Thoid

My entry in Americas Funniest Humor Writing contest took 3rd place.  We are pleased.  Here is a link to my entry (roll over link to make it work):

http://humorpress.com/Results/Essays-2011_02-03/aa-Winners/Essay-2011_02-03-Winners.htm#31_

Things that Sound Dirty but Aren't #13

Relating to Spring Cleaning:

• Work from the top down, inside to outside
• Rinse those hard to reach places with vinegar and water
• Use a Swiffer on your hardwood
• Wipe your squeegee after each stroke

Things that Sound Dirty but Aren't #12

When Preparing Your Boat for the Coming Season:

-        Make sure your head is clean and operating normally
-        Check for leaks on your dinghy
-        Scrub your topsides with a mild detergent
-        Lubricate your shaft and make sure it isn’t bent

Heavy Petting

This is an entirely true story.  The faces of those involved have been blacked out to protect their identity.

As a recent convert to cat ownership, I am gleaning insights into cat behaviour which I find interesting, if not disturbing.

For example, one of our two (male) cats passionately makes out with me every morning. 

My normal morning routine is to sit at my desk while coffee brews in the kitchen, turn on my laptop, check email, and learn the day’s news.  As soon as I am ensconced at my work station, a cat leaps onto the desk and proceeds to make out with me in several different, amourous ways, which I’m going to detail right here in this family newspaper.

First, he butts his head into my chin.  I never realized that a sign of affection in the feline community was to gently bash one’s forehead into the chin of your paramour.  A few butts later, the cat stares soulfully into my half-asleep face and decides that a good lick of my nose is in order, and proceeds to do so. 

Several licks upon the proboscis later, he moves down to my whiskery chin for more wet attention-giving.   

Now it is time to sink his claws into my bathrobe and any exposed portions of my chest.  My (former) terry bathrobe now resembles a fur coat, such are the pulled threads from his claws.  The numerous puncture wounds to my chest look no better.

He now switches to the heavy petting stage of our encounter.  First, he rears up on his hind legs and gives the top of my head a good sniff while I get to closely examine his belly, which he conveniently places in my face. 

Then he lies down on my hands, leading me to think the passion has subsided and I can actually peer around him and check email. 

No.

He immediately gets back up, sits before me, and stares soulfully into my face again.  Then, in a fit of passion, he leans forward and smears the side of his mouth against the side of my nose.  First one side, then the other.  His smearing is, apparently, the height of his affection, since he usually saves it for last in his bag of make-out tricks.

To summarize, the sequence of our early morning affairs goes something like this:

Headbump.  Headbump.  Headbump.  Lick.  Lick.  Knead. Flop down.  Back up.  Lick.  Bump.  Smear.  Stare.  Smear.  Headbump.  Flop down.  Back up.  Knead chest with claws. Smear.  Lick.  Lick.  Bump.  Smear.  Flop down.  Back up.  Knead chest.  Stare.  Lick.  Flop down again.  Back up.  Bump.  Smear.  Lick lick.  Smear.  Smear other side.  Bump.  Lather.  Rinse.  Repeat.

All the while, I am turning my head this way and that, trying to look past his busy face to read something on the screen of my computer.  Or to possibly type something intelligible in a humour column if at all possibl%#rejtn,.scv.  Excuse me – he just sat down on my hands again as I was typing there.

I do not know if this in any way constitutes gay behaviour on his part (or mine).  Frankly, I don’t care.  We have a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy regarding these acts of passion and adolescent curiosity. 

He just won’t leave me alone.   

Being on the receiving end of these advances gives me pause, and I would like to now offer a sincere apology to all women I dated in my younger days.  I now understand what it must have been like with me, and I just want you to know I had nothing but the best of intentions. 

If I happened to head-butt you in the process, I hope it didn’t cause too much bruising.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

A Play on Thirds

I was writing a column in my office (actually I was staring out the window, scratching) when I suddenly felt the presence of a third person in the room.  This was strange because there wasn’t a second person first. 

He stopped writing and looked around.  The hinky feeling continued so he got up and looked in the closet.  Not seeing a third person, I came out of the closet, slipped back into my chair, and continued to scratch out my column. 

Funny thing about third people – they come and go, I thought.  Sometimes they won’t appear for days, other times the writer will sit back, stare at the ceiling, and feel an omniscient presence in his work, he wrote.

In an attempt to deliberately confuse the reader, he continued writing this way until I decided to switch from my newspaper column to my one act play-on-words titled ‘A Play on Words.’  I felt that the play had started to sound like an English lesson in the use of third person omniscient writing style and needed some work, so when he switched back to myself I decided to knock it off for the day. 

Entering the living room, he noticed his wife was watching TV – a show he didn’t particularly enjoy.   

Knowing he would try to change the channel, she gave him a withering stare, as if to say “I’m watching American Idol and you can go downstairs if you want to watch hockey, Buster.”  The writer, on hearing this unspoken command, decided to switch back to first person, so I went to the kitchen for a snack, then downstairs to watch the hockey game. 

In a further attempt to confuse the reader, one then switched to speaking like royalty, where one speaks in what is, one supposes, the Third Person Blueblood or some such “La-De-Dah” language.  One tends to use this third person oneness until such time as it gets boring, then I switch back to first person and “get on with my life,” I said to himself.

As he continued writing the obscure essay about various writing voices in his head, hoping it was in some way illuminating or humourous, he discovered it was neither.  I stopped typing and stared at my screen.  It was as blank as his brain at the moment. 

‘To be continued…,” I wrote, not knowing if you use quotation marks around a thought you’ve just typed.

“Well, that was odd,” he thought.

“The End,” he wrote.

“Thank God,” all three voices thought.

“Well plop on you guys!” he thought back.  “Who are you anyway?” I wondered psychotically.

I stopped typing.  This was getting too weird. 

Garden Variety Wonder

Foolishly, I had volunteered to edit the Garden Society’s newsletter, and the chair of the board of directors of this august organization was coming over to inspect our garden.

The stern looking old broad - EXCUSE ME! - charming matron arrived promptly at the appointed hour.

“Good morning, ma’am!” I said. “Welcome to our garden! I cut you some fresh flowers to celebrate the occasion.”

“Thank you Mr. Crawford. Those are dandelions, not flowers,” the old battle-axe said. “May we begin our tour please?”

“Dandelions?! The kids and I thought they were flowers. Rats! I’ve been fertilizing and, uh, weeding them all spring.”

“No, Mr. Crawford, they are not flowers, and please stop holding them under my chin.”

“You like butter! Never mind. OK, here is our yard. In front here we’ve got Hostages, Doozies and this is Dogbone.”

“Hostas, Daisies and Dogwood, Mr. Crawford. I’m not entirely sure your garden knowledge will be sufficient to edit our journal. By the way - what’s that on your chest?”

“Oh! Ha! Ha! That’s a Venus Fly Trap stuck to my nipple. The kids and I were fooling around, and boy, that stuff sure is sticky!” I said.

“I see. Tell me about this brown patch.”

“Oh that? Well, I was squirting weed-killer along the edges here when this wind gust came up and, well... That stuff sure works doesn’t it?” I said, cheerfully.

“Now take a look at these low-growing flowers,” I said. “They have a uniform stem and a rather bizarre flower structure. Quite colourful though.”

“Those are Nerf gun darts that your son has obviously stuck in the ground, Mr. Crawford.”

“How do you know they are not some sort of flowering mushroom?” I asked.

“I have grandchildren, Mr. Crawford. Any idiot knows that N100 darts are not compatible with the N400 gun lying over there, so your son has obviously done something creative in the garden while waiting for his Dad to buy the correct ammunition.”

“Well, OK then. Sheesh. Now over here we have the Happy Patch.”

“Oh dear.”

“We planted a bunch of those little packets from the garden store on that dirt pile over there. We love the result. See where the carrots are, right next to the pansies and onions and weeds and lilacs? Yeah. So that kinda worked but we might try something different next year.”

Mrs. Outhouse or whatever her name was went over to the pile and closely examined one of the growing things.

“I can’t believe it. This is a Blue Rose! Mr. Crawford, are you aware that scientists have been trying to create a blue rose for centuries, and you’ve got several growing on your dirt pile here?”

“Oh yeah, we have lots of them. There’s more by the cucumbers in the flowerbed over yonder. They’re a real pain. They take over everything in the garden. I might get the weed-killer on them if they keep growing like that,” I said.

“No! Mr. Crawford this is a triumph! You have grown something the world has desired for millennia! You are going to be a very famous man when the world hears about this! I am in awe, sir!”

“Yeah, sure, whatever… So, does editing the newsletter pay anything? The kids and I could use some more seeds…”

Parent Dilemma

My children are starting to ask The Question. My wife and I are struggling with The Answer. Our rapidly coming of age family is soon to confront The Big Issue.

The kids are beginning to hear certain things in the playground, and as parents we want them to get good information about life from us and not some 12 year-old twisted pervert-in-training behind the school.

Speaking as a fully-grown twisted pervert myself, I recently started to explain to my kids how, when you are an adult, you start to experience certain urges. These urges are perfectly normal and nothing to be ashamed of, I said, but then I started to flounder. I got all embarrassed and asked myself “How and when do you explain to your kids all the ins and outs of pre-marital coffee?”

Is there a book you can read to help introduce the subject? What age is appropriate for them to learn what they’ll need to know about flat-bottomed or cone shaped filters, for example?

I fret that they’ll grow up drinking it black and will give me that condescending look so common to the coffee snob elite, and teenagers.

There are so many questions that need answering. Which coffee house will they choose to frequent when they start skipping high school classes so they can hang out with their juvenile delinquent friends we’ll hate so much? Will peer pressure lead to experimentation with biscotti?

I can’t remember when I started ‘doing it’ as a teenager. All I remember is paying a quarter for a cup of coffee and whiling away entire afternoons at the Wayfarer restaurant in my home town. It was here I was introduced to coffee culture – the atmosphere, the intellectual banter, the trying to feel up the teen waitress who we’d heard would let you for a dollar, and so forth.

So I ask myself – will my kids become addicted to street level coffee like Tim Hortons, or will they go for the high end, the ‘party’ coffees like mochas and lattes which suck you into their expensive lifestyle?

What petty crimes will they commit to get their next fix? How many coins will they pilfer from my nightstand in order to satisfy their cravings? Will they experience the powerful, gasping surge of relief when recovering from massive hangovers by downing a cup of hot joe like us mature grown-ups do?

None of the parenting books I’ve read answer these questions adequately.

When, for example, do you tell them it is okay to fondle their beans? I got caught doing that in the car the other day, rapturously sniffing my fresh bag of coffee. I was on my tenth inhalation when I remembered the kids were in the back seats watching my eyes glaze over.

I explained to them that this behaviour was commonplace and nothing to be embarrassed about. Snorting lines of finely ground Central American powder would be a little extreme, but again it is just coffee and not something habit-forming or anything.

I further explained it is okay to have feelings for their favourite mug. It is also normal to see people waiting in line at their local dealer, cross-eyed with caffeine withdrawal headaches which could register on the Richter scale.

These poor, disheveled wretches have been without caffeine for over twelve excruciating hours and many are experiencing headaches on par with a good brain aneurysm. Hands shaking, they thrust their stainless steel mug at the barista behind the counter and fork over ridiculous amounts of money to experience the rush of injecting fresh, hot heroin EXCUSE ME! coffee into their bodies.

Or so I’ve been told.

Developing a healthy and natural curiosity about coffee is what we hope to achieve with our kids.

We try not to think about them getting in with the wrong crowd, like tea drinkers, so we’ll just do what we can and hope for the best.

Once they get past the awkward stage of talking to their parents about these important issues, maybe I’ll tell them about sex. Over a cup of coffee perhaps.

Site "C" Muse

Hey, we should go sightsee Site “C” this summer!

Well okay – where should we go?

Site “C”

I already said I’d go sightseeing. Where?

Site “C”

WHAT are we sightseeing?

Site “C”

You keep repeating yourself. I know WHAT we’re going to do, I’m wondering WHERE we’re going to do it.

We’re going to Site “C” – apparently it’s beautiful up north and I’d like to see it before it’s all under water.

I’d be into sightseeing up North too but I still don’t understand what we’ll see. Start again. What region of the province are we going to?

Peace.

Well same to you but where are we going?

Peace!

I understand peace is important but that’s another conversation! I’m trying to determine where we are going to go. Now – we’re going sightseeing – got it. What are we going to see when we’re doing that?

Dam.

What happened?

Nothing.

Why’d you say damn?

Because that’s why we’re going to Site “C”! Dam!

Stop cursing! I’m just as excited as you are about sightseeing but you don’t have to swear. I still don’t understand where we are going or what we are doing. We’re going to hop on a plane and fly to sightsee where?

Peace.

You keep saying that! Peace to you too! You sound like a hippie. And we’re going to sightsee?

Yes.

I still don’t get it. Now what damn thing are we going to look at when we are sightseeing?

Precisely!

I don’t know what you’re talking about!

We’re going to sightsee site “C” dam. It’s really quite simple.

Sightsee! Sightsee! Damn! Damn! Damn!! You’re driving me nuts! Can I just go slowly here and get you to explain everything? You and I are going to sightsee by flying north – correct?

Yes.

Good! Now – when we land, we’re going to get out of the airplane, and what region of the province will we be in?

Peace.

Stop changing subjects! I want to know where we are sightseeing and you keep saying “Peace!”

Well it’s true – that’s where we’ll be!

I’m glad we’ll be at peace! I asked a question about what we’re doing, and one piece of that question was where? So answer me that piece.

Yes – that’s where we’ll be. Peace.

You’re not making any sense! When we go sightseeing, while we’re at peace, what are we going to see?

Site “C”

Stop that! Let me rephrase the question. When we are sightseeing, we’ll be looking at something. What will we be looking at specifically?

Site “C”

Would you quit saying that? I don’t understand. We are both engineers. We do surveys and work with large earth moving machines and we build large things. So what are we going to go up there for?

Dam.

I’m getting frustrated too, believe me! I’m not sure I want to go sightseeing with you anymore. I don’t understand what the big deal is with you and your sightseeing anyway.

Go ahead.

What?

You asked what the big deal is. I said “Go ahead”. Site “C” is now officially under way – they got the go ahead. Maybe after it’s finished they’ll call all the water the Site “C” Sea. “Come and Sightsee the Site “C” Sea!”

I can’t take this any more. What’s on TV?

No, What’s on second base.

Oh shut up.

Under Pressure

My neighbour was having a garage sale, so I stopped by. We didn’t really need anything, which allowed me to talk myself into a few items without undue pressure.

I discovered a really great cordless drill set almost new for twenty bucks, and also a pressure washer for five.

“Imagine that,” I said “A two hundred dollar pressure washer for five bucks!” This is probably the sort of delusional thinking which leads deranged oddballs to think a lifetime of piling newspapers inside their homes, surrounded by cats, is a great idea.

Anyway, I told my wife all about the utility of a pressure washer, what an opportunity it was to save the family budget, and could I borrow some money to go pick it up? For some reason I did not tell her about the cordless drill package, which means I will now be forced to hide this edition of the newspaper so she doesn’t find out why she didn’t get her change back.

After some severe dickering with my neighbour (“I only got twenty bucks,” I said. “Just take both items then” he replied, filling me with boundless joy), I hurried home with my treasures.

I plugged in the drill’s charger unit and gently stroked the accessories, expressing my love for them quietly and tenderly, as guys do.

Since the washer did not come with instructions, I set about examining the thing. It plugged into the wall of course, and there were two hose attachments, but one of them looked funny. Not your average hose connector for some reason. No matter – I had a fifty/fifty chance of getting it right. In fact, I was certain of success since I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

I lugged it out to our patio and got the water hose connected to it, but the pressure wand hose was giving me trouble. There was your usual threaded hose bit on the end, but there was also a male part inside of it (Oh - this would be the pressure part...I get there eventually…) which I had never encountered before.

I couldn’t get this pressure fitting into the machine. It looked like it should fit, but it wouldn’t go.

I pushed and prodded to no avail. In a bid to save my back, I picked the infernal beast off the ground and put it on one of the deck chairs to better facilitate my efforts. Firmly grasping the hose in front of me I tried to push the infernal attachment into the hole using a series of partial knee bends and grunts.

Now lets pause here and imagine approaching me from the rear as I was attempting these maneuvers.

A large grunting man, arms in front of him, crouched over a deck chair, repetitively bending his knees while mildly cursing as he attempts to insert a hose into a small opening.

I appeared to be participating in some form of kinky, hose-related copulation with a lawn chair.

This was the visual my wife saw as she approached from behind me.

“What are you DOING?” she asked, alarmed.

“I’m trying to get this hose into the pressure washer!” I exclaimed. “It looks like it should fit but it won’t go in!”

“Are you sure you’re putting it in the correct hole?” she asked. “Maybe you’ve got the blow hole mixed up with the water hole” she said, observing.

“No, that’s not the problem. There’s a rubber ring on the end that won’t go in,” I explained. “I’ve never done this before and I’m all excited about using it but I can’t hold steady or push hard enough and it just won’t go in!” I gasped.

“Maybe it needs some lubrication,” she said, helpfully. “It probably hasn’t been used in a while.”

I wet the tip in it went! “Yahoo!” I cried. I turned the threaded thing to keep it in place and off I charged, vigorously spraying everything in sight.

I have concluded that this is the perfect guy-type tool - always available, ready quickly, and a great way to while away a lazy afternoon.

Pressure washing. What did you think I was talking about?

Pervert.

Another Winner!

I dusted this one off, re-worked it, and sent it in to America's Funniest Humor Writing Contest - and it won! The judges must be desperate again. You can check it out at www.humorpress.com.

Anyway - here it is, with thanks to my sister Susan for the true story about squirting lemon juice into my eyes as a kid.

Health Care Now and Then

The world of health care, which has inspired so much calm and thoughtful debate recently, will be much better off now that Americans have settled all their differences.

Oh sure, there may be a teensy weensy little argument over which government bureaucracy will decide when and how people will die, but for the most part, things are looking pretty rosy in the
health arena these days.

Things are not quite so clear in the over-the-counter medicine world however, where we have a problem with choices. Allow me to illustrate this lucid reasoning.

I recently went to the drugstore for some kid’s cold remedies. As I wandered around the pain medication aisle(s) I selected a box of Children’s Tylenol Cold, then I grabbed Tylenol Dry Cough and Runny Nose, then some Tylenol Cough, Sneezing, Whining, Sore Throat, Carbuncles and Runny Nose, and finally a bottle of Tylenol Extra Strength Mostly Phlegm.

I also got Tylenol Zits, Tylenol Smelly Pee after Eating Asparagus, and Tylenol Sweat, Boils and Tumors, just to be safe.

There were flavors too - Cherry, Bubble Gum, Grape, Peach, Pine, New Car Smell, Diesel, Napalm, and Grilled Cheese.

I could administer the medication via liquid, tablets, liquid filled tablets, capsules, round pills, coated pills, caplets, nose drops, eye drops, suppositories, skin patches, needle injections, .22 caliber rimfire cartridges, caulking gun, postal delivery, taxi-cab, Morse code or Federal Express.

Contrast this confusing variety with the health substances we had growing up in the 60’s – Aspirin, Phenergan, and a thick red liquid we were told was Penicillin.

I have no idea what Phenergan was but we got it all the time. It may have just been rum in a medicine bottle for all we knew (hey…it was the sixties…have another brownie).

Here is how medical care used to work – it was simple:

Kid has fever so high Mom is cooking fried eggs on kid’s tummy? Aspirin.

Kid wakes up with spots everywhere and urps all over the kitchen? Phenergan.

Kid comes home covered in hideous scabs from ‘riding’ bike all day with no helmet? Nothing.
“Stop oozing all over the floor, I just waxed it!” Mom would say. “Now go wash up for supper”

Mom would reluctantly spoon penicillin into us only after our feverish, yellow eyeballs rolled up into our blotchy foreheads as we drifted into unconsciousness on our way to the hospital, and not a minute sooner because that stuff was expensive.

So you see, we didn’t have a health care in the world back then. Medicine was simple, yet effective. Everyone died by age 40 of course, but I’d like to ignore that point right now.

The nice thing about medicine is the human body is very resilient. You can do almost anything to it and it will usually recover, amputations excepted.

For example, my sister and her evil companion once squirted lemon juice into my eyes during a rousing game of “Let’s Torture the Little Brother We Promise It Won’t Hurt, Honest!”

Medical authorities today claim my poor eyesight is a result of astigma-something and not ‘Shrivelling of the eyeballs as caused by lemon juice infusion at age 5.’

The fact my spectacles today are as thick as a glass coffee table bears no relation whatsoever to this small act of sibling playfulness I am sure.

I forget what I was talking about.

Ah yes – health care.

In closing, here is a parting medical gift:

When a Spiderman Band-Aid does not staunch the flow of spurting arterial blood from
somewhere, remember what the guys from the TV show “Emergency!” used to do, and start an IV of Ringers Lactate.

I have no idea what that is but it usually worked, and the handsome Doctor at the hospital
always called for it.

If that doesn’t work, then I suggest a dose of Phenergan and transport immediately.

The Crawford Annoyance Scale

TV News Anchor: “A disturbance measuring 3.4 on the Crawford Annoyance Scale was reported in suburban Kelowna today, according to officials with the National Annoyance and Petty Irritation Bureau.”

“The ‘toothpaste dribble on a clean shirt’ resulted in muttered cursing and a delayed meeting at an undisclosed company headquarters. No after-swears have been reported.”

“A toe-stub measuring 4.5 Crawfords was recorded in the area last year, with authorities deploying bags of frozen peas to affected area residents.”

“In other news…”

The Crawford Annoyance Scale is gaining popularity in the media, and is designed to quantify those petty vexations which can lead, occasionally, to violent homicide. Here is a handy guide:

A rating of one is given to incidents where the sugar spoon has lumps glommed all over it because someone didn’t wave the utensil around after having it steamed up by a hot beverage, or it being accidentally dipped it in the milk of their cereal without subsequently rinsing it off. Most frequent offenders are young children and doddering old relatives, neither of whom respond to verbal disciplinary reminders.

A two Crawford rating is associated with the appearance of black or white sock boogs on the carpet in the changing area of the bedroom. Sock boogs incite spouses to remind you that it’s your turn to vacuum this weekend, when what you had in mind was several naps and a good book. Exasperated gasping is often observed at this level.

Level three annoyances are the most common. Examples include remembering to empty the stinky leftovers out of the fridge just after hearing the garbage truck depart, or discovering a tiny amount of your favourite cereal left in the big box after fantasizing about the enormous bowlful you were going to consume. Short, colourful curse blasts are common at events of this size and duration.

Level four irritations are reserved for the Microsoft Word computer program. Persons observed shrieking at their computer, “I KNOW you’re not responding!” are experiencing a Level 4 event and should be avoided.

Level five readings are for persons stuck behind drivers who do not advance into intersections on green lights while turning left. Advancing into the intersection on a green light is perfectly legal, so come on, ease out, ease out, that’s it, ease out, then when the light turns yellow you execute your turn when safe to do so. Yes!! Well done!

Failing to advance into the intersection means lurching into your turn after the light turns yellow, which is illegal, and which is VERY ANNOYING to those people behind you who could have gone through the intersection if you knew some BASIC DRIVER TRAINING YOU MORON!! Voluble profanity, gesticulations frequent at this level, combined with exasperation measureable by seismic equipment.

Level six is extremely annoying and is confined to bathrooms. After cleansing your magnificent body in the shower, squeegeeing the walls, and drying various bits of yourself, you discover that you have forgotten to rinse a soapy armpit and are smearing soap goo around with your nice, clean towel. Forced to reverse the end-of-bathing ritual, you re-start the shower, suffer the brief cold squirt of water, rinse the offending area, then restart the process. This event usually occurs when running late, which also serves to amplify the magnitude of muttering and after-cursing.

Level seven is confined to the loading of dishwashers by members of the opposite spouse. There is the proper (my) way of loading the dishwasher, based on sound fluid dynamic principles and science, and there is some other way, which is all muddled up and much less efficient. You do not have to have so much space between the bowls, and don’t put the big cutting board on that side since it interferes with the spray whirly thingy. Put it on the other side, away from the cutlery. Just so.

Glass-shattering squeeks, produced by clenched teeth, have been recorded during these events, accompanied by powerful earth tremors. Relationships have been known to topple during annoyances of this magnitude. Very dangerous. Avoid regions where this activity is common.

Level eight disturbances have never been recorded, but are thought to occur while speaking with customer service representatives of the federal government.