods, such as issuing strongly worded letters or introducing predators into the area, would not work.  It was ludicrous to think that bringing bears and coyotes into Oak Bay would work any better than the lawyers and lobbyists already living there

So it was that I found myself loading up a truck with supplies – food, sleeping bags, tent, ribbons, wrapping.  The wildlife guy, Cooper, brought along some fancy schmancy tracking gear.  Later, we hunkered down in a sea of grass on the edge of the city.  

I was throwing out handfuls of grain to draw our prey in closer.  In mid-fling I turned and there he was.  Two feet tall at the shoulder, huge, inch-high, fuzzy antler nubs towering over his head, big brown eyes, pale spots running down his side.  A butterfly circled his head and landed on his nose. 

This was our quarry.  This was our mythic whale, our great white shark, our living metaphor for everything wrong with our consumer society, and everything right about a hundred mile diet being destroyed by marauding ungulates, all somehow written into a strange and confusing analogy. 

It was…Bambi.

I lurched upright and walked slowly back towards my comrades. “We’re going to need a bigger bow,” I said numbly.

Cooper and Quaint sprang into action.  Cooper gently but firmly tied a tracking device around the animal’s neck.  Quaint took quick aim and shot several hundred photos of the beast.  Some of them missed, but some were good enough for a stock photo agency. 

That night, after telling several amusing scar stories, we went home.  We all have kids so there’s no way we’re touching Bambi or his ilk.  We’d be killed instantly.  Are you kidding me? 

Tough beans about your gardens, people.  Maybe put up a fence or something.

The End.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

A Former Radio Announcer Who is Now an Accountant



“Morning Fred.”

“Morning Rick.  Nice looking morning out there.”

“It sure is Fred!  We’re looking for a high of thirty degrees in the sunshine today.  It’s currently fifteen on the beach and eighteen downtown.  Coming up next, I’ve got a meeting about accounts receivable on the Johnson file!”

“Boy, you ex-deejays don’t break out of the mold much do you?  You might want to switch it off from time to time.  So you’re still riding your bike to work, I see.  How’d it go?”

“An earlier stall was cleared away from the left hand lane of the freeway, Fred, leaving just heavy traffic volume to slow me down on my morning commute.  No stalls or accidents to report right now.  If you see anything in traffic be sure to give me a call.  It’s free on your cell phone.”

“Alrighty then.  So – do you and Wendy have plans for the weekend?”

“We’ve got a classic rock weekend lined up starting Friday at four, Fred!  All the hits, all the time, all weekend long!  And I might take the kids swimming.”

“Sounds great.  Hey, what time is it anyway?”

“It’s twenty minutes before the top of the hour on a beautiful summer morning!  Coming up next hour, I’ll be visiting the washroom, and then I’ll toast a bagel and head down the hall to my office!”

“Don’t we have training or something this morning?”

“Coming up at eleven we’ll have a conference call about the new tax regulations, and what a rockin’ good time that will be.”

“Can I join in?”

“Sure!  Be the ninth caller!  Phone lines are open now!”

“OK.  Well, I have to get back to my desk.  See you later.”

“We have some bills to pay right now on the Rick King show but coming up next we’ll be checking email and preparing the balance sheet for the Acme Company financial statements.  You’ve got The King for breakfast!” 

I popped into his office later.   “Hey, Rick, I was wondering if you could help me figure out the equity position of the partners in this construction company account…”

“Thanks for stopping by, Fred! We’ll get right back to accounting but first let’s turn on the speakerphone and visit with Jennifer on location at the reception desk.  Jennifer also used to be a broadcaster.  Hi Jennifer!  What’s going on down there?”

“We’re having a great time here at reception today Rick– tons of people and phone calls and couriers coming and going!  You’ve simply got to come down here – we have some of the best deals on office supplies in this city!  We can handle it all here – deliveries, phone calls, mail and postage – all at great savings to YOU the consumer!  Stop on by – I’m here till five o’clock but these offers will be available all week long!”

“Thanks Jennifer.  That’s incredible.  We’ll check back with you next hour.” 

“Well that’s all the time we have today.  Be sure to join me tomorrow when I give away some tickets to the big game I can’t attend!  I’ll also make some wacky phone calls to people in the office, sell some Girl Guide cookies for my kid, and do an awesome trial balance on the Lipschitz account!” 

“Up next, Big Bill Davis will take you through your evening as he cleans the office and empties the wastepaper baskets. We’ll see you at the same time tomorrow.  Here’s Simply Accounting with their hit module – Payroll Deductions.  Bye for now.”

We now return you to your regularly scheduled work activities. 

Attack Planning

With military precision (I think I've just invented a new oxymoron) my children are planning a major operation for Halloween.

For those without children, you must understand that Halloween logistical planning begins sometime in January (the Christmas gift wish-listing season properly begins in March, of course).  At this time the kids begin honing in on one of several hundred costume possibilities, a choice which will change several dozen times per hour for the next 9 months.

We are currently in the throes of route planning, another intensive exercise.  A change this year is we are going to shut our house down and go as a family to a 'rich' neighbourhood where, apparently, they hand out FULL SIZE CHOCOLATE BARS!!!  Not the dinky little ones everyone else has - the real McCoy.  The big kahuna's.  Full sized chocolate bars.

I can't decide what to wear.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Cat Affection

I have been meaning to write something about how cats show affection to their owners, but it is difficult when one of them (I'm referring to a cat here) is sitting on your hands as you type, staring you in the face, and smearing the side of his head against your chin.  Over and over. 

It is most intense first thing in the morning.  I get up, start the coffee maker, then go into my office and turn on my laptop.  Immediately Oreo comes in, sits on the desk between me and my keyboard, stares intently in my face, then rears up on his hind legs, places front paws firmly on my chest, and begins his assault.

It goes something like this: butt head against my chin.  Lick chin repeatedly.  Butt head again.  Look up intently into my eyes, then smear left side of face down side of my face.  Butt heads again.  Rub noses.  Lick my nose.  Smear other side of head down my face.  Butt heads again.  Smear.  Lick.  Butt.  Flop down on hands, making me think he is going to fall asleep and I can actually do some surfing or writing, but no.  He gets back up right away and starts process all over again.

Butt.  Smear.  Swipe.  Butt.  Butt.  Lick. Lick.  Smear.  Butt butt.  Flop.  Back up.  Smear.  Butt.  Lick.  Butt Butt.  Smear.  Ad infinitum.  He will occasionally add variety to this routine by standing up high and trying to gnaw on my eye glasses.  I turn away, he lowers himself down slightly, and begins again.  Butt.  Smear.  Lick.

Having never been a cat owner before, I had no idea cats displayed their affection this way.  Especially given what I had done to him yesterday, you'd think I would be the focus of impotent (ha) rage against the person responsible.  Nope.

Butt.  Smear.  Wipe.  Lick Lick.  Butt.  Smear.  Butt.  Butt.  Flop. 

This morning I was laughing so hard at this that I could barely see the screen and I feared waking up the kids.  He keeps this up despite the disgusting breath he must be smelling, and the appearance of my unbrushed, furry teeth.

My daughter, who is currently obsessed with cat books, cat novels, cat tribes, cat movies and generally anything feline, actually communicates now in much the same way as her pet.

Instead of a kiss goodnight, we rub noses.  She purrs.  She hisses and spits occasionally.

Having never had kids before, I did not know these obsessions would consume children in such a manner.  Now if you'll excuse me, I have to wake her up with a friendly face smear.  Maybe some head butts.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Let's Call a Speyed a Speyed



Well I just booked our two kittens for their de-balling procedure on Wednesday morning.  Forgive me if I squirm a little as I write that. 

I know it is not officially called 'de-balling', but that is what it is and I feel downright awful about having it happen to my boys.  To my cats I mean.  Man, are they going to have hang-down looks after that. 

I would like to write more double-entendres about the procedure but I can't.  You could say it is berry troubling.  Nadurally I will take them in myself, but I'll be sacked out afterwards. 

Monday, September 13, 2010

Decidedly Awesome Video

Speaking as a guy, I must say this video is truly awesome, in a completely useless sort of manner.  Enjoy!

Sunday, September 12, 2010

What to write about?

It is always a challenge to pick a topic.  I have so many different things that I could focus my keen and wondrous intellect upon that it is sometimes distressing to think about.  To wit:

- Dare I become a bored housewife-type humourist and write about amusing cat behaviour?  I certainly could, given that our kittens have now been discovered performing random acts of mating.  This is distressing on several levels.  First and foremost - they are brother and sister, albeit of different fathers, which is another thing I did not know about cat litters, or about mother cats, the horny little sluts.  Another reason for distress is that we have not had them fixed yet.  Another reason is we were told the both of them were males, hence our delay in getting them fixed.  The one with long hair was proudly showing me his/her genitalia the other day, when I had a closer look for his doodads and could not find any.  Either he is seriously under-endowed (poor guy), or is female and therefore a slut.  I suspect the latter, and I also suspect her brother to be the reason for the kids saying "Dad, what are the cats doing?"  There is a joke in there about 'cattie-style' too but I'm not going there.

- I could write about how one of the cats only drinks from bathroom taps when we are brushing our teeth or washing our hands.  I don't particularly enjoy wetting my toothpaste with cat spit, so I am also tempted to write about the new sport of cat punting.

-  I wanted to write something about my amazing kung-fu skills when swimming with the kids.  When up to my chest in water, I can perform the most amazing flying side kicks, spinning whoop de doo flailing flop kicks, spinarama chop whirly kicks - all sorts of things, all against my children.  Meanwhile, they are attacking me with a variety of noodly weapons and their own martial skills, with the serious intent of knocking me over.  Their evil ways do not harm me, however, since I employ secret weapons like the Long Range Mouth Spray of Death.  Using only pool water laced with urine and other contaminants, I am able to spray water viciously into my children's begoggled faces and make good my escape to deeper waters.  In close wrestling encounters I am also able to unleash my Kid Backward Flip-o-Rama, the Over Head Hurtle, or the awesomely effective Tickling Peril.

When you can grasp the locker key from my prune-like hand, it is time for us to leave, Grasshoppers.

- I may jot something down about our fishing adventures at the (rental) cabin over the summer.  And by 'fishing' I mean 'covering the bottom of the lake with bits of bread and gummy bears,' of course.

- The phrase "Time stood still...," holds special meaning for me, and I find myself musing about my many circumstances therein.  I have had so many instances where time slows down that I should be several years younger than I presently am.  These moments include, but are not limited to, closing the (locked) door on the (running) automobile, suddenly remembering the need to purchase fuel as the vehicle rolls to a silent stop, or having a hardened glob of wax, the size of a peppercorn, hurtle out of my ear and onto the desk of an attractive woman who was interviewing me for a job, and so forth.

- I may at some point bewail the music choices my children are beginning to make. I have always prided myself on having eclectic tastes when it comes to contemporary music, and I hope my children are the same.  I like to think I'm not like my parents, it's just that they (my kids, not my parents) play it so darn loud, and I cannot understand the damn lyrics and it seems like all they do is swear and hop-hip and I just don't get it.  I mean, I enjoy the Black Eyed Chili Peppers and other wholesome pop groups as much as the next codger, but these kids seem to be going gaga over the strangest things.  And I wish they would pull their pants up.  And lose the black makeup.  Don't get me started about tattoos and lip rings.

- I may reminisce some day about a music teacher I had in grade 5 - a certain charming French woman named Mrs Boehnert (pronounced Boh-nair), a name which we conveniently contracted to Mrs Boner.  Not only did she introduce me to the intimate musicality of the xylophone, I also became adept at the glockenspiel, for which I still retain certificates on my office wall.  Though it pains me to recall, I was also quite talented at what was then called Interpretive Dance.  Nowadays it is called Sissy Gay Twirling or something, but back then I was a star.  Actually - I'm not going to write about that - never mind. 

Like I said - some time I'll actually break down and write about this stuff.  Don't rush me.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Bookshelf Cleanout



I have been putting off the bookshelves for many months now, so I finally decided to get down to it.

The piles of paperbacks, hard covers and magazines was growing unwieldy, overflowing its shelves, piling up on the floor around the bookcase.  Something had to give.

The way I usually do this is to just pull everything off the shelves into various piles, dust the shelves (not the whole shelf - just the spots where the books weren't), then start re-arranging my treasures back in some semblance of organization.  It is a wonderful project that would consume a couple of hours.

Eight hours later I had a sore bottom, I had missed dinner, and I had begun reading about a dozen books I had long forgotten I had.  I wound up with a dozen more books beside the bed, joining the 20 or so that I had already there.  The piles of literature wound up stacked on the dusty shelves, and a new box of extra's was now sitting in the corner.

All in all I'd call it a successful operation.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Sentry Duty


Like you, I spend a considerable amount of time pondering the important questions in life, like "stripe in or out?" on debit card machines.  Or, when confronted by a bear or mountain lion, experts say you're supposed to make yourself look larger.  So would eating a bag of chips or a Twinkie at that moment assist in any way?

Another thing I've always wondered is why the sentries in old war movies are such dimwitted oafs.  They never hear the commandos approaching and only figure out what’s going on when the bayonet is piercing their ribcage.  What is wrong with those people? 

Well, now I know.  They were guarding doors, their feet were killing them (metaphorically), and they were bored out of their minds. 

I learned this the other night during my third shift at a local sports facility.  I am a part-time usher, meaning I ush for extra money from time to time.

It was my first time at an entrance, taking people's tickets.  For someone who is trained to a high degree in the art of pointing out where seats are (ushing), this was high excitement.  For about twenty minutes.  Then it got boring.

After the game started I had absolutely nothing to do and, being at an isolated door, I had no comrades with whom to converse.  I stood alone.  Never before had so much weight been pressed upon toes so few.  These would be my finest few hours.

I began pacing from the outer door to the inner concourse - back and forth.  Back and forth.  Thirteen paces, turn crisply on the heel like a good sentry, thirteen more paces back to the entrance.  Peer out door for more patrons approaching; see none, pace back again.  Thirteen.  Did I mention it was thirteen paces?  Precisely thirteen.  Watch out for the small crack in the concrete at pace nine. 

My shoes seemingly disappeared and the concrete jarred directly onto the weary bones of my sore feet.  My shoulder chafed where my pretend rifle cut into it.

I had been given a radio, so I dreamed up fictitious emergency calls.

"Breach on level four!  Breach on level four!"  "Attention all personnel!  Code three!  AAARGH!"  “Bogies at two o’clock high!”  It would have been great to do, but I worried they would triangulate onto my position so I kept quiet.

My feet still ached.  No place to sit down.  Nothing to read or watch.  No one to chat with.  No video games on my ticket scanner thing - I checked.

I stood at the door, sentinel-like, secretly hoping that a group of saboteurs were silently approaching, perchance to eliminate me and my sore feet so they could get into the facility and steal the secret documents, kidnap the general's hot daughter, sabotage the nuclear plant, and make their daring escape.

I knew I didn't stand a chance against these well-trained operators.  They had rehearsed this scenario hundreds of times, no doubt.  Me?  I was raw meat.  Bored, alone, daydreaming about hot foot baths and cold beer and remote controls.  Just like in the movies. 

I waited for the whistle of their crossbow shots or the sudden tightening in my throat as the garrote encircled my neck.  I anticipated the "Phhhtt! Phhhtt!" of the silenced bullets.  I promised myself I would put up a good fight against the enemy, or at least give off a decent warning gurgle.

In the end, nobody attacked.  Nobody even tried to sneak past me without a ticket.  My feet just ached.  I could hear varicose veins popping out all over my lower extremities. The unseen hockey game continued.  We won, I think.  God my feet hurt.

So if you're wondering why those guards were so pathetic and easy to kill - now you know.  Those weren’t fictitious movies you watched. 

They were documentaries.

Tickets please.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Kitten Amusement

As a new cat owner, I get much amusement from watching the little devils play.  It is amazing to see what mischief they can get into with the simplest of things. 

It is particularly amusing to watch them play with plastic grocery bags, especially when they are tied securely inside of one and tossed into the lake.

I was day dreaming about this just this morning, in fact, as I lay dozing in bed.  At the time I was trying to snuggle up to my wife, though this was proving difficult since she was in another room, having kicked me out for snoring. 

One of the kittens then leaped from the floor directly onto my testicles and was playfully clawing my scrotum through the covers. 

Yes, it really is the small things they find most amusing.  Delightful.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Robert Benchley Award Entry



In a desperate bid to put SOMETHING up here to keep people amused, I hereby present my entry in the Robert Benchley Humor Award contest thing.

All the entries are in and we are all waiting for the short list to be announced so I don't know how I am doing, but I like my chances.

Anyway, this entry is a much pared down version of an earlier column I wrote about sneezing, which had a few Benchley'esque turns of phrase I thought, so I figured I'd polish it up and send it in.  Enjoy.




“The Contemporary Sneeze”

Sneezing is the most expressive of the body’s involuntary functions.  Make sure yours are extra special.

Upon realizing that sternutation is imminent, today’s fashionable sneezer will pause in conversation and raise their eyebrows.  This serves as a warning to bartenders and other nobility that a Great Event is about to unfold, and observers should vacate the immediate blast area. 

During the pre-sneeze period, as your inhalation progresses, dramatically over-express yourself, like an opera singer.  Be expansive in your chest.  Wave your arms about and draw attention to your twitching features.  Yell or scream, again like an opera singer.  If the sneeze (or opera) is not immediately forthcoming, take something slender such as a chopstick or Calista Flockhart and thrust it repeatedly up your nostril.

At the height of your inhalation, squint your eyes and cease all motion. This is The Pause before the Great Storm.  It is the final notice that something wondrous is about to be born, or that you are choking on an oyster.  Be absolutely still, nose elevated slightly, arms aflutter, teary eyes about to close in the final moments before the triumphant finale.

The sound of a sneeze is important.  Most amateur sneezers still use the outdated Cleveland Technique of letting fly with a constrained “Ssshhhhew!” sound.  This method has grown passé, although it is still popular with denture wearers and most cake decorators. 

Attempting to suppress all sound by holding the nose and forcing the blast up into the cranium can pose a danger to the sneezer and those around them – particularly in theaters.  Earwax bullets shot into patrons on either side of the participant have caused needless injury, and were the impetus for the Stockholm Sneezing Protocols of 1929.  These protocols now eliminate the need to wear combat helmets at most recitals.

As with other seizures, for a high score, one must enunciate using proper verbiage.  Asian-sounding surnames are prized, with the Japanese “HyyyASHi!” being most common in tournaments.

Of Middle Eastern origin is the popular and sophisticated “HaaBLAHHaaa!” phrase.  For truly memorable scores, try adding a slight upward intonation at the conclusion, as though asking the romantic question, “HaaBLAHHaaa?”

In conclusion, let me offer a cautionary note about arm movements.  Because one hand will be occupied with a handkerchief, martini, or 5/8ths wrench, the other fist will involuntarily thrust upward from the waist in a motion so rapid it may injure passersby.  Swift uppercuts administered by sneezing enthusiasts have rendered more than a few bystanders unconscious so do be careful, or sneeze only while boxing.

America can hold its head high when it comes to sneezing.  Whether amateur or professional, the people of the United States once again lead the world. 

Bless you!


Friday, August 27, 2010

Beefy Wine



Sometimes the humour columns just seem to write themselves...

Link: Wino Cows  I don't know why the underline thing doesn't work

Read the story at the above link, then come back here for intellectual discussion.  Go ahead - I'll wait.

The column thus:




An Okanagan rancher has discovered that feeding wine to cows produces meat that is tastier than your usual sirloin.  It also produces livestock that lose their inhibitions and wind up yakking with their sisters all night about how traumatic the delivery of their calf was ten years ago.

I have a beef with this.  The meatiest of my many concerns regards etiquette at wine tastings.  Cows are new to wine - they don't know about spittoons or what the bread is for or anything.  They just drink till they're tipsy and then slobber and whiz all over the place.  Kind of like Australians, come to think of it. 

I'm kidding, of course.  I mean Edmontonians.

In my opinion, bingeing bovines need much more tasting.  Testing, I mean.

We need to provide twelve-hoof programs for these downtrodden beasts.  For that matter, where will AA meetings be held?  Church basements don’t usually allow cows on the premises, live Christmas crèche scenes excepted (and won’t it be amusing to have plastered cows picking fights with the other animals and barfing their Vin de Cud all over the manger once per year?). 

From a business perspective, will this feeding trend create a new sector of the local economy, catering to the cattle tourist?  Will we see more wineries with names like Longhorn Creek or Hereford Hills?  If it leads to wider aisles in china shops and wine stores then I’m all for it.  Well done!

Burning questions remain, however, particularly for restaurant patrons.  Do you want a bottle of Charolais Chardonnay with your meal?  How about a Red Angus Reisling?

Are you prepared to accept the pairing opinion of a Simmental Sommelier at your local eatery?  Do you really think he’ll recommend the mouth-watering steak when it happens to be his cousin?  “This wine is a terrific accompaniment to…fish,” he’ll say.  Every time.  That is what is at steak.  Stake – excuse me.

This being BC, wine-fed beef will inevitably lead to dope-raised chickens.  Mellow yet plucky hens, fed a daily supplement of ‘grow-op grain’, will soon be the rage among chefs.  There they'll be (the chickens), loafing about their free ranges, stoned out of their beaks, staring at the clouds, thinking deep chicken thoughts, chief among them "What are the enormous white things that come out of my cooter every morning?"

Restaurants will serve ‘Baked, baked chicken, with special brownie stuffing.’  They’ll just lay on your plate, grinning in their own chickeny way.  Wow, man.

I’m telling you, this wine-feeding scourge must be stomped out.  Put the entire idea out to pasture, where it belongs.  Wine is for humans, not animals (NHL players excepted).  I think authorities should give this rancher a good grilling. 

The ruminants of society must know this is wrong.

We need to preserve our region’s brand as a grade ‘A’ tourist destination and make our visitors welcome, not herd them like cattle through the chutes of monetary gain, into the silos of history, never to return to our granary of democracy.     

“Waiter!  I’ll have the half-baked metaphors done medium-well for an appetizer, and the ’96 Chateau Hoof de T-Bone as the main course.    I’d like some moo wine too, please.”

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Kids TV

I went off on a spectacular rant the other day, berating my children for their television viewing choices.  I am so tired of them watching idiotic shows about young rock stars, witches and wizards, inane family sitcoms and so forth.  I commanded them to watch wholesome family or science programming, like National Geographic or Discovery Channel.

Then I went back to my office and began writing a column about the fun we had watching TV back in the sixties.  There were great shows like Petticoat Junction, Flintstones, Bewitched, Green Acres, Gilligans Island, and The Partridge Family.  

Hypocrite?  Not me.

Monday, August 23, 2010

I Am Speechless


I don't know what to say.

I have scaled the highest heights.

I am overwhelmed by life's beauty and joy.

The closest feeling I can compare this to would perhaps be the birth of my children.  Or summitting Everest.  Walking on the moon?

Tonight, on the barbecue, while cooking hamburgers, I achieved the Ultimate:

Perfect.

Grill.

Marks.

I'm tearing up.

It was...wonderful.  I'm usually good for one side, but I often flounder after the first flip and the sauce goes on.  Oh sure, you can cover up your mistakes with the cheese, but to a purist like me, striving for perfection, cheese camouflage is cheating.  As a guy, you just KNOW.  But tonight...

Ahhh, tonight it was real.  Perfect timing for the flip.  Perfect arranging on my old, beat-up barbecue so that the one hot spot on the right there was evenly utilized.  No burger was overdone, nor flipped too may times.  Two movements each to make the marks (about a 70 to 80 degree rotation for the proper angles), one flip, sauce, cheese, voila!  Perfect, diamond shaped grill marks.

I think I now understand why there is organized religion.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Bestseller!

My ebook "Callous Remarks" has now sold two (count 'em) TWO copies, thus making it a Canadian Humour Bestseller!  This is the best selling book I've ever published.

I couldn't be more proud.  Thank you.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

The Book!

A collection of my best columns, titled "Callous Remarks," is now electronically available!  If you are a Kindle or iPad user then I'd be honoured to have you carry some of my humour around with you!

You can search Amazon for the title, or enter the code for my book - it is: B003ZSHQ2E

I do not have a cover for it yet, thus making these early copies true collectors editions!  I would be honoured and flattered if you ordered it, wrote a review, or just passed this info along to your network. Or all three, frankly.

Think of the book as a souvenir of having visited this charming website.  It's only $3.99 by the way.  Get the super absorbent model!  Fun for the whole family!

Seriously, thanks very much for reading, laughing, and for your support.

David

Monday, August 16, 2010

Abuzz


Authors Note: This column won America's Funniest Humor contest in August/September 2010.  Here is a link to that contest:
http://humorpress.com/Results/Essays-201008-09/aa-Winners/Essay-201008-09-Winners.htm

My son (age 9) was reading a new science book. I was in mid-sip of my coffee when he approached and asked an innocent question.

“Hey Dad – did you know that when honeybee’s have sex the male’s testicles explode?”

I sprayed beverage all over the newspaper.

“Really?” I spluttered, reaching for a napkin.  “Isn’t that interesting, son.” I crossed my legs and tried to remain calm. 

It turns out that performing the mating act means the successful male hunka-hunka-burnin-love, or ‘horny bee,’ is dismayed to find his genitals have broken off inside Her Majesty. 

This is somewhat distressing to the male, spells eternal frustration for the competing stud-muffin bees looking for some action, and probably creates feminine hygiene issues for the Queen.  It may also explain something about Prince Phillip.

This whole scenario would make a great movie… 

Exterior: Bee’s Knees nightclub. 

The crowd is huge.  There’s enough smoke hanging in the air to dull the senses.  Everyone is droning on and on about the days events and how there are never any single females around, when a buzz goes through the crowd. 

She’s here!  The Queen arrives and waves to the crowd with several hairy appendages.  She is ushered into the club, surrounded by security, the sweet nectar of her pheromones intoxicating everyone. 

Inside, she dances the night away.  She’s not looking for a mate.  She’s just here for a good time. 

Then it happens. 

Vinny, a lowly worker by day but an incredible dancer once he gets all six legs working, swaggers out onto the dance floor, wearing the latest pollen.  The Queen notices him immediately.

“My, what intact genitalia you have,” she says.

“Yes,” says Vinny.  “It’s an evolutionary thing.”

“Ooh baby, you’re giving me hives.  What’s your name, honey?”

They begin dancing to the driving beat of ‘Stayin’ Alive’ by the Bee Gees. 

Thirty seconds later…

“Wow, that was great, Your Majesty.  I just have to go to the bathroom and AAAACK!”  Thud.

Okay, maybe it wouldn’t vie for an Oscar, but it is a compelling story.

I can understand why the thought of a male’s courting tackle falling off after vigorous bonking might appeal to many women, Mrs. Woods.  Speaking purely as a male, though, I must level some stinging criticism towards the whole idea. 

I mean, think about it.  Having someone around who can spit up a new house every so often is pretty handy, isn’t it?  What about the larva – are you going to raise and nurture them all by yourself?  Actually, forget that last point, but you see what I mean?  Who is going to teach them how to deal with all the WASP’s at university, for instance?  Let’s not be too hasty in our thinking. 

We are nurturing males, not just a bunch of mindless drones with sex on our minds.  Okay, ignore that point too.  What I mean is, there’s a swarm of humanity out there and I think it’s best if you keep us around, genitals intact, for your own safety, and the safety of our ten thousand offspring.

It’s not like we’re out chasing other females around is it?