A Stirring Post

I would like to know, based on sound scientific research, which is the more efficient method of stirring the sugar and/or cream in one's coffee or tea. To wit - is just a straight, consistently circular swirling the swiftest method? Or is a hybrid methodology faster?

I choose to use (because I am convinced it is correct) the hybrid method. Namely, I begin stirring in a good circular fashion, the liquid swirling in a clockwise fashion. Then, once a certain (classified) speed has been attained , I reverse course and cause immediate turbulence in the liquid, such that any granules that have settled to the bottom of the mug are disturbed from their rest and are immediately absorbed into the surrounding liquid, gone forever, their hopes and dreams dashed as they should be.

So which method is more efficient at dissolving the powder? We need to know this to satisfy my (and others) innate curiosity. We have enough challenges in our lives without wasting precious seconds stirring Kool-Ade or chocolate milk or coffee in an inefficient manner.

Hmmm

So since a bunch of these things are buzzing around the area putting out forest fires, I wonder what it would take to load one up with RoundUp and dump it on my side yard?

It would save me a lot of time I think. I may have to make a call or two to see if I can tee this up. I'll let you know how it turns out.

Playing Goff

I love how the golf announcers on TV pronounce it that way - goff. "That was a good goff shot Johnny" they say.

Like it could be described as a good hockey shot instead...

Or "That was a good goff shot for a base hit there Johnny..."

These guys are masters (ha) of the obvious.

Anyway, I'm working on a column about swatting small white spheroids with a weighted stick.

I recall the first time I ever swung a club. I was in my mid-twenties and my dear aunt and uncle took me to a driving range. I discovered I could, in fact, hit the ball with some regularity and skill, with no lessons whatsoever. I now consistently play rounds in the mid hundreds as an attestation to this phenomenal natural talent.

I also recall my dear aunt swinging for all it was worth, while simultaneously letting fly with some good, loud flatulence. My aunt is a very proper woman and she was quite mortified, not only for having boosted her swing like that, but because her nephew and husband were rolling around on the ground, weeping with laughter.

Naturally I have never let her forget the incident.

Naturally, she takes great pride in having me removed from her last will and testament.

Fairs fair.

It makes me wonder, though, if this waggling before hitting the ball has some nefarious, deceptive purpose other than loosening up the swing muscles. I think golfers waggle to camouflage the fact they are releasing toxic clouds of intestinal gas prior to hitting, thus poisoning the atmosphere for their rest of their foursome. This is a good defensive measure I must admit, having used it once or twice myself.

So why do they call it waggling then? Why not call it what it is, or give it a sly new name like, I don't know, "Glurbing."

"Next on the tee is Dave Crawford, the famous humourist. Oh, and he's just glurbing before hitting the ball. Good one. That's a good defensive goff technique Johnny since Tiger is teeing off right behind him and he's already making a face...you can always tell a good glurb since the gallery claps before he strikes the ball AND after..."

Current Event

I have just completed a very satisfactory shout at my computer.

"I KNOW you're not responding!!" I yelled.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming, consisting of the author trying to figure out what to write next.

Thank you.

And the winner is...

I would be terribly remiss if I didn't mention that my co-humourist and writer friend Carl Vine, of Somewhere in Ohio, is a finalist in the Robert Benchley Society annual humor writing contest competition thing. You can read his entry here: http://www.robertbenchley.org/2009_competition/09-029.htm

You can find a link to his very funny blog down there on the left somewhere...

He and I have both entered the HumorPress.com contest so I think it would be entirely appropriate for me to win that one, and have Carl win the Robert Benchley one. He would get flown to Boston to a gala dinner with the society crowd.

I would get 100 bucks. Huh.

Anyway I wish him nothing but success as we both make valiant attempts at making people chuckle.

Why?

Can anyone explain why it is that you don't realize you forgot to rinse one armpit in the shower until you already have your underwear on and are looking for a shirt? Why can this discovery not be accomplished when you are squeegeeing off the shower, such that it is relatively easy to accomplish this annoying task?

Why is it that I occasionally diverge from my shower routine and completely forget to shampoo my head? There I'll be, drying off, when I come to the startling realization that I'm getting senile. Which leads to further confirmation of the diagnosis since I immediately start muttering to myself and cursing as I disrobe and get back in the shower.

While I am asking rhetorical questions, I would like to get an explanation (and slow motion video would be nice too) of how small rocks come to get under my foot while I'm wearing my sandals.

The last time I checked, the rocks were underneath my feet. I step down upon them. They spray outward from the impact, then somehow fly up and execute complex aerial maneuvers in order to wind up underneath my tender tootsies. What sort of rigorous pilot training must these things take in order to perform such feats of aerobatics? I would like to know.

I am also intrigued by the whole underwear thing. You'll pull a fresh pair out of the drawer and find them to be inside out. I get them all arranged, with the tag at the front, then I execute the flip maneuver, such that they become right side in. Out. Whatever. And the tag is now at the back now. I find this absolutely amazing to behold each morning. What an awe-inspiring way to start the day. This is the sort of magic that got David Copperfield started I am sure.

So! Thus refreshed by my insightful thoughts, feel free to begin your days activities. You are indeed welcome.

Learning to Fly

I am working on a series of columns about airplanes and learning to fly. Here is a sample...

So now you’re ready to fly. Turn on the ignition and pull the rope and lets get going! The big noisy thing up front will start to turn, so drive out to the runway and just go!

As you see yourself leaving the ground for the first time, you will experience a strange sensation. This sensation is called “Barfing” and is completely normal.

Once the heaves settle down, or you experience ‘emptiness’ as we pilots call it, you will notice that you are headed straight for the big trees of the end of the runway. Pull back on the stick, try to stop shrieking for just a moment, and show your student how the controls work together in harmony, side by side on the piano keyboard, oh lord why can't we? Nevermind.

Now we can see how all the buildings and farms really are the size of ants. If you have done some careful planning, you will notice the ant-like people down there really jump when the water balloon you dropped near them explodes in a great, big splash! This is lots of fun to do, if technically illegal, so limit your bombs to friendly neighbours who won’t fink to the police on you. Or fly so high they can't see who it is.

I learned to fly when I was much younger, back when I had time, money, thinness, hair, muscles and coordination. I grew up with a flying father who even owned an airplane for a while. It was great – we’d fly into remote fishing strips and denude the rivers of small inhabitants, then spend the next 4 days cutting brush and trees from the end of the runway so we could take off again without getting too many branches stuck in our wheels. We would usually just tell Mom about the fish.

When flying, Dad would bellow something vital about seat belts or engine fires or whatever from the pilot’s seat up front from time to time. I could never hear these commands since the wax in my crustacean tubes was making me deaf and brain-swollen, so I’d just merrily sit in the back seat, undoing screws or bolts on the aircraft, completely oblivious as to what was going on around me. Kind of like being at work come to think of it.

Now before you can become a pilot you have got to learn The Principles of Flight. These are, in no particular order: loft, drag, flops, gravity, thrust, parry, waddle, rudder and smoke.

Incidentally, Waddle, Rudder and Smoke is where my lawyer works.

To be continued...

Cabin Cruising

To my enormous relief, there are some interesting places to go in our region. Literally.

For example, the wilderness cabin we recently stayed in had a composting toilet, a plumbing device with which I was not familiar.

We had chosen this specific cabin at the resort because it did indeed have an actual toilet.

This was a “No toilet means we’re going home kids, we don’t DO outhouses anymore” type of middle-aged female arrangement.

Upon arrival, we naturally made a bee-line to the bathroom for commode inspection.

You had to climb a little stair, and park yourself on what appeared to be (appropriately) a throne. Sitting there, you could survey one’s domain from a dizzyingly high perch, one which required calls for assistance if you happened to drop your reading material. Or toilet paper.

So here’s how it (the toilet) works, because I’m sure you are just dying to know: After going ‘big jobbies’ (as my kids call it), what you do is pour in a cup of granola or bark mulch or something, and crank a handle to ‘flush’. This rotates the, er, material, and mixes things up and saves the ecology and promotes world peace. Something like that.

Now I’m not easily impressed by toilet facilities let me tell you, unless it’s one of those Japanese ones that do a complete wash, wax, polish, trim and warm-air dry down there. Those babies impress me for sure.

This particular bog was impressive because there was no smell (from the toilet). None.

Given the rules of camping hygiene (Rule #1: Stink), we found there were more flies circling the occupants of the toilet than were circling the toilet itself. It was a wonder.

The only problem was the bathroom floor squeaked. Loudly.

The first night, having slept for a bladder-stretching several hours, I awoke to an urgent need. Not wanting to wake the family by squeaking into the throne room, impressive though it was, I tip toed quietly out onto the deck and stood at the upstairs railing in my underwear.

It was beautiful and silent there amongst the, er, morning woods. Taking careful aim (not really) I let fly, whizzing in a great arcing stream, up (heh), over and down into the shrubbery growing between our cabin and the one next door.

A noise louder than a hundred floor squeeks erupted. A thousand. The large leaves being rained upon sounded like cymbals crashing as they were drenched. The thunder evoked images of a herd of elk rampaging through the underbrush.

I heard disturbed mutterings from other cabins as I tried to ‘adjust fire’ and deaden the racket.

In fact, I could barely aim at all since by then I was covered with a thick, moving pelt of ravenous mosquitoes, relieving me of several units of blood while I, in turn, relieved myself of several units of pee.

Someone looking out of their window at that point would have seen a curious sight. A two storey, glistening arc of moonlit former beer, originating from a large, semi-naked man shivering from blood loss while at the same time shaking from, well, shaking. You know.

Flushed with relief and woozy from several gallons of mosquito-derived histamine coursing through my veins, I padded quietly (for some reason) back to bed, where I spent the next several hours swatting flies and rubbing my welt-covered body across the blessedly sharp teeth of the sleeping bag zipper.

Ahhhh nature.

Fire Update and Things

As previously posted, I was on my deck when I spotted the first tendrils of smoke curling up from the Great Fire of 2009 - West Kelowna Edition.

I immediately turned on my sprinklers to help battle the blaze, but I'm afraid it got out of hand anyway. The fact that I'm situated across the lake from the blaze may have something to do with my lack of success.

I have relatives in from out of town so I had them line up with the evacuees and made them stay over in the local recreation centre for a few days. This creative solution to a small housing dilemma was the highlight of my week, and it helped the overseas visitors make some new friends. We got new toothbrushes out of the deal too - courtesy the Red Cross or Salvation Army or somebody. Sweet.

About 10 helicopters are 'working' the fire, and by 'working' I mean 'dropping buckets of Febreeze on the flames at citizen Crawford's request due to the smell.'

Hey - someone has to come up with the good ideas.

More later. Cheerio.

Forest Fire

Nothing funny here today I'm afraid.

We have a major forest fire happening in our city Saturday and today. I actually saw the first plumes of smoke - I was out on the deck trying to avoid some of the tasks assigned by my wife! These pictures are taken from my deck, looking west across the lake at the early stages of the fire.

About 10,000 people have been evacuated from across the lake - we'll be signing up to receive people that need a place to stay.

A few houses have been lost but thankfully no one has been hurt.

This harks back to 2003 when a major fire burned over 200 homes on this side of the water. My house stands on a site that was burned in that fire.

The smoke that I'm smelling now is not happy camp fire smoke. It stinks.

Sorry - sad day. No time for much more but I'll try and work on some happier stuff later.

Take care everyone.