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.

Sunburn

When we go to the beach, I really get into it.  I close my eyes and, listening to the waves crashing to shore, I’m transported to tropical locales like Hawaii or Tahiti or Fred’s Fake N’ Bake Tanning Emporium.  Surrounded by palm trees and the enchanting smell of fragrant flowers, or Febreeze South Pacific #6, I relax hugely. 

Such was the case recently on the beach in Penticton.  We had brought all our swim toys, and I was trying out our new big green inflatable chair, complete with headrest. 

It was heavenly.  It was nap time.  I thought I had put sunscreen on my face.

Off I went, splashing into the water, lying back in the chair.  Ahhhhhh.  I was instantly far, far away, lounging in a tropical pool, enjoying peeled grapes and drinks in coconut shells.  Knowing the attentive staff would alert me to any danger from sharks or predatory flip-flop salesmen, I fell asleep.    

The sun blazed.  My sleep deepened as the waves rocked me gently.   A small rivulet of drool dried and formed a crusty line across my cheek, reminiscent of a Prussian dueling scar.

I stayed close to shore at first, my loud snoring amusing my family who eventually tuned out the noise with the help of a change in wind direction.  This change in the breeze also steered me away from shore, my body and the large chair acting as an effective sail.

Head lolled back, mouth agape, eyeballs twitching REMily, I drifted out to lake.

Past the swim platform, beyond the line of white marker buoys, out I went into the commercial shipping lanes.  Well, the parasail boat and yahoos on jet ski lanes, anyway.

Boaters who sighted me consulted their nautical manuals, confused as to what a bright red-over-green marker buoy indicated.  I was a hazard to navigation they were unfamiliar with. 

Eventually, someone overcame the smell of burning flesh and approached.

“Hey Mister! Cough! Cough!” a young boater hailed, hand waving in front of him.  “You okay?  Wake up!”

I came to and, using my finely honed sense of self-awareness, determined something was amiss.  For one thing, my head was the size of a basketball.  I could barely open my eyes – my face had become ridiculously swollen from sunburn and imminent heatstroke. 

I looked up through puffy slits and thought how rare it was to see vultures circling in this region.  I pried them open further and saw several pleasure boats close by.

“Hewwo!” I said.  My mouth wasn’t working properly.  It too was swollen. 

 “I theem to be thuffering from inflation!” I quipped.  “My mouf feelth funny, and I fink I thunbunned my dung thumhow.  Thith doth not feel too goob.” 

“Do you hab any watta?” I croaked through parched, swollen lips. 

Covered in fire extinguisher powder from a helpful boater, I paddled slowly back to civilization, using the backwards heat stroke common to floaty-chair occupants.  My horrifying facial igneousness helped part the crowds of swimmers on my way back to the beach

Coming in to shore I could hear my wife as she hushed the kids.  “Don’t stare at the red Elephant Man,” she said.  “Some people are born that way...”

As I stumbled closer to our section of beach my wife looked alarmed.

“Please don’t hurt the children.  Oh!  It’s you, Dear!   What in the name of God happened to your head?”

You know, I don’t put much stock in the story of Ogopogo, the lake monster supposedly lurking in the deep water here.  But I have a pretty good idea how these legends get started. 

Please pass the aloe.

Atonement

Before I get into trouble from my earlier kitten posting, here are some cuddly wabbits.

Awwwwww

Cute Wabbit video here

Foreign Tongue

I didn’t speak the language and I was nervous.

Oh, I had taken some lessons and all, but I was not what you’d call fluent.  So I took my handy translation phrasebook with me to the computer store. 

The line-up was long and I wound through the cattle fencing slowly.  I tried to hear what people were saying but it was all geek to me.

When it was my turn I glanced at my phrase book, trying to remember how to start a conversation.  I then confidently approached the young man behind the counter.

“Hello to you, Mr. DOS System!  My computer is sick with the output diarrhea!  I am amorous for your charms!  Can you tell me how to print the hospital medicine taxi?” I asked.

“Ah – a new Windows user,” he said.  “You’ll have to reboot your PC and then install an anti-virus program.  You might also consider adding some more RAM…”

“Wait wait!  Please – I do not speak tech too well yet!  One moment...”

I looked in my phrase book to determine what he had just said. All I wanted to do was check my email.  I’m getting old and it is hard to just ‘pick up’ a new language like kids can.

“Ah!” I said.  “And after I RAM Windows I can Pong on my laptop?” I asked.

“Pong?  What is this Pong you ask please?” he said, confused. 

I consulted the book again.  “Would you like to come back to my blog with me?” I asked.  “I have a big screen, baby.  May I buy you a cell phone?”

That brought a strange look from the kid behind the counter – clearly I wasn’t getting through.

I tried other phrases.

“Oh your hard drive is so big!  Can you fix my network you big pink pomegranate?”

The person behind me in line then came forward with an offer to help.

“I speak fluent geek sir – perhaps I can assist,” the good Samaritan said.  “Let me see your book.”

“I see your problem right here.  This book is version 2.0 – they only speak in dialect 3.0 or higher here.  You’ll have to go online to find the program you need.  Use Google – it’s very helpful. Maybe you could get a newer phrase book too.”

I only understood a little of what he said. 

“Excuse me please?  I do not understand,” I said.  “What is this goggle you speak of?”

“Google.  Use Google to look on the internet to find a newer phrase book,” he said patiently.  “You need to speak the language and your book is out of date - its six months old.  They cannot help you here.  These people are young.  They don’t understand what you are saying.”

I thumbed furiously through my book.  I wanted to thank the man for his clarification.  “There is a gecko in my chassis!” I said.  “When is the next In/Out bus?  My, what lovely cabling you have.  Do not drink the software!”

“Sir, if you’re going to learn how to speak the geek dialect, you’re going to have to get something electronic for translating for you.  Books are analog – they don’t work anymore,” my translator said.

It was hopeless.  I was a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by people I could not understand.  No one could help me, and I felt terribly alone.

I wandered outside and approached a stranger…

“Excuse me, sir?  I wish to send an outlook to fondle my Aunt’s underwear.  Can you direct me to the post office toilet museum please?” 

He shook his head.  “I’m terribly sorry but I don’t speak geek,” he said.

This was going to be a long journey.