Dodge, Disney and Dumbasses

Cars, these days, come with a lot of different features and options. Some of them good. Some of them, not so good. Cruise control, hybrid technology, fold-flat seats: all good. Remote starters, manual automatics, rain sensing wipers: not so good.

But the one feature that I'm absolutely appalled by (although not entirely surprised at) is the in-vehicle DVD entertainment system. Let me tell you something…Kids are already under seige from TV, so what do the auto makers do? Add it to the familymobile.

Already, the kiddies wake up in the morning and turn on the cartoons before heading to school where they sit in front of a computer screen to practice their Oracle programming and Internet porn surfing. They come home, plop in front of the TV with their chicken fingers and fries, and then head up to their rooms to play XBox all night. But now, even the trips to the cottage, grandma's house and the grocery store are accompanied by the idiotic glow of the boob-tube babysitter.

Parents complain that it's so hard to set aside "quality time" with their children. HELLO!! You've got a captive audience in the back seat, so why not make the most of it and play a game or something. Remember "I Spy" or license plate bingo? Or what about pretending to pull the cord on the air-horn whenever you passed a transport truck in an attempt to get the driver to wail on his horn? Why not sing some songs or -- gasp!! -- talk about stuff!? Heaven forbid!

And what about your fellow motorists? When I'm behind one of these minivans with the TV playing, I find it very distracting. I once followed someone for about 7 minutes because I thought for sure, this time, the Coyote was going to get the Road Runner. When Wile E. fell off the cliff and the Road Runner took off (as always), I realized that I was completely lost because I'd been such a zombie while driving.

But it's you and the kids I'm worried about. If you can't fathom a couple of hours (or minutes!) in the car without putting your kids into a movie-induced catatonic state, then perhaps you should be reassessing your role as a parent instead of seeing what Walt Disney has to offer.

The Reality of Messy Miracles

36 million people in Kenya
75 million people in Ethiopia
85 million people in Vietnam
149 million people in Bangledesh
167 million people in Pakistan
1.3 billion people in China

Let me tell you something…That's just 6 countries, very little real estate and a shitload of people.

For decades, us westerners have been decrying the need for population controls in countries such as those I've listed. Crazy ideas have been put forth (many of which with a straight face) including: Nuke the entire country, mandatory sterilization, mass air-drops of condoms and improved education.

Sure, each of these may have some merit, but they also have significant drawbacks (including "reality"). Another argument is that we shouldn't even be messing with that side of the world. Who are we to dictate to these people on how to live their lives?

This issue is so big that even the Catholic Church has weighed in. Obviously, they are against all forms of 'assisted' birth control, such as condoms and The Pill. But their suggested alternative of "go have sex and God will decide" just doesn't seem to be working.

Well, I'd like to present my theory on how these countries might address the issue of over-population. It's completely voluntary, costs absolutely nothing, will keep Mr. Pope happy, and by my estimation, is over 90% effective in capping the number of births at about 2 children per household.

Quite simply, my suggestion is this: Let the men watch the delivery.

Look again at those countries I've listed, above. I'm no expert in world cultures, but my hunch is that those countries have very traditional gender roles when it comes to family. That suggests to me that during the birth of a child, the father is typically in the waiting room or somewhere other than at the foot of the bed.

And even in North America, if you look back just a couple of generations. Men would be in the waiting room, chain smoking and waiting for the big news. And they had families with up to 13 kids! Nowadays, the fathers are right there during delivery and the typical family has shrunk to 2 or 3 kids. Any more than that is a rarity.

I believe there is a direct correlation. When the father is not present during the delivery, he doesn't get the full appreciation for the pain and carnage that the woman goes through. At the end of the day, he walks away with a fresh, clean, new baby, a tired wife and a big smile on his face. Ah, the miracle of life! No muss, no fuss.

But for the father who gets in there like a dirty shirt, it's a whole different story. He hears the screaming and crying of the woman and then the odd-coloured, slimy newborn. He sees the blood, tearing, stitches, hemmorhoids, the fluids and other mess that accompanies the delivery process. And all of this centres around the one area that all straight men hold most sacred.

After the birth of their first child, most men will admit that it was a life-changing experience. What few will tell you is that seeing his wife's happy place virtually destroyed has ruined his mental image of it as solely a place of fun and frivolity and they are a little apprehensive about getting back in that saddle. Then, after a second child, he comes to the realization that "down there" has morphed into a "business only" function and the fun factor has been virtually eliminated.

So I say, get the men into the delivery room to watch the birth of their children. Then, simply send them back out into society and let them decide how many more kids they want. We're not forcing western morals, it doesn't cost anybody anything and we're not going against any religious customs. We're just showing people the harsh reality that is the miracle of birth.

I'm willing to bet that we'll see exponential declines in the birth rates.

The Kettle is Blacker Than the Pot

I am lazy. I know this isn't exactly front-page headline material, but the fact still remains that I watched back-to-back episodes of "Jack Osborne: Adrenaline Junkie" simply because the remote fell off the couch and I could no longer reach it.

I will pay $5.99 at the grocery store for a jar of spice that I'll use once and then never again because walking a half-block to the Bulk Barn where I could buy a teaspoon of the stuff for 3¢ is just too much of an inconvenience. I have even slept in my clothes because it was too much effort to strip down before crawling into bed.

Yes. I am that lazy. But let me tell you something…My laziness does not incovenience others the way the laziness of some people does. Specifically, I'm talking about the muttonheads that insist on parking in the "No Parking" or "Fire" zones of stores and malls rather than finding a parking spot like every other poor shlep.

I know all of the excuses: "I'm just running in for a minute"…."It's raining"….."I'm in a hurry"…"There was nowhere to park."

Nowhere to park?? What do you call the 300 acres of asphalt surrounding the store? Here's a newsflash: Walking 10 to 15 car lengths has been proven not to kill you!

Obviously, the reason these people park at the front door is because all of the immediate, close parking spaces have been taken and they'd rather not park couple rows away and then walk. They go from their house, directly into their garage and into the car; park at the door and run into the store; reversing the process when they go home. Heaven forbid that they actually get a breath of fresh air when they go "out" to run errands. I bet going to the West Edmonton Mall would be considered an adventure vacation (or a nightmare from hell if they couldn't find a parking spot within 10 steps of the doors).

To these sloths, putting your hazard lights on signifies "I'll only be a minute". Sorry, folks, but this only works if you're mailing a letter at a post box or dropping someone off. Running into a grocery store to get bread, milk, cereal and a National Enquirer at 10am on a Sunday does NOT take a minute. You'll be lucky if you get out of there in 20. All the while, your stupid honkin' dinosaur of an SUV is parked on the crosswalk, forcing people to walk into traffic in order to get around it.

There is no reasonable cause for the rules not to apply to you. You are just another regular, everyday shmuck like the rest of us. So if you want to minimize the amount of walking you have to do after you park, maybe you should get your lazy ass out of bed a little earlier. Incidentally, isn't it the ultimate irony that people will endlessly circle the parking lot of the gym, waiting for a closer space to open up? AT THE GYM!! Where you EXERCISE! Holy Hannah, people!! Give your head a shake!

The only thing worse than people who park illegally are the people who park illegally and LEAVE IT IDLING!! I can't count the number of times I've seen this happen and thought about how satisfying it would be just to hop in the driver's seat and drive it away to park the beast in a regular spot and then watch for their reaction when they come out of the store.

But that would be too much effort. And I'm just too damn lazy.

And on a completely unrelated topic: What is it that makes people believe that they look cool when they wear sunglasses indoors and/or in the dark? The fluourescent lights are not that bright and obviously, neither are you. There are only 4 people that can get away with wearing sunglasses at night: Corey Hart, Roy Orbison, Stevie Wonder and The Terminator.

Life Lesson # 11: Behind Closed Doors - Chapter 2

"The Wrap and Push"

After my harrowing shower experience on the first day of the trip (see LL #10) I thought "well, at least I got my embarrassing ordeal overwith right at the beginning."

Unfortunately, that mindset is only applicable to people who are not me. Skip ahead three or four days and I find myself dressed in my Sunday best -- tie included -- at a fancy restaurant with approximately 75 family members. We're celebrating Nonni's 85th wedding anniversary (or some number close to that) at a seafood restaurant that made Red Lobster look like McDonald's.

13 courses, not including dessert. Plate after plate of seafood was set in front of me. Some hot. Some cold. Some with eyes, legs and/or fins still twitching. If it came from the water, it was on my plate. I'm pretty sure I even ate some sand and seaweed.

However, part way through my barnacle binge, I hear something. Softly at first, but then it steadily grew louder and more urgent. It was the call of nature. Specifically, Mr. Gopher was knocking at the back door, and if I didn't move soon, it would be more than just his head poking out.

I excused myself and headed for the little boys' room. I gotta say, for such a fancy restaurant, they sure didn't gussy up the crapper any. It was essentially a wooden box with a sink and mirror on the right-hand side and a porcelain plate with a hole in it in the centre of the floor. THIS is the washroom??

Things were getting intense at this point, so I dropped trou' and squatted over the hole. It's no small feat, aiming for a 6-inch wide hole while trying to keep your pants out of the way and to not piss on your tie which keeps dangling into the danger zone.

(Graphic description alert!)

So the urination stage went without incident and I manged to keep all of my clothing dry, but the main event proved to be more of a challenge. The first potato disappeared into the hole in the floor. No problem. However, potato #2 had a mind of its own. I think it was given different directions or something because it emerged and took an immediate left turn. With a soft thud, it landed on the porcelain plate and stuck there. Aw, perfect.

I completed the requisite paperwork and then turned around to survey the predicament. There was no handle to flush; I didn't even see an outlet for any rinse water, even if there was a flusher!

I couldn't just leave it sitting there for the next poor sucker to navigate around. I did the only thing I could. I wrapped my hand with about 18 inches of toilet paper and then bulldozed the bastard into the hole. I scrubbed up like a surgeon and headed back to the party.

Returning to the table, my girlfriend wondered what had taken so long. After explaining my ordeal, she burst out laughing and translated the entire story to the group before leading me back to the washroom to show me the chain, hanging in the far corner of the stall, which flushes the porcelain plate. In my defence, it was fairly rusty (EW!!) which pretty much camouflaged itself against the hardwood walls.

"See? We have running water in Italy! Did you know we have electricity, too?"

Very funny. Maybe I'm just not cut out for international travel.

An Open Letter to the AFA*

*Anonymous Farters Association

Dear Conspiratorial Flatulators,

Let me tell you something…As of today, you no longer walk among us with complete immunity from reprisal.

After many years of unwillingly inhaling the fruits of your labours, I have uncovered the secrets of your assholish society and I am here to tell you that your public farts will no longer go unmentioned if you should happen to drop an air biscuit in my vicinity.

Your members go by a number of different acrimonious titles:

Squeekers: These trainees appear innocent enough and have the basic skills of blushing down to a fine art. Their signature statement is a sheepish: "Oops. Sorry." Advanced squeekers are known for perfecting the "One Cheek Sneak", whereby leaning over to reach for the salt at dinner takes an abnormally long time.

Crop Dusters: These are commonly found in grocery stores or in my office building. Very sneaky, these bastards lay an egg when few or no bystanders are nearby and then quickly dart off around a corner so as not be blamed. Unsuspecting people such as myself come walking along and are subjected to unbelievable nasal distress that has us panicking and flailing like we've walked through a spider's web.

Suicide Bummers: Quite possibly the most vile of the order of AFA. Typically, they strike at concerts, sporting events, rush-hour buses or half-price underwear sales at Sears. With hundreds of people crowded into a small area, these thoughtless clods don't hesitate to fire off a silent poofer and then anonymously watch and listen for the reaction of those around him (or her).

King Toot: This is your equivalent to a corporate executive. These people won't hesitate to let one rip, no matter where they are. SBDFs are fine, but I believe they much prefer to butt-quack like a duck and look around as if to say "Yeah, it was me. What of it?"

Well, no more. No more anonymity. I am hereby putting you and all of your operatives on notice that should you have the misfortune of farting in my presence, I will, without hesitation, call out the culprit. You are no longer safe behind the unspoken social taboo that is farting, and I shall ensure that the offenders are ridiculed and shamed to the fullest extent of my being. You'll know me by my new motto: "Shut yer butt".

Hey, I enjoy a good gaseous expulsion as much as anyone, but I am sick and tired of being ambushed by mysterious poo gas whenever I leave the safe confines of my home, car or office.

If you want to fart and get a reaction, I suggest you stick to doing Blue Angels and Dutch Ovens with your spouse, room mate, sibling or hand puppets.

Thank you for your time,

Sincerely,

Old Man Crowder

Note: SBDF stands for Silent But Deadly Fart

A Sailor's Sea Chanty. OMC Style.

Thanks for the encouragement, one and all. I'm going to give this a go and see how it turns out.

To properly understand my current state of mind, make sure you say each word slowly and with insanity-level rage.

An Ode to Everything Right Now

Jesus fuckin Christ almighty shit on a stick
Goddamn sonofabitch whore motherfucker
Asshole bastard cuntface cocksucker
Shithead slut dicksmack.
FUCK.

Whew! Well THAT was…something. I feel so cleansed, and yet…so dirty.

Stay tuned. Better days ahead.

Posts Pending

Let me tell you something...I don't normally believe in the inane, "voodoo" that surrounds Friday, the 13th, but...What a crap day. It was worse than a full moon during the Ides of March, I tell ya. People (and by that, I'm referring mostly to a single person) were at an apex of assholishness.

I know I'm being a bad blogger and not posting very often, but if you hang around, I promise I'll post something soon. I know I owe you the second chapter of my trip to Italy; it's just a matter of finding time to properly articulate it.

These days, my articulation involves far too much swearing to do anyone any good.

Deconstructing the Goose

Let me tell you something...I, for one, have never really been all that fond of Mother Goose. At least since I turned 20, anyway. There's just something about the way she writes that creeps me out.

Cows jumping over the moon, 3 men in a tub and folks eating pease porridge. Sounds like a substance-induced high that Anais Nin and Freud would enjoy analyzing. I don't even know what the hell pease porridge is!

Let's break down a few, shall we?

The eensy weensy spider climbed up the water spout;
Down came the rain and washed the spider out;
Out came the sun and dried up all the rain;
And the eensy weensy spider climbed up the spout again.

Spiders are so retarded. Why risk getting washed out again by climbing the water spout after the rain storm? Use the wall, dumbass.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe;
She had so many kids, she didn't know what to do;
She gave them some broth, without any bread;
She kissed them all sweetly, and sent them to bed.

All kinds of glaring errors in this one. First: Perhaps if she didn't have so many kids, she could afford something better than a shoe to live in. Ever heard of birth control? Secondly, "she didn't know what to do"? From the sounds of it, she knew perfectly well what to do. So what's the point of this story? Hopefully she's not putting those kids to bed in order to have some more play time with Daddy.

Peter Peter pumpkin eater;
Had a wife and couldn't keep her.
He put her in a pumpkin shell;
And there he kept her very well.

Again, Mother Goose is full of contradictions. "Couldn't keep her...", "kept her very well". And he kept her in a pumpkin shell? Do you know how bad those things reek after a couple days? No wonder the chick wanted out.

Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet;
Eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider;
Who sat down beside her;
And frightened Miss Muffet away.

Bah!! C'mon, Muffet! Grow some balls! It's just a damn spider! Probably the same retarded one that keeps getting washed out of the water spout! And if we're supposed to be writing in proper English, should it not read: "Along came a spider; which sat down beside her"? I suppose, though, Mother Goose was somewhat renowned for personifying animals. And has anyone ever seen a spider actually sit?

Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep;
And doesn't know where to find them.
Leave them alone and they'll come home;
Wagging their tails behind them.

When the boss hears about this one, I'm sure Bo Peep will be a shepherdess no longer. How the hell do you lose a flock of sheep? And whose bright idea is it to just "leave them alone"? Sheep aren't the smartest animals in the barn, so I'd be very surprised if they returned home without some sort of search party.

Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow;
And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.

I'd say Bo Peep could learn a thing or two from Mary about shepherding.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall;
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men;
Couldn't put Humpty together again.

I don't know who this Humpty Dumpty is, but for the king to send out all his horses and men to try to fix him? Must be an important dude, sittin' up there on the wall. Instead of horses, perhaps they would have had more success if the king had sent out a rescue crew that at least had opposable thumbs.

So there's just a few examples of the ridiculousness that is Mother Goose. I don't know why or how she got so many kids to buy into this drivel, but my assumption would be a good PR firm and a handful of thugs.

Kids should be reading "normal" stuff. Like Dr. Seuss.

Life Lesson # 10: Behind Closed Doors -- Chapter 1.

When my girlfriend suggested I fly with her to Italy to meet her family, I jumped at the chance. The pizza. The pasta. The wine. Oh, baby, sign me up!

I was a little taken aback by some of the Italian customs, such as men kissing me (sorry franko, but it just doesn't turn my crank), but the one international discrepancy that caused me the most distress was that of what I'll call "interpretation of signals".

After a long flight, a harrowing car ride from the airport and an endless barrage of excited family members constantly repeating something about "mangia", I was ready to break away for a little "me time" and enjoy a nice, hot shower.

Thanks to my translator, I was able to excuse myself and was given a towel. Shutting the bathroom door behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief and proceeded to undress.

As I stood in the tub, I noticed the odd set-up of the combination bath-tub/shower system. The shower head (and hose) was attached to the side wall, level with my mid-thigh. Even by detaching the shower head and extending the hose as far as it would go, it still only reached the lower part of my chest. At 6' 2", there was still a lot of real estate that wasn't going to get any water.

I decided my best bet was to hunker down in the tub, reattach the shower head to the wall (keep in mind, I have not yet turned the water on), and see what kind of coverage I could get that way. Not a bad idea, except for the fact that now I've compacted myself into a tub that is roughly 2.5 feet wide, by 3.5 feet long and is constructed of what I believe could be described as "permafrost" porcelain. That thing sucked the heat from my ass like a paper towel on spilled milk.

Reluctantly, I turned the water on and did my best to unfold myself enough to allow soap and water into all the nooks and crannies created by cramming myself into this oversized sink. So much for a nice, relaxing shower.

Figuring I'd cleaned all I could really clean, I shut the water off and proceed to unfold my legs to stand up. I actually had parts that were still dry! And that's when I realized that I had left my towel on the other side of the bathroom, hanging on the edge of the sink.

Perfect.

Pulling the curtain back, I gingerly step one foot out onto the cold tile and reach for the towel….

Now, boys and girls, if you've been keeping up with my Life Lessons, you'll know that this is about the point where things go bad for our hero, but at the same time, a valuable lesson emerges. Get ready, 'cuz here it comes.

….So there I am. One foot in the tub, one foot on the floor, stark naked, dripping wet and reaching for the towel. And the bathroom door flies open. In storms my girlfriend's aunt. She looks up and sees me, looking a lot like the Vitruvian Man.

I screamed like a girl and she yelled out something like "Scusi!", (which I hope means "Impressive!") and dashed out again.

Ladies and gentlemen, it took this awkward experience for me to learn that, in Italy, a closed door does not necessarily guarantee safety. Over there, they close all the doors in the house to keep the drafts to a minimum. Only a lock prevents unexpected eye-fulls.

Understandable, I suppose. But have they not heard of knocking?

I spent the remainder of the 2 weeks avoiding all eye-contact.

Inventing the Basics

Hi people. Sorry I've been a little MIA lately. I've been busy trying to keep up with all the school shootings. Hey…You know it's a bad state of affairs when a guy wigs out and starts shooting little Amish girls.

In lieu of all the recent death and insanity, today's post contains somewhat lighter subject matter.

Have you ever stopped to think about how things actually came to be? Who was the first person to actually invent something that we all take for granted today?

Let me tell you something…I think it's more than just coincidence that the alphabet has a poetic rhyme to it. Somebody had to sit down with all 26 letters and figure out what order to put them in. And why 26 letters? Italians only use 19 letters, whereas the Chinese have something like 40,000 characters. (And some days, I don’t use any letters. Just grunts, snuffs and snorts.)

Somebody, somewhere, made the decision that 26 was the appropriate number and that ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ was the correct order. Just try singing the alphabet song with this order: QAZWSXEDCRFVTMBYHNUJGIKOLP -- it just doesn't flow.

While we're on the topic of language, where the hell did these hyphenated words come from?
Willy-nilly.
Hanky-panky.
Hunky-dory (is that a good looking boat?).
Okie-dokie.

And what about numbers? The world was chugging along just fine with Roman numerals and then somebody decided to completely overhaul the whole damn system! Perhaps people became too confused writing numbers and words using the same characters. MCXVLIII. Is that a number or a misspelled word?

Who got to decide the names of body parts? Was it two cavemen sitting around one day, after bonking their wives on the head with a club, eating a mastodon and lounging by their newly-discovered fire?
"Hey Grog. What this nubby thing called?"
"Moe...Joe...Toe."
"Toe! That good!"
"What this dangly thing called? Aaaahhhh…."
"Hmm… Me not sure. How about uvula?"
"Nice one! Me like!"

Uvula. What the hell?? Have you ever really considered how strange some words actually sound if you repeat them really slowly? Elbow. Nostril. Knuckle.

Okay, so this was a reasonably pointless post. Basically, I just wanted to see if I could get a handful of people from all over the world to start singing the ABC song and talking out loud to themselves, like slow-motion morons.

Just as a post-script: Who was the first person to look at a chicken and say "I'm going to eat whatever comes out of that bird's ass."?

Or what about sausages? "Let's grind up this animal and stuff it inside its own intestines! That would be yummy, dontcha think?" I can't even imagine the thought process going through the mind of the bonnie lad (or lass) who came up with haggis.