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.”

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.

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.

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.

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

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?

Census Concensus

Non-Canadians will not get half of this.  Canadians, however, will laugh their heads off.  I hope.

Long Form Consensus by David Crawford

Before everyone blows a gasket regarding this whole long form census issue, let’s take a look at what questions are on it so we can make an informed decision and THEN fly off the handle. 

Are you a refugee?  If so, where in Alberta are you from?

1. Ft. McMurray/Newfoundland
2. Calgary
3. Edmonton
4. Some other Godforsaken wasteland

Were you born in:

1. A barn?  Please close the door.
2. A stable
3. A roadside attraction such as the world’s largest ball of armpit hair. 
4. Toronto (same as C)

If you are a resident of British Columbia, please tell us about your grow operation:

1. It is in the basement
2. It is in the shed out back
3. It is a wonder to behold
4. Do you have any Doritos?

What is your phone number?

1. Your real number, not the fake one you give to pervy guys in bars.
2. Only one number please, Mr. Vander Zalm. 
3. I know that’s you under the burqa Mr. Vander Zalm and you’ve already signed now take off.
4. ‘867-5309’ is not a real phone number, it’s a song title.  We get that all the time.

Does anyone in your household have a disability?  If yes, please choose your handicap:

1. I am a member of the federal Liberal party
2. I am related to  *insert name of cabinet minister here* and suffer acute embarrassment as a result
3. I am deaf from the sound of pine beetles chewing trees nearby
4. You have to actually be logging before you can have a debilitating injury so we’re good

Are you able to speak English or French well enough to conduct a conversation?

1. Yes, that means you Mr. Chretien
2. And you, Mr. Ignatief
3. No, I am Canadian
4. You’ll get your turn to answer a question soon, Mr. Layton, so please just sit down.  Put your arm down.  There’s a good boy.

What languages other than English or French do you speak?

1. Pilsner
2. Tim Horton’s – “double double” etc.
3. Starbucks – “personal Grande decaf non-fat ristretto shot caramel machiatto no whip mocha cholesterol stroke paralyser latte transmission” etc
4. Short order cook - “Adam and Eve on a raft” etc.
5. TXT – no 1 ovr 40 cn rd ths LOL

What was your last level of ethnicity completed?

1. Some Irish
2. Some English/Chinese
3. Some Scottish
4. I dated a Jewish girl once

Tell us about your political affiliations

1. I am a member of the Green party and should therefore be shunned
2. I am a member of the NDP and therefore I already am shunned
3. I am a Liberal and I think I’ve suffered enough
4. I am a Conservative and will ask the PM what the rest of my answer should be, please call back in an hour

Do you currently own or operate a farm?

1. You poor sap
2. Camp fires made from chopped down apple or cherry trees are awesome
3. You actually still grow apples?  See answer ‘A’
4. If you grow something other than apples or cherries, is your crop for ‘medicinal’ purposes, such as glaucoma?
5. Can we come over and check it out?

How did you earn a living last year?

1. Self employed – writer
2. Ha ha ha ha ha!  That’s hilarious!  No seriously – did you make any money last year?
3. Who are you kidding?  Don’t trifle with us.  We know you’re a writer
4. We are the federal government you know
5. Give us all your money anyway and we’ll pretend we didn’t have this conversation

What is the best thing to do to people who say words like ‘orientate’ or ‘nucular’?:

1. They should be disemboweled with a blunt wooden farm implement
2. They should be put in a sales seminar with all the ‘relators’
3. This is a Canadian survey, Mr. Bush.  Buzz off.
4. They should be forced to listen to all 500 Stompin’ Tom Connors albums until there ears bleed.  Actually, that happens after one album so never mind.

Vehicle Counters

Whenever I see those hoses stretched across the road - the ones used to count vehicles - I always pull over and get out a hammer.  Then I go up to the hoses and tap each of them just once.  I do this in the hope that it somehow messes up their counts and causes some raised eyebrows - which amuses me.

Have I also mentioned we have dedicated unicycle lanes in our city?  What a great place!

Nasal Warfare

Here is the finished column that evolved out of the previous post...

Having found the carpeted cat tower climbing thing I was looking for at a garage sale, I was beating up the seller with my savage negotiating skills.

"What do you want for it?"
"I don't know - how about ten bucks?"
"OK"

It’s a talent.

Anyway, the host and I were chatting amiably as his wife went off to fetch the tower thingy when suddenly I felt an outrageous tickle in my nose.  It was enormously powerful, no doubt caused by some lurking hair that had finally built up enough spring energy to overcome the hold-back hairs that had restrained it thus far. 

It sproinged across the inside of my nostril and started titillating the other side with some ferocity. 

I uttered a loud “Aah!” gasp and began furiously rubbing my nose in an effort to quiet the horrendous irritation up there.

It didn't help.

I began twitching and rubbing it with some violence.  The home owner was staring at me now with rapt fascination.  One second I was commenting on his wares and wishing him well with his sale, the next I was contorting my entire face and rubbing my nose so violently it appeared I was perhaps trying to produce sparks with it to start a fire (and wouldn’t THAT be a talent).

The rubbing and twitching wasn’t working, so, humiliation aside, I violently inserted my index finger to the third knuckle to bring some relief.  Up it went, twisting, twirling and hopefully slicing the hair off at its base.

No such luck.

By now I was really off my rocker.  Picking, twitching, gasping, and rubbing - all in an effort to get rid of the horrible tickling menace that was my nose.  I couldn't stand it.

The man asked "Are you all right?"  He must have thought I was some sort of crack addict in desperate need of a score.  I tried to lighten the atmosphere, which had quieted since a small crowd had gathered to watch me pitch some sort of fit.  "I have a hair up my nose!" I announced.  "It really tickles!  Aarrrgh!"  I don't think this explanation did much to assure them that I was normal.

Then I remembered that I carry a finger nail clipper on my key ring.  Clutching it, I rushed over to a tacky dresser with a dreadful 1970's style decorative mirror attached, leaned up close to it, and inserted my clippers into the offending tubule.  I began frantically snipping, the denuded hairs shooting forth like grass from a push lawn mower.

All the while I was gasping and moaning such was my distraction.

The clippers mainly nicked my delicate nasal tissues and pulled the stout, springy hairs out by the roots, bringing more gasps of pain, and also causing a small flood of tears to well up. 

Intensely focused, I lost track of where I was and what was going on around me.  Finally I must have snipped the blighter because the itch suddenly went away.

Tears streaming down my face, nicks inside my nose starting to bleed, small hairs sprayed over my cheeks, I turned away from the mirror, smiling and at peace.  “Aaaaah!” I sighed.

I beheld a crowd of twenty or so stunned onlookers who began applauding. 

Newly arriving patrons of this garage sale were no doubt curious to observe a disheveled, wild-looking gentleman with kleenex wadded up his nose and tear stains on his cheeks leaving the scene.   

I didn't have time to explain to them it is not often you find exactly what you are hunting for at a garage sale.  It pays to dig around in dark, cramped places to turn up the really satisfying stuff.

Column Evolution

Out of sheer desperation and the need to put something up on this blog (I feel horrible pangs of guilt if I don't - such is your power over me), let me tell you about my next column and its inspirational story. I will share this with you in the jaundiced belief that it is somehow interesting or entertaining.

So yesterday I was sent packing with twenty bucks in my pocket, charged with the task of finding a cat play tower thing at a garage sale somewhere.  Long story short, I found one by asking at all places I stopped "Got any cat stuff?"  This lowered the risk of me getting out of my car, which often leads to me buying used books, gently used power tools and so forth.  I have to be careful.

So I asked this one guy if they had any cat items, and he did, so he sent his wife off to fetch the tower while he and I engaged in polite though vicious dickering, which went something like this:

"What do you want for it?"
"I don't know - how about ten bucks?"
"OK"

You can detect the voice of the seasoned garage sale haggler here can't you?

Anyway, we were chatting about this and that while his small, frail wife stumbled down the stairs with the heavy and awkward item.  While chatting, I suddenly felt an outrageous tickle in my left nostril.  It was enormously powerful, no doubt caused by some lurking hair that had finally built up enough potential energy to overcome the hold back hairs that had restrained it, spring-like, thus far.

It shot out of one side of my nostril and started flapping its tip against the other side.

I gave a small gasp and began furiously rubbing my nose in an effort to quiet the horrendous tickle up there.

It didn't help.

I was now twitching my nose uncontrollably and rubbing it with some violence and neither technique was working.  The vendor I was chatting with was staring at this show with rapt fascination.  One second I was commenting on his wares and wishing him well with his sale, the next I was twitching my entire face and rubbing my nose like I was trying to start a fire with it by rubbing so violently it would perhaps produce sparks.

When these twitches and rubs did nothing to alleviate my symptoms, I was forced to insert a finger up there to bring some satisfaction.  Up to the third knuckle it went, twisting and twirling and hopefully breaking the damn hair off at its base.

No such luck.

By now I was really off my rocker.  Picking, twitching, gasping, rubbing - all in an effort to get rid of the horrible tickling menace that was my proboscis.  I couldn't stand it.

The man asked "Are you all right?"  He must have thought I was some sort of crack addict in desperate need of a score.  I tried to lighten the atmosphere, which had quieted since a small crowd had gathered to watch me pitch some sort of fit.  "I have a hair up my nose!" I said, trying to explain.  "It tickles!"  I don't think this explanation did much to assure them that I was normal. 

Then I remembered that I carry a finger nail clipper on my key fob.  I rushed over to a tacky dresser with its dreadful 1970's style mirror, leaned up close to it, and inserted my finger nail clippers into the offending tubule.  I began frantically clipping in a style reminiscent of one of those old push-style lawn mowers. 

All the while I was gasping and moaning, such was my distraction. 

The clippers proved less than adept for this task.  I found they mainly pulled the hairs inside my nose out by the roots, causing more gasps of pain and surprise, and also causing me to cry - eyes welling upin a small flood. 

Time stood still.  Intensely focused, I lost track of where I was and what was going on around me.  Finally I must have snipped the blighter because the itch suddenly went away.

Tears streaming down my face, nicked nose starting to bleed, small hairs sprayed over my cheeks, I turned away from the mirror, smiling and at peace.

I beheld a crowd of twenty or so onlookers who began applauding.  "That was the best show I've seen in a long time!" one old fart said.

"When is the next performance?" said another.

"Will you be touring?" said a third.

 I'm sure the newly arriving patrons of this sale were curious as to why the smiling man with kleenex wadded up his nose was leaving the scene in some haste. 

I didn't have time to tell them it is not often you find what you are hunting for at a garage sale.

The Colour Blindness Thing

You may have gathered by the vomit-inducing colour scheme found here, that I have an issue with colours.

I do - I cannot see them terribly well, if at all.  A recent friendly commenter pointed out the colour of my blog was 'Ghastly 1970's Hospital Blue' or some such.  Hence, I have now changed it to 'Something Else.'

If this change causes your eyeballs to fall out or burn to little crisps, please let me know.  I have no idea what colour it is, I go only by contrast. 

Any advice or designer input is welcome.  Thanks.

Sunrise

I got up early yesterday and enjoyed watching the spectacular sunrise.  It was amazing.

I didn't do anything after wards, since I was blind.