Let Me Tell You Something...

Life Lesson # 16: Waving the White

2011-04-21T16:13:00.003-04:00

Few people will deny that it sucks to get old. But how do you know when you're old?

Forgetfulness. Creaky bones. Mysterious and lingering aches and pains. And... uh... I forget.

Probably one of the most telling signs of oldness is white hair. I've finally reached the point in my life where I've developed white hair. And it's not just regular white... I'm talking fluorescent-burn-your-retina white. Pretty sure I've seen that shade on a Home Depot paint chip.

Yes... Going white sucks.

What's perplexing and frustrating is that my white hair is but a single strand.

And trying to go for record length for the entire world to see. It waves in the breeze like an Olympic gymnast's ribbon.

And it's a nose hair.

Political Correctness and Large, Homosexual Middle-Easterners.

2011-01-26T20:17:00.004-05:00

So the Dire Straits song "Money For Nothing" has been banned from radio and video play in Canada unless the word "faggot" is bleeped out.

Let me tell you something... I understand that this particular word has a certain meaning in everyday language, but I also understand that the context in which this word is uttered in the song does not carry that same meaning. But whether this specific f-word refers to a homosexual or not is not what has me off my rocker.

Let's look at the calendar, shall we? Today is January 26th, 2011. Money For Nothing was released on June 24th, 1985. Some quick calculations suggest that approximately TWENTY-SIX AND A HALF YEARS have elapsed since the song's release!! If this song is so offensive, then where the hell was the censorship on June 25th, 1985? Surely we were less tolerant of others 26 years ago than we are today?

I suppose despite the fact we may be more tolerant today, by the same token we are also that much more politically sensitive. Do you know how this ban came about? A guy from the east coast decided he didn't like the lyric and petitioned the right people. ONE GUY! In 26.5 years, ONE GUY complains and it's enough to get a new law passed.

Surely there must be a statute of limitations on this stuff. I mean, how come nobody's complained about Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls"? That song was released in the US in October 1978 and still gets considerable air time today. I'm not sure the term "fat" is acceptable any longer -- I think the new term is "substantially framed". And the way Freddy orders them to "get on your bikes and ride!" sounds awfully demeaning. Doesn't even say please.

I would hazard a guess that there are a lot more 'substantially framed' individuals in this country than there are homosexuals, so I'm a little surprised that there hasn't been an uprising against the song.

And speaking of uprising... I now hear that there are riots in Cairo these days. Probably protesting the Bangles' "Walk Like An Egyptian".

I Like Hate You.

2011-01-11T21:02:00.004-05:00

Kids these days. What the hell is wrong with them? Let me tell you something... I just got back from attempting to enjoy an evening coffee and a pair of donuts at the local café, but instead of savouring the sugary-sweet goodness that are donuts, I found myself eavesdropping on a couple of teenage girls having what I can only assume was a conversation.

Without exaggeration, in the span of 15 minutes one of the girls used the word "like" 112 times. Do the math, kiddies... That's more than 7 per minute! 1 every 8 seconds!!

If this is how kids talk these days, then I weep for the future. Both of these sweethearts were pretty, dressed nicely and not once did I hear a swear word from either of them. But is their vocabulary so extraordinarily limited that every other word has to be "like"?? This bubblehead even finished a few of her sentences with "like":

"I was, like, you know, trying to tell him, like, that he has to go to, like, math class, like!" I think my ears started to bleed at that point.

Maybe it isn't the kids' fault that they're idiots. Perhaps the funding for our education system has been reduced so much that the school boards have resorted to cutting basic programming such as knuckle-dragging, mouth breathing and English.

Or maybe the parents are to blame. After all, if kids grow up listening to terrible speech and grammar then it's only natural that they'll pick up those same habits, right?

But then that must mean that the general population surrounding these moron kids is linguistically inept!

Or is it TV? Shaggy from Scooby Doo must've imprinted on their tiny, maleable, peanut brains!

Oh, these poor, poor children! What are we going to do??

I don't care whose fault it is. Stop talking like a Valley Girl and let me enjoy my donuts before I toss you into a canyon. Like.

Math and English Lesson: Summer Style

2009-06-23T21:33:00.003-04:00

How come we say the word 'patio': "patty-o", yet we say the word 'ratio': "ray-she-o"?

Pa-she-o?
Pay-she-o?

Ratty-o?
Ray-tee-o?

Whatever.

I just wanted to tell you that my ratio of beers per patio is pretty close to 2:1.

What Bugs Me.

2009-06-22T20:00:00.001-04:00

There are a lot of things in this world that bug me. For you regular followers, this will not come as a big surprise.

I know I haven't been all that vocal lately about life and its current events, but a recent occurrence has once again stirred me from my afternoon doze for some much needed finger wagging and eye rolling.

Bugs bug me. Just about every single kind of bug. Big ones, small ones, flying ones, walking ones, local ones, foreign ones. Any sort of creepy crawly critter that does not contribute to my well-being either financially or nutritionally. Forgetting, for a moment, that animals such as frogs, birds and bats depend on bugs for their survival, I don't think I'd be all that sad to see a slight reduction -- say 80 to 90% -- in the world's population of bugs.

That being said, let me tell you something…As much as I hate bugs (especially the bitey ones), I've come to despise PETA even more. Not to be confused with "pita", which is also a stupid and pointless invention. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. There's nothing wrong with their cause and I don't disagree that we should be treating our pets and future meals with a little respect before we whack its head off and turn it into McNuggets.

For years, I've witnessed their campaigns against the fur industry, the seal hunts, KFC, dog kennels and circuses. Occasionally, their tactics are ridiculous and though I can rarely stomach the video footage, I understand and appreciate their message. Thanks to them, I don't wear fur (given my follicular fortitude, it would be a bit redundant of me). I don't eat seal (I don't know where to get it). I don't eat KFC (if MacDonald's is closer). I don't eat dogs (unless they're locally raised and bark incessantly). And I don't eat anything that comes from a circus (elephants are tough on a rotisserie)

But I can't help but feel they've gone off the deep end with their latest attempt at a media grab and as a result, they've pretty much lost what little credibility they had to begin with.

The other day, Captain America Obama was giving a speech but during the address he was being pestered by a fly. Like any normal, rational person would do, he waited until the little bastard landed, smacked the shit out of it and then beamed a smile at his success. While everyone in the room erupted into cheers, the gallery started the wave and fireworks were going off outside, PETA pretty near had a stroke. Infuriated at the insensitivity and cold-blooded nature of the President, the organization immediately condemned his actions as though the Cottonelle kittens were being air-dropped over North Korea, sporting grenades as backpacks.

Hello, people! It was a fly. My rough estimation is that there are approximately 2,736 billion-jillion flies in the world (which works out to be about 10 million flies for every person in the world), so it's not like killing this one is going to put the world's ecosystem out of balance. Sure, this particular fly may have had a wife and kids back at home, but I'm sure Mama Fly will qualify for welfare and be able to support herself and her 100,000 fly babies.

And what about human rights? Does it not say somewhere that we should be free to live without harassment? That fly was obviously a nuisance and needed to be dealt with, swiftly and severely. Flies around the world have to realize that if you mess with the Prez, there will be consequences.

Come on, PETA. Are you really that desperate for attention that you have to resort to ragging on fly killers? How many bugs did you kill with your car on your way to the office this morning? At the end of the day, do you repent and ask forgiveness of the God of Insects?

Listen, it's okay to be passionate about your cause. But when you start turning into a ridiculous fanatic nobody takes you seriously and your whole organization loses all credibility. It was a fly.

Now buzz off. I'm picking up the neighbour's puppy to go for a walk to Home Depot. I need to buy a bigger rotisserie.

Parental Guidance Suggested

2009-05-12T20:53:00.002-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I have uncovered yet another world-wide conspiracy. This time, the conspiracy relates to society's need to recruit single people for marriage and then engage in procreation -- again and again and sometimes again.

Let me tell you something….Take a look at your life and see if this hasn't happened to you (maybe it's happening right now!):

You and your single friends are happily going through life, doing your thing. Sooner or later, someone in the circle announces that he/she is getting married. Before you know it, somebody else makes the announcement. This continues until all but one or two of you remain single. And then one day one of your married friends (or perhaps all of them at once) says to you "So when are you going to get married? It's so much better than being single." This friend may list out several reasons of dubious validity as to why being married is better than being single. So you get to thinking "Yeah! I need to be married!" and the next thing you know you're all dressed up and walking down the aisle with a smile painted on your face because you've just joined the elite Married Folks Club.

Just when the lustre of wedded bliss starts to fade a little and you come to the realization that being married isn't as much of an amusement park ride as your friends made it out to be, one of your married friends announces that a baby is on the way. Baby arrives and, oh my, their world is beautiful, amazing and full of fun and they natter on incessantly about how fabulous it is to be parents and, speaking of which, when are you going to have a baby? And then it happens… your other friends start having babies and they all start to extol the virtues of being parents.

It all sounds pretty good to you. Just look how happy they seem! They have such great stories about their new bundles of joy that you fail to notice the luggage of sleeplessness under their eyes and the deepening creases around the corners of their mouth. And you so badly want to contribute to the conversation that forever revolves around Elmo, where to pick up rash cream and the best ways to get puke out of suede.

So you have a baby. But soon after having your baby, these friends start introducing second children into the mix. Inevitably, they get to asking you when you'll be having a second child. This typically begins when the first child is roughly 18 months old -- this is an important milestone in the conspiracy. And many people cave once again and have a second child.
It is at this point that the conspiracy starts to fray and recruiting more members becomes tricky.

"But, OMC," you might say, "this doesn't sound like a conspiracy. It sounds more like the conventional, societal way of life."

Yes, boys and girls. That's exactly what the conspiracy wants you to believe. It all boils down to one simple adage: Misery loves company.

The single folk have been drawn into marriage by other married folk, believing the stories of how great married life is. Once married, these people see how good they had it when they were single, but since they can't go back to singlehood (not easily, anyways), they opt for recruiting the remaining single people into the Married Folks Club so that everyone is once again on the same playing field.

Same thing happens when the first babies start arriving. People with kids rave to those with no kids about how great it is being parents and they keep this up until those people have their first child. If I'm going to be constantly fatigued and smelling vaguely of poo, then I want someone to comiserate with. Levelling the playing field.

Right around the year-and-a-half to two-year mark after having your first child, your friends start having second children. You look at these precious little helpless infants, just lying there quietly. Cute, cuddly, soft and warm. And then you look at your little hellion who is running around, banging his head on the wall because you gave him strawberry jam on his toast instead of raspberry jam and you think "remember when he was just a baby and we didn't have to deal with this? Maybe we should have another baby." BLAM! You've just been rooked by the conspiracy again. And the playing field has been levelled once more. But here's where the conspiracy becomes a little more transparent.

Once that second child arrives, THAT'S when you realize that you forgot to consider the sleepless nights, the screaming fits of colic, the puke, the diarrhea etc. in your decision to expand your family, and the grip of the conspiracy weakens. So when those friends come and ask if there will be a third child (and you'll notice that there are considerably LESS of these friends), many are wise enough to say "No way, Jack. I'm not going through that again."

Of course there are families out there with more than 2 children, but this is because those parents have minds like a sieve or they believe the theory that it gets easier after the 2nd child. Run for the hills if anyone tries to sell you that line. There's no way in hell it can be easier with more children. No. Way.

Now don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that everyone who is married regrets their decision, or that everyone with children is miserable and envious of those without. Take me, for example... I'm married and have 2 children. I love my wife and I love being married. Both my kids are great and I wouldn't trade them for anything. I have a pretty good life.

You should try it.

Life Lesson # 15: Tiny Bubbles

2009-03-30T21:02:00.002-04:00

So I discovered during my shower last night that even if you have a full-fledged lather built up in the crack of your ass, your fart will not smell like Irish Spring.

Boy am I ever sorry that gamble didn't pay off.

Stalling for time.

2009-03-10T21:23:00.001-04:00

Why do people bring reading material into the washroom?

Let me tell you something...You're going in there to do a single, specific task. You should be focused on completing that task, not working on a crossword or catching up on market statistics. How can you read if you're squinting and straining anyway??

For those people that say they'll be in there a while, I'd like to know this: why are you in the washroom if the party hasn't started yet? When the gopher is poking his head out of the hole, THAT'S when you make for the stall. Going any earlier is simply a waste of time. It's like a pregnant woman heading to the birthing unit when she reaches the 8-month mark just in case she goes into labour. Pointless. Of course she's going to need some reading material.

And you better not be lingering once the deed is done because that's just gross. Go in. Git'r done. Do the paperwork. Get out.

Just A Guy.

2009-02-18T19:40:00.004-05:00

I'm lonely. I just realized that I may be the only guy in the entire universe to hold a certain unique honour.

Let me tell you something… though it may be hard to fathom, I, Old Man Crowder, appear to be the one and only person in the entire galaxy that does not care about Barack Obama. I just don't get what the big deal is.

He's coming to Ottawa for 6 hours tomorrow but his presence is effectively closing down the entire city for the whole day. Road closures, detours, air space closure, airport restrictions, transit changes, removal of curb-side garbage cans and mail boxes, covering over visible graffiti and homeless people. TV and radio have been blathering on about the arrival for nearly 2 weeks! All for just a guy.

Throngs of people braving wind, snow and cold for hours, wearing specially made t-shirts, waving American flags, eating specially prepared Obama Beaver Tails -- all in an effort to catch a fleeting glimpse of the new president. He's just a guy.

Hey, if the American people want to fall at his feet and burst into screaming hysterics reminiscent of the Beatles' arrival, then so be it. He's their leader. But I really have a hard time understanding the rationale behind idiots from around the world going positively apeshit about how incredible he is and how fantastic he'll be for the world; like he's Jesus in a motorcade. WHY?? They're not even American! And he's just a guy.

He's been in office for, what, a month? Certainly not enough time to determine how influential his policies are, how adept he is at his position or whether he really lives up to all the hype that has been generated so far. Sure, it's going to be tough to be as comedically bad as the previous president, but don't you think people should give it some time before pronouncing him as the greatest American since David Beckham or Wayne Gretzky? He's just the new guy.

And he's getting on my nerves. His arrival inconveniences me. His face inundates my TV. His name is all over my radio. He's invading my life, I can't get away from him and I don't like it.

Come on, people. Yes, he is the President of the United States, but he's just as human as anyone else.

And he is just a guy.

Tearing a Strip(per) Off

2009-01-09T20:03:00.002-05:00

In this world there are a lot of things that people argue and fight about. Politics, religion, money, the utility of Paris Hilton. But there is one topic that I've come to discover that is particularly divisive: Strippers.

You can call it what you want -- the ballet, the peelers, exotic dancers, a gentleman's club -- but it all comes down to the same thing: girls taking their clothes off. And let me tell you something… there's nothing wrong with it.

Now, I'm a far cry from being the Norm Peterson of strip clubs -- where everybody knows my name -- but I've been to my share so I figure that makes me just enough of an expert to tell you how it is.

First off, I can tell you that most guys will agree that once you've seen one set of boobs, you want to see them all. No four are alike. You girls should consider yourselves privileged to have such fascinating parts. I know I would. Look at it this way… Guys want so badly to see as many naked women as they can that they're willing to pay a $10 cover, $9 for a beer and fork over the rest of the rent money to see them. Is that not flattering?

And just because a guy is no longer a bachelor, doesn't mean his quest for the breast is over. It just means he's guaranteed a peek at the perkies on a more frequent (and much less expensive) basis. Being married means you've vowed not to love (or sleep with) any other. There's nothing in the vows that says he can't look at other women, regardless of their state of undress.

Secondly, not all strip clubs are the same. There are establishments that are more upscale than others. And I know that sounds like saying "I read 'Gang Bang Goth Girls' for the articles". But it's true. Both statements.

The high-class places are easily recognizable by the conspicuous lack of Harleys in the parking lot. Yes, there are dancers on a stage and naked girls wandering the floor, but they all have their original teeth. And there are no bullet holes in the wall. Of course, on the flip side, there are houses of ill-repute that resemble the club from the movie From Dusk Till Dawn. The girls tend to be...how shall I put it?... old and scary.

But to make a broad-brush statement, classifying all strip clubs as filthy smut houses is simply untrue. And it's unfair to the clean smut houses. In fact, it tends to be the seedier joints that provide the most educational experiences.

Mini Life Lesson # 1: if you hear "Dude Looks Like a Lady" start to play, you'd best be heading home. Don't invite "her" over to your table unless you're looking for a rather innovative stir stick for your drink.

Mini Life Lesson # 2: when the Romanian girl who just arrived in the country that afternoon with virtually zero English says to you "Want come with?", don't assume she means "would you like to walk with me?" A little clarification will avoid an extremely awkward moment.

Another misconception is that the girls are just air-headed bimbos and/or prostitutes and/or druggies. Some aren't. For some girls, this is a serious business; a stepping stone to get them to Hollywood or Lord of the Dance. Take Nikki Reed, for example. She was "just" a poor stripper at The Bayou, trying to find her place in the world until she was discovered by Victor Newman. It wasn't long before she became one of the most powerful and respected business women in all of Genoa City. She wasn't stupid. Just young and restless.

And it takes courage to get up on that stage in front of all those strangers and take your clothes off. From what I remember, it takes at least 5 beers and 3 whiskey shots for a girl to peel down to your Spiderman boxers. Um...I mean…down to her G-string.

Listen…Yes, there are some disgusting places with skanky 'hos masquerading as exotic dancers. But many are simply places where guys can go to watch the game on the big screen and the stripping is secondary and barely noticed. (I was going to say 'hardly' noticed, but thought 'barely' was the lesser of the two unintentional puns). Sports, beer and naked women all in the same room -- that's called Man Heaven. Lookie lookie, no touchie touchie. It's just harmless entertainment.

Don't knock the naked knockers until you've danced 3 songs in their stilettos.

Dog Bites.

2008-10-15T20:44:00.002-04:00

Lassie. Petey. Hooch. Mr. Mugs. Bingo.

All famous dogs from different eras and different genres. But in the end, they're all just noisy, smelly, disgusting creatures for which I have little time or patience.

Yes, I'm probably going to take some heat from you dog lovers out there, but let me tell you something… you people can go hump a stump. The only thing that might come close to being as annoying as dogs would have to be their smug, self-righteous owners. You're right up there with SUV drivers. I realize I'm making broad-brush stereotyping statements, but if you're bothered by that fact, then you must be new here.

Dogs are simply an assault on the senses and I really can't think of any good use for them, other than providing the occasional comic relief in a Foghorn Leghorn cartoon.

Sight -- Forget about all those cutsie puppy pictures with their big brown eyes or the orchestrated poses in a hat and sunglasses. Forget about the stupid dog show dogs that have had the time, money and attention given to them that orphaned children can barely dream about. Those aren't even real dogs. Real dogs are the ones that come barrelling at you from out of the bog, fur all dripping and matted with slime and mud just pleased as punch to launch themselves upon you as a means of saying hello, while their owners are only a quarter mile away yelling "don't worry, he won't bite!" I'm sorry, but you can't explain that to a 4-year old. This is the equivalent to having a moose charge at you from out of the swamp while the owner yells from across the pond "don't worry". Coming eye to eye with a huge, slobbery creature is scary as hell. You can't tell me you wouldn't shit yourself.

Sound -- Oh my God, the nonstop and usually pointless barking/yapping/howling is enough to drive an old man nuttier than a fruit bat. Why must they bark at the most inopportune times? I'd love to sit in my back yard with a beer and watch my dandelions and crabgrass grow in peace and quiet, but ol' Rover down the street saw his reflection in his water dish and is going into cerebral apoplexy trying to get it to play with him. Owners, here's an idea: when your mutt has been barking incessantly for the past 90 minutes, perhaps you'd be willing to try something other than screaming "ROVER! STOP IT!". It obviously doesn't work and you're only adding to my noise pollution. How about bringing the dog inside? What's that, you say? You can't bring him inside because he won't stop barking and it's too disturbing? No shih tzu! Better to have him bark his head off outside and bother the neighbourhood, than actually take responsibility for your pet and attend to whatever's bothering him.

Smell -- Dogs stink. Plain and simple. Oh sure, you can give them a bath with all the lavender and tea-tree oil you can find, but guaranteed within 48 hours they'll be as rotten as gorgonzola cheese in a jock strap. Few smells are more uniquely offensive than that of a wet dog, and once its on your hands and clothes, it sure is a bitch-in-heat to get rid of. When is someone going to invent a deoderant for dogs?

Oh, and for the love of crap stop sniffing my crotch already! Man, if I could fart on command, I'd give ol' Scooby a nasal snack...

Taste -- Most of us will never have the opportunity to actually taste a dog unless you're into travelling the back streets of Southeast Asia. So for this section, I'd like to spend a few moments pondering what humans taste like. We must be yummy because how else do you explain why dogs insist on licking us all the time? Many owners will be quick to tell you that a dog's mouth is actually cleaner than a human's. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Any animal that licks its own ass, sniffs other animals' asses, drinks from a toilet and eats practically anything from off the ground will NOT have a cleaner mouth than me. These people that allow their dog to lick their teeth are just sick.

Touch -- Dogs have soft hair. Or fur. Whatever. At least most of them do, so that's not really my beef. My problem is going over to someone's house, spending 15 minutes there and then leaving looking like I'm wearing a hair shirt. It doesn't matter whether you've got a woolly mammoth sheep dog or nearly-naked chihuahua -- if it has hair, it's going to shed. And it's going to stick to my socks, pants and shirt for the next 4 weeks (along with the smell, don't forget), regardless of how many times I vacuum or wash or vacuum the wash.

And what is with the nails? Dogs don't climb trees, so why must they have nails like eagle talons? He's not hunting prey for cryin' out loud. Do you people enjoy refinishing your hardwood floors every year? Trim his nails!

There may be some upsides to owning a dog, but after considering all the feeding required, the steaming piles of gag-inducing shit to clean up and dealing with the "midnight music" (the Huck...Huck…Hyaaackkk!! as Fido recycles his dinner onto your carpet in the middle of the night), you might as well just have kids. They may not be as loyal or as trustworthy a companion as a dog, but at least the odds of you having your face chewed off are somewhat reduced.

Upselling? Up Yours.

2008-08-12T20:01:00.003-04:00

I'm sick and tired.

I'm sick of the unending sales pitches we all must endure in this consumer-crazed society. I'm tired of people trying to sell me things - especially when I have zero interest in what they're pitching. And what's worse is that they come at you with all the subtlety of a 1960s-era door-to-door vacuum salesman jamming his foot into your doorway after you've said 'no' twice already.

You run into a convenience store to buy milk -- and nothing else. You place your purchase on the counter, money in hand, and then the clerk says: "Do you want a lottery ticket today?"

This is upselling and it has become a business-world obsession. One of these days I'm just going to lose it on the guy at the cash. I know it's not his fault. He doesn't make the store's policy. But this is a major pet peeve of mine (yes, I have a few) and poor Habib just happens to be on the front lines.

Let me tell you something...I'm already patronizing your business by being here. If I wanted any other product, I'd ask for it. Don't insult me with your transparent upselling. Just give me my goddamned change already.

Oh sure, I understand the rationale of the technique. I'll bet that one quarter of the people asked if they "want a lottery ticket today," will buy one. Lottery tickets, a couple of chocolate bars, a newspaper and a chapstick. All of a sudden, my $5 milk run turns into $10 worth of crap. And Captain Corporation is happy.

Did you ever notice that when you go to a fast-food joint, the zitty wiener behind the counter will ask you, "Would you like Coke with that?" Obviously that's a contract clause Coke has hammered out with the organization.

I read a statistic that claimed 9 out of 10 people when asked, "Do you want a Coke?" will order one. Score one for Coke, eh? (Actually, score nine)

The other infuriating tactic at fast-food places is the line: "Will that be all?"

Oh for the love of God!! If I wanted something else, don't you think I'm smart enough to ask for it? Just go get my frickin' Happy Meal before I leap over the counter claw your eyes out!"

Can you imagine how frustrating it would be if the conversation were to go like this?:

"Can I take your order?"
"I'd like a Big Mac."
"Will that be all?"
"And I'd like fries."
"Will that be all?"
"And I'd like a Coke."
"Will that be all?"
"And an apple pie."
"Will that be all?"

You'd be there for a bloody hour placing your order for entire family!

Again, I can't blame the staffers who are commanded to endlessly repeat the mindless upselling mantras. I blame their stupid corporate slave drivers.

Upselling is everywhere and it just never stops.

I can't count the number times I have been badgered to buy insurance, credit cards and other financial products from my own bank. The greedy, money-sucking bastard of a bank already has all my money AND they own my house AND both of my cars! And now they want more??

Just last week, I got a letter from them and the headline is: "Authorization needed to activate your benefits." Inside there's a bold headline: "Second Notification" - something like you'd get if you were late making a payment. But it's simply another pitch to herd me into buying accidental death insurance from them. The bigawesomefabulous deal they offer for free is a whopping $1,000 of it "for up to 10 years." Wow! How impressive! I better return this form right away. Thanks for letting me know, Bank of a Billion-Dollar Profits.

It really pisses me off that I'm required to give a heap of personal information to a bank and then the officials there abuse it by trying to sell me things I don't want.

I know who you are. I know what you do. If I have any questions, I'll contact you. I think I'll make that my protest chant.

So, what do we do? My first suggestion would be urinating on the cash register, but I suppose a more appropriate course of action might be to calmly and politely say something like: "I don't appreciate being asked that question. Could you please tell your senior managers that I find these upselling questions offensive and you will lose me as a customer?"

The only way to battle the constant pitch is to bitch. Do it politely (if you must), but firmly. If that doesn't work, then try the peeing thing.

Can I sell you on that approach?

(with thanks to Kerry Diotte)

Still kickin' (back)

2008-08-07T20:43:00.002-04:00

It's been almost 3 months since my last post.

Wow.

Feels like it's been 3 years.

Nothing to rant about, I guess. Life is good.

Philanthropy By Proxy

2008-05-29T23:03:00.003-04:00

So this is how I was greeted upon arriving at the office today:
"Hey, OMC! My son is participating in a dragon boat race, so I'm looking for donations on his behalf."

Let me tell you something… You and your kid suck. Screw off.

It seems I can't go more than a few days without encountering somebody at work looking for money to send their kid on a field trip or raise money for their school or whatever other cause-of-the-day they can dream up.

Tell me… when the hell did kids become SO LAZY that they can no longer do their own bloody fundraising? When I was a kid, we had a couple of fundraising activities each year, but regardless of the weather, I went door-to-door looking for donations and then would go back to those same houses to deliver the goods!

Which raises another issue… If you're asking me for money without so much as a measly chocolate bar in return, that's called begging. Believe me, you stand a better chance of getting my loose change if you were to lay down on the sidewalk beside One Shoe Willie with a cardboard sign and a rusty tin can.

We used to raise money by selling cheese. It came in 2, 5 and 10-pound blocks, and I hauled my ass and wagon filled with 100-plus pounds of wholesome dairy goodness all over my neighbourhood. It never even occurred to me to have my parents do all the legwork for me!

Are today's kids so completely bubble-wrapped from society's realities that they can't handle the rejection of old Mrs. Baker actually saying "No thanks, Jimmy. Not this time."?

Would the combination of physical and mental exertion be simply overwhelming for these pallid, X-Box junkie, basement dwellers that they would inevitably soil themselves at the very thought of actual human interaction?

"But it's so my Jimmy can go to chess camp." He wants to go? HE should raise the money. EARN IT!! Don't get your frickin' mom or dad to corner me in the lunchroom in hopes of chipping in a couple bucks. Do you honestly think I care if your loser kid goes to camp or not?

I'm frequently hit-up for donations for schools in order to buy books, supplies, science equipment, or the creation of a second level to the preschool parking garage. I already pay taxes to a designated school board. It's not my fault that 70% of that money goes toward the hefty trustee salaries and their granite and stainless steel headquarters building, rather than directly to the schools. So what makes you think I'd be okay giving MORE of my hard-earned pennies to a school that I've never heard of and my kids will never even encounter through intramural soccer? Get lost!

You know what the clincher is? Dragon Boat Kid is 23 goddamned years old, plays minor league lacrosse and has a job of his own!! Are you kidding me?? I'm wondering if Dear Old Dad could see the throbbing vein in my forehead.

And that's where I see the trouble with parents and kids today: the kids have become so accustomed to having someone cater to and for them and the parents are so totally complacent in doing so that it has become a neverending cycle of expectation between them.

Both my kids will be entering school in the not-so-distant future and I can only imagine how often we'll be bombarded with requests for donations for various activities. I can assure you that they will be going door to door and/or will be doing extra work around the house in order to pay for their chess camp experiences. Either that, or they can grab a tin can and a piece of cardboard and head for downtown.

Unloading Some Baggage

2008-05-16T20:17:00.002-04:00

Although far from what I would consider a world-traveller, I can say that I've done my fair share of air travel for both business and pleasure.

What is it about travelling to a different city or country that causes people who, I'm sure, are "regular, ordinary people" to transform into complete imbeciles as soon as they get on a plane? It's to the point, now, that I'm starting to wonder if we shouldn't have a 3rd passenger class, in addition to Business and Coach: Dumbass.

So let me tell you something… Not having ever travelled in first class, I can't speak to the clientele that occupy those seats. However back in coach, there are just too many idiots and inconsiderate clods. They either need to be screened out before boarding or relegated to their own separate section of the aircraft.

In virtually every component of air travel, there is at least one moron making life unpleasant for me and for people around them. Some examples:

1. Security Rookies -- This is the guy who, despite appearing to be a CEO of a major international corporation has, based on his actions, actually NEVER travelled before. The metal detector goes off no mater how many times he's instructed to remove ALL OBJECTS from his pockets. Doesn't open up his laptop. Forgets about his Gucci watch. And then, to top it off, attempts to explain the mysterious bottle of liquid tucked into his jacket pocket.

2. Line-up Losers -- "Attention passengers of Flight 123 to Sometown. We will be boarding by row number. Those seated in rows 20 and higher, you may now board the plane. Thank you" Translation: "The Gate doors are open! Every single person within earshot of this message, please rush up to the agent's desk and mill around so that the boarding process is one big clusterfuck. Thank you." Listen, folks. The plane is not going to leave without you, so relax and back the hell away from the gate.

3a. Seatbelt Jumpers (take-off class) -- By the time the captain has switched off the seatbelt sign, it's been, what?, 20 or 30 minutes since we boarded? I want to know what collective bladder problem the 15 people have who immediately jump up and make a mad dash for the crapper the instant the seatbelt sign is off. Why don't you people take a leak BEFORE you get on the plane? Why can't you hold your pee for more than an hour? What's the matter with you??

3b. Seatbelt Jumpers (landing class) -- These are the folks that have been confined to their seats again for an unbearable 20 or so minutes while the plane lands and taxis to the terminal. The "bing!" of the seatbelt indicator is still ringing in my ears when seemingly the entire plane leaps out of their seats in order to stand in the aisle. Will this get the plane connected to the terminal faster? NO! Will it mean getting off the plane and into the airport faster? YES! But only by 27 seconds. HEY! Sit the hell down until it's your turn to get off. I'm sick of having your wedgied ass waggling inches from my face.

4. Grabbers -- Man, oh man, there are thousands of these people out there. You know the kind. They insist on a window seat but have the bladder control of a 2 year-old and must constantly clamber out of their seat, grabbing onto the headrests in front of them. But hey, who doesn't mind being woken up, having their head bounced, hair pulled or drink spilled because the 300 pound gorilla behind them has absolutely no sense of balance or common courtesy to lean on their own row of seats?

And while I'm on a rant about travelling, I'd like to toss a few grenades at the hotel industry.

If I'm expected to pay several hundred dollars per night for just a shower, a toilet, a bed and a TV, then I don't think it's out of line to make a few small requests.

First off, is it really necessary to charge me $3.50 for a bottle of water? And similarly, why does room service breakfast cost me $15 but all it gets me is a coffee, muffin and a tablespoon of fruit? I can understand paying a little extra for the fact that someone has to bring it to my room, but seriously… I bet it takes no longer than 10 minutes for the monkey in a suit to bring the tray from the kitchen to my room. That $15 works out to $90 an hour! Seems a little bit like…oh, I don't know… gouging, perhaps?

Secondly, I like a good shower as much as anyone. But after being cooped up on a plane for any number of hours and then stuffing myself into the rotting back seat of Habib's taxi and manure delivery van, more often than not, by the end of the day I have developed a bit of a funky odour and the little wafer-thin frou-frou soaps just don't cut it. And I'd really rather not attend my business meeting smelling like citrus, lavender and a summer rain. Based on my reservation, you KNOW that I'm a male, and you KNOW I'm travelling alone, so for cryin' out loud can you PLEASE give me a real bar of soap and some Head & Shoulders?

Or maybe that's how hotels have solved their toiletry theft problem. Nobody wants to steal the frilly, no-name, bottle of chemicals they call shampoo anymore.

Bah! Maybe I'm better off just sitting on my porch, yelling at the neighbourhood kids.

Can't We All Just Get Along?

2008-04-17T21:39:00.002-04:00

I'm hoping someone out there can explain something to me. If I were ever to join a gym, I, as a male, would be allowed only to attend a co-ed facility and do my showering and changing in the men's changeroom.

Similarly, all women are required to change and shower in the women's changeroom.

Why is that, I wonder? Why are the sexes segregated? I presume it's because women don't want men ogling them, walking around, sporting mini towel racks. Or because men don't want gaggles of women snickering behind their hands while stealing admiring or admonishing glances at said mini towel racks.

Makes sense to me, I suppose. But let me tell you something... I think this system is severely flawed. With more and more folks finding the courage to come out of the closet, the laws of statistics dictate that in any changeroom, at any time, there will be at least a few people who have rainbow bumper stickers.

A gay man, walking amongst a pile of naked, sweaty (or freshly showered) men... Is that not akin to a heterosexual man walking amongst naked women? Same for the women, although I suppose it might be a bit more difficult to spot the aroused one.

Obviously, we can't make a rule that states: whatever sex you're attracted to, you must go to the other changeroom, because then we'd have lesbians walking around the men's changeroom and therefore, hundreds of men taking all-too-lengthy, yet frosty-cold showers.

So how do we address this issue? Is it even an issue at all? Is everybody okay with the fact that some guy or girl sitting next to them in the sauna might be checking them out? Is it fair that some folks get to see the naked bodies of people they're attracted to, while others don't? Should we get rid of the 2 changeroom system, in favour of a single, all-access room?

Too many questions. Too apathetic to pursue this much further, really.

Go Green by Blacking Out.

2008-03-29T13:40:00.002-04:00

It's Earth Hour at 8pm tonight.

Turn your lights out, or I'll punch 'em out.

The earth thanks you, and I thank you.

Of Fences, Nomads And 3 Year-Olds

2008-03-28T19:46:00.002-04:00

"Settle down."
"Sit still for a minute."
"You don't need that. "

These are phrases I repeat, ad nauseum, to my perpetually spastic 3 year old. But I'm starting to realize that perhaps I should be offering such sentiments to my neighbours as well.

We moved into our new house a little over 2 years ago in order to accommodate the growing family. Since then, of the 11 houses I can see over the 180-degree span out my front door, 8 have been or are currently for sale. And this doesn't include the 6 additional For Sale signs I pass everyday on my 400-yard drive out to the main road.

I'm starting to wonder if my house is giving off an odour or something, causing everyone around me to leave. If that's not the case, then what is it? What is the matter with people?

I believe that this is a world-wide phenomenon that has somehow become entrenched into our culture. And not only is it sad, but it's also frustrating, expensive and self-perpetuating.

Everyone is forever in a rush for something more. Something bigger. Something better. Always something else. And the flipping of a house is just one of a multitude of today's 'disposables'.

How did we get to such a state whereby you have to have the biggest and the best of everything lest you be branded a bump in the road to be flattened by society's steamroller of consumption and progress?

Don't like something? Get rid of it. Get something new! You deserve it! New clothes. New toys. A new car. A new job. A new spouse.

And why do we blindly accept the justifications we tell ourselves for doing so? For example, one neighbour claims he has to sell their house in order to help pay off the debts they incurred while adopting a baby. Great idea, except when you step back and notice that he just bought a brand new SUV, and will be putting in a PVC fence before moving to a temporary house while his new "permanent" house is being constructed -- most likely bigger and farther from the city than his current house. Oh yeah. Makes PERFECT sense to me.

I want to get to know my neighbours. I want to have them over for BBQs, or to play cards. But why bother? They're just going to move away soon, never to be heard from again. So instead of having that friendly sense of community, I withdraw to my own backyard, to hide behind the over-priced and divisive fenceline (literal and metaphorical) that everyone rushed to put up as soon as the moving van pulled away.

I once thought that nomadic cultures had long been relegated to the depths of Africa or the farthest reaches of the Arctic regions, but I now know that that lifestyle is alive and thriving -- right here in good ol' suburbia.

Let me tell you something...You can spend your life continually fence-hopping, chasing rainbows and greener pastures -- only to succeed in exhausting and alienating yourself. Or you can stay put and patiently wait for the greener grass to come to you.

Settle down.

Sit still for a minute.

You don't need that.

"I (would) Love The Smell Of Napalm In The Morning!"

2008-02-15T19:53:00.002-05:00

You film buffs out there may recognize that line from the movie Apocalypse Now. I believe it was a wacked-out Robert Duvall who uttered the famous line as he was dropping bombs all over the jungle. In the film, his character was excited about barbecuing his enemies and couldn't care less about the horrible destruction that his napalm bombs were causing to the rainforest, animals or innocent villagers.

Let me tell you something...I think I know how he feels. Allow me to elaborate.

As many of you know, I live in Canada. This, of course, means that I am inundated with daily snowstorms and brass-monkey-ball-freezing temperatures 8 to 10 months of the year. My morning ritual consists of getting out of bed, scratching, eating a bowl of cereal and then bundling up like the Michelin Man Ninja to go outside and shovel the 2 feet of snow that has fallen overnight -- seemingly only on MY driveway. And a big shout-out goes to my friendly neighbourhood snowplow driver for adding an extra half-tonne to the end of the driveway, just to ensure that my coronary completely kills me, rather than leaving me only temporarily incapacitated. Then I go inside, grab a cup of coffee and dial 911.

This is my routine almost every morning. And judging by the number of other guys outside with me at 6am, they have a very similar routine; though I am quite certain that they have much less snow to clear since they're usually finished long before me. Or maybe their cardiopulmonary systems just give out sooner than mine.

Such is the life of a Canadian homeowner in the winter. Most of us just grin and bear it. We choose to live here, so suck it up and shovel. For my part, I try to enjoy the quiet, early-morning darkness (in between starry dizzy spells) and I would love to inhale the crisp, clean air, delivered by a cryogenic strength, nostril-numbing breeze --- if it weren't for my neighbour 2 doors down.

You see, Mr. Spaghetti, as we'll call him, is quite fond of his cigars. Yes, even at 6am, he's puffing away on Castro's Cancer Log, and of course the prevailing wind is always blowing in my direction. Yummmm!! Nicotine, juice and toast! Part of a nutritious breakfast!

On a good day, I end up laying on the asphalt, clutching my chest, trying to get just a whisp of breath into my lungs. My back aches. I have blisters on my blisters. My heart is pounding so hard, I can see its outline through my coat. And now, thanks to Mr. Spaghetti, I'm smothered in the stench of stogie, trying not to vomit my Raisin Bran all over the road.

I don't like shovelling snow, but since it is one of Canada's 4 Life Certainties (death, taxes, a crap government and snow), I would prefer to have it be as relatively painless as possible and not have to worry about smelling like a Quebec bar on Saturday night.

I hate this guy.

And I would like someone to drop a bit of napalm on his house. I'm sure it would smell better than his cigars.

Evolution Can Save Water

2008-02-11T19:48:00.000-05:00

Did you know that there are more than 20 different bird species that do not fly? Why do these animals exist, then? Isn't it a bit like having fish that can't breathe under water?

So here's a thought…If flying is not necessarily required for the survival of the species, then is it possible that the flightless birds are actually the more advanced of all types? In which case…perhaps in time there won't be any birds in the skies!

Let me tell you something…If there weren't so many birds in the air, I wouldn't have to wash my car so damned often. And I thank God ostriches don't fly.

Men and Long Hair: I Vote "Neigh".

2008-02-11T19:45:00.000-05:00

Can someone explain to me what the deal is with guys and ponytails?

It's bad enough that they have long, gender-confusing hair to begin with, let alone have to put it in a stupid ponytail, too. Do these guys love themselves SO MUCH that growing more hair will mean there's more for them to love? Just how big is that ego, anyway?

Why does anyone put hair into a ponytail? Because it keeps the hair out of their face, under control and more manageable. Know another way we could accomplish that? By having short hair!!

And if having a girlie ponytail is so cool for the guys, why, then, do we rarely see braids on a dude? Or pigtails? (Thank you, Willie Nelson, for bringing us the braided pigtail combo).

Those of you who suggest that hairstyles are neither exclusively "male" nor exclusively "female" need to explain to me why no guy wears Princess Leia buns. Some things are best left to the chicks.

Let me tell you something, fellas…Wearing a ponytail does not make you a stud. But it does make you look like a horse's ass.

PS: This is my 100th post. Just in case anyone is counting.

Life Lesson #15: Embarassment, Thy Name is Porn.

2008-01-11T19:47:00.000-05:00

Friday night finally rolled around, and after a gruelling week at work I was really looking forward to a quiet evening at home alone. And what better way to unwind than to rent a couple of movies and just relax for the evening?

As with all of my Life Lessons, you can probably guess that our hapless hero is about to get into trouble. Even in seemingly inocuous situations such as this, you can bet I'll find a way to send it all to hell.

For my viewing pleasure I had selected two movies. The first was a guy's version of a chick-flick: Aliens. Hey, it had Sigourney Weaver and she's a chick (although barely). My second selection was, shall we say, "a gentleman's film from behind the beaded curtain", if ya know what I mean.

Arriving back at my apartment building, I tucked the movies under my arm before stepping onto the elevator. Wouldn't you know it, but just before the doors closed, in jumps MaryAnne* the "Everybody's My Friend!" neighbour from two floors down. You know the kind… This is the girl that is perpetually perky, nothing can ever go wrong in her world and it doesn't phase her to mindlessly ramble on about nothing to complete strangers. (Yes, much the same as blogging, I suppose).

Her: Hi there! Nice day, eh?
Me: (Crud. Here we go.) Yup.
Her: I'm so glad it's Friday. I'm SO looking forward to the weekend!
Me: (Great. Shut up, Chatty Cathy, and leave me alone. Don't you know elevator protocol? NO TALKING!) Yeah, me too.
Her: Hey, whatcha got there? Movies?
Me: (Aw shit. Why don't you mind your own business?) Uh, yep.
Her: Neat. What did you get?
Me: (Oh no!) Aliens.
Her: And the other one?
Me: (Ohshitohshitohshit. THINK!) Uh…um…Just a... Um...Mel Gibson movie for my girlfriend. (Nice save, idiot.)
Her: I love Mel Gibson! I've seen all his movies. Which one did you get?
Me: (IS THIS THE SLOWEST GODDAMNED ELEVATOR ON THE PLANET OR WHAT???) Ummm… Oh, uh… I don't know. Uh… (blank)

At this point, I know I'm completely screwed. Who rents a movie, knows the lead actor, but doesn't know the title? Not only that, but I was turning over the non-descript case in my hands, as if palm sweat would miraculously cause a title to appear. Supposedly, all I had to do was open it up and look at the title on the actual cassette!

Finally, my brain finally decided to engage and I managed to blurt out "Braveheart!". But it was too late. Seeing through my big, stupid grin, MaryAnne had been giving me a quizzical look, but all of a sudden I could see the dawning of comprehension wash over her face.

Mercifully, the elevator arrived at her floor, and as she stepped off, she turned to me and said: "Enjoy your movies."

And then winked.

The moral of today's story, kids, is quite obvious: Always take the stairs.

Looking back on this incident, I'm wondering if the elevator ride would have been any more less uncomfortable had I, instead of attemping a cover-up, just been completely honest about my movie selections and told her "Aliens, and Naughty Nympho Nurses"?

*MaryAnne may or may not be her real name. I can't remember.

Right Rights and Wrong Rights

2008-01-04T19:48:00.000-05:00

Everybody has rights. That bugs me, because certainly not everybody deserves to have rights. But because we live in a so-called democratic society where everyone is supposed to be equal and can do as they bloody-well please, we all have to acknowledge and account for everyone's rights.

Let me tell you something…When I get to be king of the world, there are going to be some new rules. One of those rules will be "ALMOST everybody has rights."

Some examples of people who would have zero, or a very limited number of rights:

Prostitutes -- Sure, it's the world's oldest profession and it can be argued that these people are providing a community service, but last time I checked, selling sex for money and/or drugs was against the law. So when hookers start crying and complaining about how unsafe the streets are and that they need protection from stalkers, pimps and malicious tricks, my response will be exaggerated eye-rolling. Sorry, my friend. You can't criticize the way we police our streets or make demands on how we should spend our city's resources. You're a prostitute! Get thee to a jail!

Druggies -- My own city is currently in a heated, yet completely useless, debate about whether or not to provide free crack pipes and syringes to addicts. Some medical genius claims that it would reduce needle sharing and thereby reduce the spread of AIDS, Hepatitis and other diseases. Again…as I understand it, using drugs is against the law! Why should my tax dollars go to support somebody's illegal habits? Hey, here's an idea: How about we provide free AIDS and Hepatitis, thereby reducing the number of druggies?

Adult Criminals -- These are the worst complainers about their rights being infringed upon. "I want to vote from my cell! It's too cold in my cell! I don't want to take a shit in front of 4 other guys!" Boo frickin hoo. If your crime was serious enough to land you in prison, then you have effectively forfeited most of your rights, as far as I'm concerned. You get shelter, clothing, food and water -- the necessities for survival -- which is more than your murdered victims get. You don't get video games, you don't get house plants, you don't get theatre tickets. This isn't a resort. So get back to your cell, sit down on your bunk and shut the hell up until your sentence is finished.

Young Offenders -- We bend over backwards to help these societal misfits by using such fabulously dumb approaches as reduced sentences, rehabilitation programs and even by protecting their identities. Why do we need to withhold their names from the media? Because it's their 'right'? PUH-LEASE!! Tell me...What's the worst thing in the world for a teenager? Public and peer humiliation. If they commit a crime, we should be broadcasting their identities coast to coast! Shame them into going straight. The "hug-a-thug" approach doesn't seem to be working.

My ideas, while undoubtedly flawless and completely feasible, have never been, and likely never will be, implemented by our society for the simple fact that hookers, junkies and hoodlums pose a formidable lobby organization. Make any motion towards changing people's rights, and there will be outcry the likes of which no self-respecting politician could ignore.

So I guess if everyone else is going to complain about their rights, their lack of rights and/or how someone has intruded on their precious rights, then I might as well jump on the bandwagon, too.

What about my right to live an idiot-free life?!

Idle Chat

2008-01-03T19:47:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year, boys and girls!

I don't know if you remember me or not. Hell, there are some days I don't even remember me. Took a bit of a leave of absence, but I think I'm ready to come back. At least until the Metamucil kicks in.

Let me tell you something...I'd like to start off the year with a positive story -- just for something a little different. My fine city has finally passed a bylaw prohibiting the unnecessary idling of vehicles. Of course, as with any piece of legislation, there are loop-holes as big as Kanye West's ego, but the very fact that there is a law is good news to me. The great part about this bylaw is that people are encouraged to phone the city if they see an instance of unnecessary idling. The city will then send a bylaw enforcement officer (hopefully within six to eight weeks) to speak to the offending person and provide them with some education materials about the pitfalls of idling.

It's too bad that the "education materials" will be pamphlets, rather than a baseball bat to the windshield and/or solar plexus.

So, because I really have nothing better to do, other than trying to save the planet, I will be ratting on most of the people in my neighbourhood who still believe that letting their car, van or Oversized Special Edition Gold Plated Fuel-Suckin' SUV Land-Yacht idle for 20 or 30 minutes will actually warm it up.

So what's so great about being the local squealer? The benefit comes not simply from being a good citizen and environmental steward (what some might call an eco-terrorist), but moreso from the fact that I can now affect change in behaviours from the comfort of my own home. Up to now I was forced to bundle up in my bodice-hugging cat-burglar suit and sneak out in the freezing cold under the cover of darkness to stuff potatoes into the offending tailpipes and then stand back and watch everyone scratch their heads as their vehicle continually stalls out the next morning!

It can't be simply a coincidence that the United Nations has just declared 2008 to be the Year of the Potato. As well, according to the Chinese, 2008 is the Year of the Rat.

It's fate, I tell ya! We're destined to reduce our polluting ways!

So Much Fun, I'd Rather Stay Home.

2007-09-17T20:46:00.000-04:00

The summer is fast coming to a close and with it come the signs of the autumn season. Flocks of Canada geese heading south, incessantly honking overhead and crapping all over the golf courses when they stop to rest. Forests of leaves of vibrant colours, falling gently to the ground and eventually all finding their way to my yard. Crisp mornings with just enough frost on my walkway to cause me slip and twist an ankle.

Let me tell you something…Despite all of these tell-tale signs of fall, there is one phenomenon that is undeniably a harbinger of the change in season: The Fall Fair. Call it what you will…Fall Fair, County Fair or Community Fall Festival Celebration of Which Hillbilly Has the Biggest Pumpkin…it all boils down to the same thing: these events are not for the faint of heart.

Blaring music, roaring rides, screaming kids, flashing lights, blurring colours, warped mirrors and a myriad of smells from popcorn to puke -- it's such a cacophony for the senses that even Lewis Carroll would be nauseated.

If you think your family is dysfunctional, all you need to do is head to the fair to check out some of the locals and I can almost guarantee that you'll return home thinking "You know what? We ain't so bad!" It just seems that the folks normally found paddling around the shallow end of the gene pool come out to wander the fairgrounds.

Shirtless men wearing coveralls and manure-caked boots arguing over whether John Deere or Case makes a better corn harvester. Seemingly hundreds of kids (most of whom have some sort of mysterious green-brown stain on their shirts) running every which way while their ample mothers yell after them as though they're practicing for the hog-calling contest.

But it's not just the people that bother me. Perhaps the scariest being ever created is the "carnie" -- I'm referring to a 'carnival employee', rather than 'Carnie Phillips', although she is equally scary. Where do these people come from? And why do they all smell like a mix of Aqua Velva and desperation?

Think about it…Have you ever gone to a fair and seen an attractive carnie? Every one of them is an old, chain smoking, dirtbag with no more than 17 teeth. It must be in their job descriptions (not that I believe many of these people are literate) that they be adept at taunting and emasculating the men while pretending not to leer at the women. Carnivals and fairs could make SO much more money if they took more of a Hooters Girls / Oiled Firemen - type approach. I, for one, would be much more susceptible to parting with my hard-earned money if a scantily clad young lady were to coyly suggest I try whacking a mole, as opposed to buck-toothed Billy-Bob grunting "Hey buddy! You man enough?" in between tobacco horks.

And who comes up with some of the side events? Cow patty bingo, for example -- pay some money, pick a square and hope like hell that Bessie takes a dump on it. Can you feel the excitement? Flower shows -- ooh, I'm all a-tingle! I hear Betty-May grew a 3-leaf clover!! Demolition derbies are usually a crowd favourite, and I'll admit that if I can climb down from my environmental ivory tower (faux ivory, of course) for a few moments, I, too, can see the appeal of smashing cars into each other as a means of releasing your road-rage frustrations. After all…these are country-folk who don't have access to the same anger-management outlets as we city-folk do. We have rush-hour.

Some people will suggest that the Fall Fair is an annual event that brings people together for a few evenings of fun and entertainment and creates invaluable memories and family bonding opportunities.

Those people are losers. No wonder they enjoy the fair.

In the Beginning….

2007-08-29T18:59:00.000-04:00

….there was a tennis ball.

So many people have asked me: "How did you become such a crusty old man? What was the turning point to go from care-free, fun-loving, regular guy to grumbling, scowly old curmudgeon?" Okay, so nobody has asked me. But let me tell you something...

The moniker harkens back to the dark ages of 2001. In a futile effort to appear grown-up and responsible, we had just purchased and moved into our first house and I was attempting to ressurect the front lawn. The previous owners had neglected it to the point that it resembled a cross between sub-Saharan scrub-land and a lunar landscape.

Throw down some dirt, toss in some grass seed, water the crap out of it and wait.

The neighbourhood kids, on the other hand, viewed my work-in-progress as more of a road-hockey sand trap and took endless delight in roller-blading into the dirt to hack out the tennis ball that would accidentally (?) and repeatedly land in the yard.

Having been a road-hockey playing kid myself, oh so many years ago, I really didn't want to have to be "that guy" and ruin their fun. However, I was now a tax-paying citizen (or, more expensively, a mortgage-paying citizen) and I had to protect my investment. So I went outside and calmly asked the kids that if the ball goes into my freshly seeded yard that they make every effort not to disturb the area.

And they were cool with that. For about 15 minutes. Kids have memories like a sieve and it wasn't long before they were back at it. I ended up going outside three times in less than 90 minutes and I was quickly losing my 'nice guy' persona. Each time, they apologized and promised to take more care. What I apparently didn't hear them say was "We'll take more care to ensure you're not watching when we sand-wedge your grass seed".

When the game was finished and they had gone home, I went out to assess the damage. My front yard looked like the main road to Kandahar. Grooves, ditches and exploded potholes everywhere…Oh, but what have we here? One of their tennis balls had rolled up near the house and the kids had been afraid to come that close to retrieve it.

Without pause, I took the ball inside, grabbed a steak knife and made a cut half-way through. Not enough to sever the two halves, but big enough to render the ball useless. Then I went back outside and threw it across the street onto the kid's yard.

I had given in to the Dark Side and completed my metamorphosis into Old Man Crowder.

Nowadays, my Old Man persona rears its ugly head at least weekly. I immediately tune out any story that begins with "Man, I was so drunk this weekend…". I believe that every person under the age of 25 is either a criminal or a troublemaker or will be eventually. I roll my eyes and shake my head at anything and everything that does not conform to what I consider to be "the right way to be". Nothing is ever my fault -- it's always someone else.

I didn't ask for this. I didn't want to be this way. It just sort of happened.

Don't blame me. Blame those kids.

Brain Potpourri

2007-08-16T20:09:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you something... I think some people would be a little frightened about what goes on inside my head. Hell, I scare myself sometimes.

It's starting to get a little crowded in there these days, so I figured I should try to shake out some of the more mundane items to make room for the darker, more morbid thoughts.

Here are a few items I'd like to share:

1. We've all seen those cutesy yellow window signs that say "Baby On Board". They were all the rage back in the mid-80s. The problem is, that most of those signs are still afixed to their original window -- 1985 Magic Wagon -- and the babies are now 23 years old. What I fail to understand is how these people believe that by placing the warning sign in their vehicle window other motorists will automatically drive more cautiously near them. "Oh! Don't hit that car! There's a baby in there! Hit something else!"

When I see the Baby-On-Board signs, I actually feel more inclined to hit them. My only excuse -- and I'm sure it would hold up in court -- would be that I wanted to knock it off the window, since there hasn't been a baby in the vehicle in ages. Isn't there some sort of law about falsely warning people?

2. Speaking of vehicles...unless you're living in a cave (hey...BinLaden's doing it, so there must be others) you've heard countless news stories about hybrid vehicles, fuel efficiency and the movement against gas guzzler SUVs. Governments around the world are arguing amongst themselves and with each other over whether or not we need to save the planet, and if so, how to go about doing it without sacrificing their political careers...um...I mean...their economies.

I say we should put a ban on small vehicles and hybrids and bring back the land yachts of the 60s and 70s. Classic fuel-consuming, oil-burning monsters like the Oldsmobile Brougham, Plymouth Superbird and Ford Maverick. That way we can hurry the hell up and finish off the last of our oil reserves and our governments can stop bickering about whether ethanol, hydrogen or their stinkless farts will be the cure-all for the earth and just do something about the damned problem.

3. What happens if you get scared half-to-death twice?

4. Have you ever tried to picture a world without money? No cash, no currency, no nuthin. I think this would be pretty cool. There would be no salaries or wages for employment. This way, you can be sure that everyone would pick a career that they truly enjoy. Need a loaf of bread? Go get one from the guy who loves to bake bread for people. Everything could be a 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours' system. There would be no upper, middle or lower classes of people. No need for lotteries, banks or Dollarama stores. Everyone would be on equal ground. And just think how happier people would be, not having to shell out money every week for kids' allowances or gas for the LandRover or their friendly neighbourhood mugger.

Dreaming in technicolour, I know.

5. Ever wonder where we'd be if Adam and Eve hadn't given in to temptation and just left the damned apple where it was? Would we all walk around naked and be perfectly content and unfazed? Would it be considered risqué to put socks on? Taboo to wear a shirt? Dirty magazines devoted to parkas and sweatpants?

The one thing I know for sure is that there'd be a lot fewer people living in Canada.

Dog Days of Summer

2007-08-02T20:52:00.001-04:00

I couldn't help but smile to myself when I heard the story of a shmuck in Toronto who had left his dog in the car for several hours, with no open windows. With the temperature inside the vehicle apparently over 70 degrees Celcius (roughly 160 F), the poor animal was near death.

When the Humane Society showed up, they immediately smashed the car window, opened the door and got the dog out. A few minutes later, the owner arrives because he hears his car alarm going off and is quickly handcuffed to the vehicle by the Humane Society officer who then resumes his efforts to revive the dog.

Meanwhile, a stranger, from out of the blue, steps up and starts wailin' on the owner, who obviously can't get away or protect himself because of his handcuffs! Now, perhaps the throwing of rocks at the helpless loser was a bit much, but hey...I bet he got the message! By the time the police arrived, the dog owner was battered and bloody and likely begging to be taken away.

Let me tell you something...I'm not necessarily one to condone vigilante justice, but I do believe that there are certain times when a good ass-whoopin' from the general public is completely warranted.

I sincerely hope that when the anonymous individual is charged for assault, as will undoubtedly happen, the police give him a high-five when they do it.

This person was only doing what that poor dog was unable to do.

A Tale of Two Charities

2007-07-18T21:10:00.000-04:00

Pretty much since the invention of cancer, there have been organizations and charities dependent upon the financial kindness of others for their survival. Millions, if not, billions of dollars every year are donated by corporations, governments and hard-working individuals to the thousands of different charities across the country.

Charity # 1. A group called The Philanthropy Club, comprised of a bunch of Richie Rich millionaire investors, decided that they should get together and raise money for a charitable organization by doing what it is they do best: playing the stock market. Each team or individual had to pony up $1 million and then try to maximize their earnings through the market over the course of 11 months. At the end of the year, everybody gets their million dollars back and the return on investment goes to charity. Neat, eh?

In 2006, this group of savvy investors raised an astonishing $1.58 million!! Imagine what a non-profit organization could do with that kind of cash! But where did this money go? Starving children in Africa? Nope. AIDS research? No. Children's Literacy Programs? Not even close.

Allow me to quote from their website:

"Funds raised benefit the insightful non-partisan public policy research of the Canada West Foundation"

Wait a minute…'insightful non-partisan public policy research'? Does that even exist? And what on earth will a bunch of paper-pushers do with all that money? Buy fancier pens and staplers??

Charity #2. I hate weddings. They're too lavish, expensive and wasteful and they bring out the worst in people. At every wedding I've ever been to, the bride and groom hand out little trinket-type gifts to all the guests. A memento of their big day. Something that 90% of the guests will lose, break or throw away within 6 months. One more thing for me to put on a shelf and dust around. Such a waste.

However, once in a while, I attend one that does something just a little different. So imagine my surprise when I was told that in lieu of the traditional dust collector gift, the bride and groom have opted to make a donation on behalf of all of their guests to the Children's Hospital Foundation. If you figure that those little baubles cost about $6 apiece, times roughly 75 couples, that's $450.

You may be asking 'What possible difference could $450, spread across a number of hospitals with multi-million dollar operating budgets, really make? What can they buy? A mere handful of blankets and teddy bears?'

$1.58 million going to help to a bunch of stuffed-shirt policy dorks versus $450 going towards helping ease a child's pain. Let me tell you something…I know who made the bigger donation.

A Perennial Favourite: The Annual Rant.

2007-07-12T20:23:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you something…There is a great, big, honkin elephant standing quietly and complacently in my front garden and for some reason, nobody wants to talk about him. It's not like he's hiding there, or being camouflaged by foliage. He's in my garden, front and centre, for the entire world to see (or perhaps more appropriately: for all the neighbourhood cats to take a crap on).

It's not that he's ferocious or scary, either. In fact, he's so tame that he eats right out of my wallet! And not only that, but I've seen elephants at countless other houses, too!

So what is this elephant of which we dare not speak? It's Latin name is: Biggus Suckyus Conspiratorius. There. I said it. A conspiracy. A conspiracy that has for decades been perpetuated on society by gardeners, landscapers and greenhouses through such devious and underhanded means as marigolds, begonias and the worst of the worst: pansies.

Yes, my friends. That elephant in my garden, and in millions of gardens around the world, is Annual Plants.

"Annual", I believe, comes from an ancient language of spin doctors and combines annu, meaning "of the ass" and al, meaning "all or everyone"; thus "everyone's an ass". A perfect description of the people who buy these plants.

I can't think of any other product in the world where planned obsolescence is so blatantly obvious (except for maybe Ford) and yet people are so willing to turn a blind eye to the fact that they are happily shelling out money, year after year, for stuff that dies in mere months, if not weeks!

I figure this whole thing was a team effort between an gardening expert and an incredibly successful, yet evil, marketing firm (okay, okay…you're right…all marketing firms are evil).

Gardener: "I need to make more money."

Marketing Firm: "You know, people buy your perennials and then you don't see them for years. We need a way to get people to buy more stuff. So…Let's see now….People buy plants when they don't have any, or when the plants they do have die. I've got it!! Let's create a plant that has a shelf-life shorter than Gary Coleman (and his career)! When those plants die, people will come back and buy more!"

Gardener: "But, don't you think people will be pretty upset if we keep selling them plants that die every year? This sounds pretty risky."

Marketing Firm: "Maybe just to try something new, we'll be open and honest with customers. Of course we won't say 'these plants will die every year'; we'll have to dress it up a bit. We'll call them 'annuals'. And then what we'll do is make all the plants and flowers petite and delicate and pretty. That will appeal to the women and they'll be saying things like 'Oh look at this one, honey! It's so petite and delicate and pretty! Let's get a tray of 16!'. What do you think?"

Gardener: "I'll go get some dirt."

And so the conspiracy was born. And every spring, they arrive in droves. Women in sundresses and sandals; the men with wagons and credit cards.

What I don't understand is how they manage to provide the same flowers and plants year after year? They're supposed to die in the fall, right? But if they produce seeds, then why can't the average homeowner use the seeds from his Year 1 plants to produce new ones in subsequent years? Or better yet, why don't the seeds just fall off the flower, into the garden and germinate automatically every spring?

Oh, but I suppose that's part of the whole scheme. If the flowers were self-propagating, then we wouldn't have to head back to the nurseries and greenhouses each year, would we?

You know what I'm impressed with? The fact that I used 'perpetuated', 'planned obsolescence' and 'self-propagating' in the same story without causing myself a stroke.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go water my elephant.

Life Lesson # 14: Hard Up For Fashion Advice

2007-07-10T20:45:00.000-04:00

Listen carefully, fellas, (particularly you young'uns), because today's lesson will save you a world of embarrassment.

Now, I admit I am not exactly a fashion icon, always on the edge of haute couture, but I can spot a major fashion blunder when I see one. For example, (even though I rarely don such an outfit), I know that wearing a bra with straps under a shirt without straps is a bit of a faux pas for the ladies. I know that socks and sandals are blasphemous. You might as well just announce "I'm a middle-aged German tourist!" and be done with it.

You may be asking: "But OMC, how did you get to be so knowledgeable about such profoundly important subjects?" Well, kiddies, as with the previous 13 Life Lessons, it's all about trial and error. Big emphasis on the 'error'.

It was 1986. Our school board decided to administer standardized tests in order to determine which schools were in need of additional funding for Special Ed programs. This was a stressful time. Pages and pages of multiple choice questions on grammar, math and science! I had to ensure that I didn't end up in the same class as the kid who ate glue sandwiches and still wore Velcro shoes. Knowing I was going to be spending a couple of days, stuck at my desk, filling in little ovals with my trusty #2 pencil, logic dictated that I needed to be super-comfortable while doing so.

The day of the test, I arrived wearing my rattiest running shoes, faded blue sweatpants and a stripey shirt à la Ernie from Sesame Street. (Can't you just hear ZZ Top in the background?? "Every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man!"). Oh, but I was comfortable!

Taking my seat, I proceed to turn around and start talking to the kid behind me. From the front of the class came a booming voice:

"Mr. Crowder!" and I spun around to face the teacher. "Stand up!"

But I couldn't.

"Stand up!" came the command again.
"I'm sorry Mr. H. I'll stop talking." I was starting to panic. I couldn't stand up. I just couldn't! Keep stalling…Keep stalling!!

"Mr. Crowder, I asked you to stand up!"

I closed my eyes, hung my head, pushed my chair back and stood up...

In 1986, I was 12 years old. This is just about the time that some boys start coming to the realization that girls don't actually have cooties. This is also about the time that boys discover that they have absolutely no control over when Mr. Willy decides to…you know… unexpectedly make an appearance.

The stress of the test. The panic of being singled out by the teacher in front of the whole class. The loose-fitting, fleece track pants. It was all just too much. The blood had rushed from my 'head with a brain' and collected in my 'head without a brain'. As a result, Mr. Willy was standing at full attention and my stupid, comfy sweatpants were completely ineffective at hiding the tent pole.

The entire class saw my pre-dick-ament. Mercifully, so did the teacher who quickly instructed me to stop talking and be seated. But the damage had been done. For what felt like centuries, but was more likely a few weeks, I was known as "Woody" and my ego wilted like I only wish my wang had.

Quite obviously, the moral of today's story is "never wear sweatpants to school", however if you've been paying close attention, you may have spotted two other lessons:

1. Never talk in class; and
2. Willies have horrible timing.

Missed The Triple 7 By One Day!

2007-07-08T14:34:00.000-04:00

Happy birthday to me.

Green and Gold. Not Just Packer Colours Anymore!

2007-07-02T13:30:00.000-04:00

Not too long ago, I heard a story about the Pope authorizing the installation of solar panels on a number of his fancy-shmancy buildings.

What guts! What leadership! What stewardship! What bull.

Let me tell you something...The Pope attempting to show leadership through the adoption of environmentally friendly technologies is a bit like going for the 3-point field goal when you're down by 4. It makes you scream at your TV: "What are you doing? That's so pointless!"

Oh, I agree that putting up the solar panels is certainly better than not doing it at all -- although, what are they planning to do, run solar-powered candlelight vigils? -- but I'm a little curious as to the real motive behind the installations.

Reduce electricity costs? HA!! Yeah, right. The Pope worries about his bills like Fat Albert worries about calories. With jillions of dollars in the vaults, thanks to the millions of duped...um...I mean...devout Catholics around the world, money was obviously no object.

Promote emerging technology? Not likely. Remember, this is the same guy who has come out against cell phones, Blackberries and the Internet. His car isn't exactly fresh off the assembly line, either, and I'd be surprised if it even had a cassette player in it! I'm pretty sure that his Popeness isn't looking to spur a shift in the markets.

Reach out to a younger demographic? Pfftt! Yes, younger generations are likely more in tune with environmentalism and sustainable technologies, but if the Church wants to reach out to the young'uns, how be they start with a Pope that isn't as old as dirt?

Show leadership? Maybe; but I'm inclined to suggest that it's somewhat hypocritical. By installing the solar panels on his opulent and beautifully ornate buildings, he's telling his followers: "Don't use up the earth's resources. Live more sustainably." But at the same time, he travels the world, telling those same people: "Even though you have 12 kids and live in complete and utter poverty in a hut made of cow poo, you should not use birth control. And don't forget to send me some coin."

Now, I don't want to just pee in his Cheerios over this. I'll admit that there is a great deal of potential good that could come out of this, regardless of the Pope's reasons. Hundreds of millions of the Pope's peeps are reasonably affluent or better. And I'm willing to suggest that at least a few million of those folks are so attached to the Church that if the Pope told them to jump off a cliff, they'd knock each other over just to be the first to take the plunge.

Thus, if the Pope says "Go solar", I wouldn't be surprised if those followers went out and disconnected themselves from the grid the next day (unless it was a Sunday, of course). Millions of people using fewer fossil fuels = Good.

So whether the installation of solar panels was a churchy marketing gimick, a valiant attempt to get out of the dark ages or an honest-and-true contribution to reducing the Vatican's environmental footprint; we may never know. To me, it just smells a bit like last-minute desperation.

Forget the field goal. Go for the Hail Mary.

Stupid Blogger.

2007-06-07T09:58:00.000-04:00

And why the hell can't I separate my paragraphs??

Hot Dogs and Weenies.

2007-06-07T09:16:00.001-04:00

Just when I thought I'd about seen it all, along comes something like this. What is this? Well, aside from resembling a giant, robotic tampon, this is a patio heater. Neat, eh?

Let me tell you something... Patio heaters are stupid.

The premise behind this invention is that it burns propane and radiates heat onto your porch, deck or patio. What's wrong with that, you ask?

Everything. See if you can follow my logic, here:

When are you most likely to use your backyard? In the summer.

What's the weather like in the summer (assuming you live anywhere except the Arctic, for the time being)? Hot.

So if it's hot in the summer, why do you need a patio heater?? "Oh, but the nights get cool!" And you wonder why I'm losing my hair? Put on some fucking jeans, a pair of socks and a goddamn sweatshirt for cryin' out loud!!

All you're doing is contributing to smog, pollution and climate change in exchange for a 6-foot circle of warmth because you're too damned lazy to go change your clothes!

What's even more absurd is that if it gets too hot outside, these people are the first ones to say "Oh, it's too hot to be outside on the patio. Let's stay in where it's cooler", and they head inside the house that has been airconditioned to the approximate temperature of permafrost (not that there's much of that left anymore...).

And while we're on the subject of outdoor oddities...Can someone explain to me the fascination behind purchasing and installing a hot tub in the summer? A HOT tub, people!! HOT water goes in it!!

Again, it seems to make more sense to me that if you want to escape the unbearable heat, you'd want to jump into a body of cool water. Not a bubbling cauldron of bacterial media. Or maybe I'm just too old fashioned or something.

So which is going to be? Do you want it hot or cold? I hate to tell you this, but you and all your spoiled, rich buddies will not be able to maintain the world's temperature at a comfortable 22 degrees (Celcius, of course), no matter how many atmosphere-destroying gadgets you employ.

Or maybe it has nothing to do with temperatures at all. Could it be that you just want to look like a hot-shot and show off more of your completely unnecessary material possessions to make up for your lack of substantial genitalia?

Why don't you get out of the sun, go lay down on your tanning bed and think about it for a while?

Still Alive. But Barely.

2007-05-24T13:18:00.001-04:00

Hi all.

Just wanted to let you know that I realize it's been nearly a month since my last post. Unfortunately, spare time and ideas have not been forthcoming lately.

I promise I'll be back soon. Just as soon as I can catch up on some sleep and a few errands around the house (although at this rate, that'll likely be sometime around 2012).

Stay tuned!

OMC

CATSA Got Your Catapult?

2007-04-27T13:59:00.000-04:00

According to the Canadian Air Transport Security Authority (CATSA), there is a whole host of items that travellers are prohibited from bringing on board an aircraft as carry-on luggage. Most of these we can all understand the logic and we abide by the rules. Butcher knives, guns and explosives. Surely we can all go a few hours without fondling our machetes, so let's all make sure we pack them in our checked baggage, shall we?

But, what about, say…a catapult? What if, for my own personal security reasons, I wanted to bring my trusty catapult? CATSA says that's a no-go. And you can't even check it at the gate! Do you believe these control freaks??

Seriously…I'm thinking that the last time anyone required a catapult on their travels was sometime around middle-ages. Not only were there no aircraft back then, but I'm pretty sure that the average Acme Catapult wouldn't fit in the overhead compartment.

Let's think about this for a moment. A catapult throws things. Rocks, flaming bales of hay, pots of boiling oil and bumbling Coyotes. I think you'd have a tough time trying to maneouver that 2-tonne boulder down the aisle. And you'd have to buy an additional seat or two as well. So taking all this into consideration, was it REALLY necessary to explicitly state that catapults are prohibited?

Do you know what else isn't allowed as carry-on? Literally, anything that is considered "a penetrating object". I tell ya…It's frightening to think about how many men have had to remove their wieners before boarding a flight. I do take comfort in the fact, though, that all the stories of the "Mile High Club" have been fabricated and therefore I'm not the only one still waiting for my turn.

Ironically enough, passengers ARE allowed to bring their own parachutes and whips on board! What a horrible oversight!! What happens if some deranged nymphomaniac starts whacking my ass and then before I have a chance to retaliate (or reciprocate), she jumps out of the plane? I guess the CATSA hasn't considered the "Kink & Bail Terrorist".

I don't know which is scarier: the possibility that an incident with a catapult or a penetrating object has occurred in the past, thereby necessitating a rule or two; or the people who dream up these scenarios in order to fill the pages of the rule book.

Life Changes, Once Again.

2007-04-25T20:55:00.000-04:00

Hello faithful followers. I'm taking a moment to step out of my ornery OMC persona to let you all know that as of 10:24pm on April 24th, I am now the proud father of another son!

7 pounds, 8 ounces, 10 fingers, 10 toes, a head full of hair and he craps like a monster. I guess everything is pretty much as it should be, right?

A equals B. B does not equal A.

2007-04-15T14:27:00.000-04:00

Today's society, particularly that in North America, seems to be hung up on equality. Everyone should be treated equally. Everyone wants to be treated equally. Everyone needs to be assimilated into a melting pot of bland, monotone culture.

Well, let me tell you something...If that's the case, then why do so many people bitch and moan about not being treated the same as others but then try so damn hard to stick out like a sore thumb in order to assert their independence?

Take, for example, Canada's First Nations. Or Native Canadians. Or Indians. Or whatever they want to be called this month. Last week, someone came up with the bright idea that separate military bases should be constructed solely for our First Nations peoples so that they can train to become Canadian soldiers while still practicing their culture -- which, apparently, they can't do at our current military training facilities.

Aren't these the same people that are always crying about how poorly they've been treated and how rough their lives are? All they want is some dignity and respect. And equality!! Nothing wrong with those demands, whatsoever. I, too, would like those same things, but you don't see me running off demanding a military base specific to scrawny white guys.

What's next? Separate bases for Hindu Canadians? Separate ones for women? Separate bases for first born kids, born under the sign of Capricorn on a Tuesday between 8am and noon? Listen...We live in a single country (unless you ask Quebec), we defend ourselves as single country and we'll all get trained at the same place.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that you can't have it both ways. Do you want to be treated differently or do you want to be treated 'like everyone else'? Recognizing differences in culture, heritage and religion is fine by me and I applaud efforts to that effect. But don't confuse equality with fairness.

Life isn't fair. But we're all human beings and that makes us equal.

You Gotta Love Commercialism

2007-04-07T14:39:00.000-04:00

Happy Easter, everyone!

Ah yes...Easter. That magical time when we all gather together to celebrate how Jesus ran through the Garden of Eden one night, hiding pastel-coloured eggs all over the place because he thought it would be fun. But when King Whatsisname couldn't find any, he complained that they were hidden too well.

Jesus didn't want to get in trouble, so he blamed the nearest creature. A rabbit.

The king suspected that Jesus was full of it, so he ordered his soldiers to kill Jesus. And just to be safe, he killed the rabbit, too.

Or something like that.

March Madness. OMC Style.

2007-03-28T19:53:00.000-04:00

At the risk of sounding too much like Jerry Seinfeld…What's the deal with the scoring system of some sports? Let me tell you something…although I'm not exactly a sports fanatic, I've watched my share of athletics and can't for the life of me come up with a reasonable explanation as to how or why these scoring systems came to be.

Basketball: Each 'regular' basket is worth 2 points. But if you move out beyond a certain point, it is then worth 3 points. Distance-related scoring! What if golf adopted a similar method, but in reverse, given that the object of the game is to have a low score? Smoke a shot 220 yards, it counts as 1, but if you flub it and get only 20 yards, that counts as 3 shots. I, for one, would have an astronomical score after 3 holes. As for freethrows; you're given the opportunity to shoot a basket while all of the other players line up on either side of you. That's only worth 1 point. Could the same apply to golf? The more people distracting you while you shoot, the fewer strokes it costs you.

In football, a touchdown is worth 6 points. And if you kick the ball through the uprights, immediately after a touchdown, you get 1 whole point more!

"What's that? You want MORE points after scoring a touchdown? What, 6 isn't enough? Fine, but you have to use your skinniest player to score and we'll only give you 1 additional point."

This seems to be "effort-related" scoring and although difficult to determine the basis for the actual numbers, I suppose I can understand the rationale behind it. You bust your ass against a pile of 300-lb monsters for 100 yards and you didn't break any bones. You deserve more than just a single point. However, if you can't manage the full 100 yards but you almost make it, we'll let you wimp out and kick it, but you only get 3 points. Thanks for coming out.

What if we started recounting our love-life, using an effort-based system?

"How many people have you slept with?"
"Well, 5 I had to repeatedly take to dinner and a movie and buy flowers and candy. So they count as 6 each, so that's 30. Then there was the girl who was such high maintenance that we were always late for everything, but she was always ready to get her freak on, so she counts as 3. So there's 33. Then, I had 4 girls who slept with me on the first date, thanks to José Cuervo. I can only count them as singles because they were so easy. So that's a grand total of 37."
"Not bad for frosh week, eh?"

And then there's tennis. Understanding that scoring system is about as easy as skiing through a revolving door. It's almost a whole new language! They even combine numbers AND words! Whack a fuzzy ball back and forth for a while. Whether your opponent screws up right away or after an hour-long rally, you get the same number of points. Not 1, not 2, not even 6 points to start. How about 15? And if you score again, you're up 15 more points, for a total score of 30. If you score again, though, you only get 10 more points, bringing you to 40. One more point and that's "Game" and the "score" is 1-0 for you. Keep going until you get to "Set", which is comprised of 7 Games, and "Match" which consists of 3 Sets. To make matters worse, zeros are called "Love", and there's something called a "deuce" which, as far as I can tell, has absolutely nothing to do with coupes or Aerosmith.

At one point during tennis play, the score could be 30-Love, 4-2, 1-1. To tennis geeks, that actually makes sense. To the rest of us... What the hell? Too many hot toddies for the royals when they came up with that scheme, I'd say.

Listening to a sports report, you need a calculator to figure out what all happened during a game. While 6-0 is a fairly decisive win in hockey, it represents just the first 5 minutes of a basketball game. A score of 35-21 would be roughly a quarter of a basketball game, but just an average final score in football. Why the hell can't we simply say "You score; you get ONE point. And the next point makes TWO" and so on? Forget all this random number scoring. It's all the same measure! All I want to know is how many times Team A scored and how many times Team B scored. Don't give me an aneurism by turning it into a math lesson. I just want some standardization!

By the way…

This is my 79th post.
553rd, by football scoring.
182nd, by basketball scoring.

But who's counting?

Sitting Down on the Job.

2007-03-12T19:49:00.000-04:00

Reader Warning: For those of you hung up on etiquette and good taste, you might want to surf on by this post, because today I'd like to talk about poo. Specifically, pooing at work.

As many of you know by now, I'm all about pointing out the flaws of society and occasionally offering solutions to those flaws. Well today is no different. Let me tell you something… Not much turns my stomach more than walking into the washroom at the office and being lambasted with the smell of some other guy's daily constitutional. Even despite the occasional thoughtful shitter who will enact the courtesy flush (i.e. flushing immediately following "the main event" so as to reduce the level of offensive odours), nothing can completely eliminate the fecal funk of a hefty dump.

So I'd like to propose a solution. We already have segregated washrooms for men and women (unless you live in Ally McBeal World, where co-ed crappers are as common as the men stepping forward to claim Anna-Nicole's baby), but what I'd like to see incorporated into our office buildings and public rest areas is a separate men's and women's washroom for "Number Twos" only. A workplace dumping station, if you will.

And this idea doesn't just help the innocent folks who mistakenly walk in on a bowel-laden blitzkrieg. I'm also thinking of those of us who can muster enough gall to take a dump while at work. No more clenching 'the worst of it' or cowering in the stall until the washroom is empty so as to avoid that embarassing walk from the stall to the sink (known as the Brown Mile) while the poor saps at the urinal or the other sinks try to stop their eyes from bleeding.

The stations wouldn't have to be anything fancy -- just a couple of stalls, each with their own air-exchange system that could quickly remove the poo smells and any wayward farts before the nearly-visible stink molecules begin to peel the paint off the walls. Perhaps some muzak or something to help mask those embarassing symphonies that also tend to accompany events such as these.

And while we're at it, given today's technology, I'd like to suggest a few additional features to the design. For example, each stall could have it's own sink. The door to the stall would remain electronically locked until the user had washed his/her hands. The result would be fewer e-coli (more commonly referred to as 'poo germs' in the scientific community) being spread throughout the building.

It is said that "family" means not being grossed out by a warm toilet seat. I can tell you that I do not consider Harvey, the Sasquatch from Purchasing who disappears with a copy of War & Peace each day around 2pm as 'family'. Guh-ross. Many women prefer to hover over the seat, and I give them all the credit in the world, but I don't think those women have ever really taken a "mean shit" -- one that feels like it's coming out sideways and causes the veins in your neck to stick out. After passing something like that (or simply trying to), I don't care if you've got thigh muscles like Lance Armstrong…You need to sit down.

But I digress….Where was I? Oh yeah…I want something that keeps the toilet seats cold. Not butt-numbing, shrinky-dink cold, mind you; just something that gives me the illusion that I'm the first one in the stall since the cleaning lady disinfected everything.

So with a little effort and some slight modifications to our buildings, I think we can make the world a better place. A world devoid of the stench of a stranger's poo. Can't you just imagine how much better your workplace would be if you no longer had to worry about how long you can hold your breath while you take a leak?

I'm going to go picture that right now...

Where's the newspaper?

Hand, Hand, Finger, Thumb. Why Do I Have Hair On My Bum?

2007-02-28T20:10:00.000-05:00

As I continue the journey towards my inevitable dirt nap, I find myself spending more and more time in front of the mirror, pondering my various physical features; particularly the ones where I don't fully understand their function. Let me tell you something… whether you subscribe to the Theory of Evolution, the Creationism Theory or something different altogether, you have to admit that we humans have some very odd body parts and I want to know: What's the point?

Belly button -- This one is particularly perplexing to me. Yes, I realize that it's the spot where we were once attached to our mothers (and some people are still), but for most of us, that was SO long ago! So what's the point of having a belly button now? Why hasn't it just faded into oblivion the way my hairline has? As far as I can tell, the belly button serves no other purpose than to collect unsightly lint. Just last night, I removed my shirt and discovered what appeared to be a small woodland creature. Perhaps it's supposed to be a marker of how badly you need to be doing sit-ups. For example, if you step out of the shower, bend over to dry your feet and a half-cup of water pours out, then I'd say it's time for a few crunches. (Incidentally, if you can't bend over to dry your feet, you're WAY overdue for some sit-ups).

Butt hair -- For those of you in the Evolution Theory camp, you might suggest that this is simply remnants from when we were all monkeys. The hairier we were, the warmer we'd be in winter -- especially us Canadian monkeys. But thanks to the advent of clothing, we don't need these fanny follicles anymore, so why hasn't it disappeared? For the folks who support the Creationism idea, butt hair is no less odd. If God (or whomever) creates "perfect" humans, then shouldn't every body part have some sort of function or purpose? I mean, it's not like you can DO anything with butt hair. It's always going to be parted in the middle. Someone once told me that a sure sign that you're getting older occurs when you have to soap your head and shampoo your ass. So maybe it's a benchmark for aging?

Toe nails -- During our monkey years, these could have been used to help us scale banana trees. I don't know about you, but I'm not scrambling up trees very much these days. They're not much protection for your toes, either. After you've located the corner of the coffee table in the dark with your foot, what does your toe nail do? Turns black and falls off. How pleasant! As far as I can tell, toe nails function only as deadly weapons against your partner who, during the night, may try to creep over to your side of the bed to steal your body heat.

Appendix -- From what I understand, this little doohickey does absolutely nothing. Just hangs around, completely lifeless and useless. If our bodies had such a system, I bet it would always be the first in line for a welfare cheque. However, if your appendix decides it's had enough of you, it gets all inflamed, causes excruciating pain and can even blow up and kill you! Our body's little suicide bomber. So if the only real function of our appendix is to cause trouble, why do we even have it in the first place? If God created us, then He must've been in a pissy mood when He fashioned that little sucker.

Tonsils -- Similar to the appendix, these things don't seem to do anything but cause trouble, but only when they feel like it. People can go their entire lives without any problem with these things, but the moment they start getting out of control, you wind up in a hospital eating Jello and ice cream for breakfast.

Male Genitalia -- Okay, okay…I know what this is for. Give me SOME credit! What I don't understand is the rationale behind its location on the body. It's right out front. Out in the open. Totally vulnerable to being kicked, punched, caught in zippers or whacked by a falling toilet seat. I'm wondering why a guy's package wasn't a little more strategically placed? I can't think of any other animal where the male's unit is so exposed. Hell, some critters can even retract their wangs and completely shelter them from the weather and other hazards. Can you imagine how much more grouchy a snake would be every time it caught its pecker on a stick or had to drag it across gravel?

I welcome your thoughts and insights into any of these body parts -- or others, too. Or maybe I've just got too much time on my hands.

Hands…Now THOSE are useful...

Life Lesson # 14: How (not) to succeed at dating.

2007-02-21T18:51:00.000-05:00

Kids, these days, are all messed up. It seems that nobody goes on "dates" anymore. Instead, it's all about "hooking up". Spot a hottie. Do it. Move on. The quintessential "wham, bam, thank you ma'am". Whatever happened to dinner and a movie or just holding hands?

My theory is that young'uns today spend so much time on the computer, playing video games or smoking up in the back alleys that the art of dating is at risk of being lost forever. They simply don't know how to date! So I thought I would leverage the Internet's communications ability and use my 3-plus decades of experience with women to provide a few helpful tips on dating that could save this timeless practice and perhaps even score you some tail from…um…I mean…win you some brownie points with... the person you're trying to impress.

Pay attention, now:

Tip #1: No matter how comfortable you think you are with each other, it is probably not a good idea to belch so loudly that it causes car alarms to go off. If you feel you absolutely must, then for the love of God, at least don't do it an hour into your first date.

Tip #2: While on a date, it is important to be aware of your alcohol consumption. Remember this mantra: You should always remain sober enough to fight. A good indication that you've exceeded your limit would be when you're goofing around with the guys and your date taps on your shoulder. If you look at her as if you've just seen an alien and then turn back to the guys and declare: "Dudes! Did you know there are GIRLS here??" -- you're WAY passed your limit.

Tip #3: Although making out in an '88 Mazda 626 isn't impossible, it is exceptionally awkward and I would recommend that you not try it in the driver's seat. Next to the glove box, this the smallest space in the car and there are simply too many gadgets that can be disturbed by a wayward foot or leg. It sure would be embarassing to be going at it, hot and heavy, at midnight in the driveway of your date's house and accidentally (and repeatedly) honk the horn, causing your date's parents to wake up and greet you at the front door.

Tip #4: Always ensure that your chick-mobile is in peak operating condition. If you think it's embarassing when your date's parents wake up because you were making out in the car and kept honking the horn (see Tip #3), you'll be mortified when you then have to get out and ask for a jump-start from her dad because you left the radio on so long.

Tip #5: At the conclusion of your outing, it might be a good idea to ensure that your date gets home safely. Especially if you picked her up and therefore has no other means of getting home. For example, let's say you're at a Grade 8 graduation dance. When the dance ends, don't send her out the back door of the school with a hug and a "See ya!" before dashing out the front door and hopping into the car where your mother is waiting. As comical as it is to see the horrified expression on your mother's face when you explain that "she's walking home", it's probably best to give your date a lift.

So there you have it. I can't guarantee that these tips will result in you finding eternal happiness with your one true love, but following them certainly can't hurt.

Who knows…You might even get lucky! ……..(at gettting a second date! What were you thinking, ya dirty horndog??)

I have no witty title for this one.

2007-02-14T20:07:00.000-05:00

You know, despite what some of you might think, I am not against having fun, being frivolously silly and acting stupid once in a while. But let me tell you something…There's a time and a place where behaving that way is acceptable, and there are times when it is more appropriate to act your age, rather than your shoe size (if I can be so suave as to channel Tom Jones).

I'd like to propose that applicants for a job be given a test to determine their level of maturity before being hired. Here are some examples of questions I'd like to see:

1. True or False: Spitting it into the urinals and/or water fountains and/or kitchen sinks is an appropriate way to dispose of your gum?

2. True or False: Flicking snot onto the walls adds to the décor of the office?

3. True or False: People will think highly of me if I draw genitalia on the "women" and "men" icons outside of the washrooms?

4. True or False: The main reason I want this job is because it provides me with free long distance phone calls and access to high-speed Internet so that I can:
- tinker with my sports pools;
- work on becoming a successful day-trader;
- email/chat/IM with my friends/family/extramarital affair;
Etc.

Obviously, if an applicant answers "True" to any of these questions, then managers must ask themselves "Is this the most qualified candidate, or just Billy Madison in a tie?"

When kids get out of school, theoretically they're supposed to be mature adults, ready to take on the corporate world, (those that are not prepared: tour Europe for a year to "find themselves"), but I've been among the working class for 10 years now and I'm constantly amazed at how many people, many of them more senior than I, seem to have an IQ equivalent to a Nerf ball.

I'm not saying the office should be a morose cube farm, full of mindless zombies, but I just wish some folks would grow up a bit. It's a place of business, not an adult daycare. And if you can't get that through your stupid head, then don't be surprised if you find a thumbtack on your chair one day.

Hey, if you can't beat 'em (with a lead pipe), join 'em.

Be cool, not cold. Dumbass.

2007-02-05T20:02:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I don't know where the hell some of you kids grew up, but for those of you who were born and raised on the frozen tundra of Canada should know better.

If it's -40 C with the windchill, you're gonna need a little bit more clothing than your low-rider jeans, no-lace running shoes and a jean-jacket. Exposed skin will freeze in 10 minutes -- and that includes your thong-showing ass-crack. How on earth are you going to text-message that cute boy from chemistry class if your fingers are popsicles?

Dressing for a true Canadian winter means foregoing the fashion statement and dressing for comfort. Having your hair look like a wildcat's nest because of your toque IS the "in" thing for the winter season. At least, that's what I heard from Yves St. Laurent, Donna Karan and Jack Frost.

Come on, kids. Get it together, would ya? I'm sick of hearing you complain about how cold it is when you refuse to dress appropriately. Ignore me if you will, but don't come crying ice cubes to me if your ears freeze and then fall off.

Hey, at least you won't have to listen to me yell at you for being so stupid.

The Retirement Speech.

2006-12-13T18:46:00.000-05:00

Well, my friends, I think my time has come. As you may have noticed, my posts have become less and less frequent as I try to find topics worthy of an OMC rant that I have not already covered. The pressure has been mounting to continually provide original material on a regular basis and I'm finding it more and more difficult to do so. Hell, I couldn't even come up with a catchy title for this one!

Let me tell you something…I have never been averse to working under pressure, however my desire to avoid such conditions is so deeply ingrained that I'm sure it's in my genetic make-up. Remember…I'm the laziest person I know! As a result, I feel it would be best if I took my leave from the blogging world.

It's been a great seven-and-a-half months -- which, incidentally, lasted about six months longer than I expected! I want to thank all of my regular visitors for continually stopping by and keeping up the discussions and providing your thoughts and experiences:
Jeff, Laura, franko, ePixie, PartyGirl, GirlGoyle and Deirdre. You guys rock! (And to Anonymous…Thanks for being a regular. You sure get around!)

And to all of my occasional visitors, I would also like to say a heart-felt thank you for dropping in to listen to the rambly ravings of an old man.

You know, for all the ranting I (and others) do about the crappy state of the world, the shifferbrains we have running our respective governments and the idiots out there so dumb it's a wonder they make it to the office each day, if you really take a moment to stop and look in the right spots, you can see we really don't have it so bad. We may not have everything we want or have it in the quantities we'd prefer, but for the majority of us, we have enough to get us by.

No matter how rotten things may seem, just remember that it could always be worse. Just think: you could be dead. Or related to Kevin Federline.

Someone once told me: Don't sweat the petty things. And don't pet the sweaty things.

Before I go, I thought I would leave you with this appropriate piece of wisdom that has become my life's mantra:

I'll see you around!

Old Man Crowder

I. AM. unCANADIAN!

2006-12-06T19:57:00.000-05:00

So we've just nicely entered into December and already I'm sick of winter. And do you know who I blame? No, not George W. this time. John Cabot and Jacques Cartier. These guys were the first Europeans (except for the Vikings) to discover Canada and then send word back that this would be a great place to live. Idiots.

Let me tell you something…I don't know what these guys were thinking when they decided to set up camp here, but the scurvy must've been wreaking havoc on their brains because they obviously didn't land in the Maritimes during a full-on Canadian winter.

Can you imagine what that letter back to Europe would have looked like?

"Dear King,

We finally made it to the New World, and boy what a sight!

You should see this place! After and endless sea of blue water, we reached an endless sea of white snow! If my measurements and calculations are correct, it has been snowing for approximately 7 straight years. And it's colder than a witch's kiss -- oh, not that I've ever been kissed by a witch. Please don't burn me at the stake.

On the upside, the wind never stops and it howls so fiercely that it drowns out that incessant native drumming and catterwauling this land seems to be so famous for. For some reason, the natives giggle whenever we eat the yellow snow.

Admittedly, we're somewhat under-dressed for this climate, what with our glossy buckle shoes, pilgrim hats and Shakespearean puffy shirts, so a few of the men have requested that I put in an order for some mitts and earmuffs, if you have any available.

Tomorrow we're going to head west up the river. Rumour has it that there's less snow, but they get freezing rain and ice storms for 4 straight months, instead! Ha! And you thought your wife could give you the cold shoulder! I can't wait to see how the ship handles in that kind of weather.

Anyway, I better go round up a few guys to unstick the frozen seagulls and figure out a way to get us out of these ice floes.

I suggest that you start building a pile of new boats because when folks hear about this fabulous winter wonderland, you won't be able to keep them away!

Sincerely,

Johnny

PS: One little piece of advice: don't try to lick the frost off the flag pole. Trust me."

Now, these guys were obviously well-travelled, so one might assume that the concept of "south equals warm" was a familiar one to them. So why on earth would they decide to settle here?

Did you know that Ottawa is the second coldest capital city in the world, behind Moscow? Excuse me, but when your eyelashes freeze to your glasses, it's too damn cold. If our two frost-bitten, bonehead explorers had been a little more forward-thinking, we could have taken Atlanta, Miami or even St. Marten as our national headquarters! Canada could have been in the Caribbean, for cryin' out loud!!

Sure, there's hockey, skiing, skating and sledding to look forward to, but there's a myriad of other inevitable 'bonuses' that come with winter: heart attacks from shovelling snow, Don Cherry, horrible driving conditions, concussions and cracked tailbones from falling on the ice, bundling up like the Michelin Man (then having to go pee), and of course, the unstoppable runny nose (also called Shiny Mitt Syndrome).

Winter.

'Snot fun.

Life Lesson #13: The bigger the ego, the bigger the humiliation.

2006-11-25T13:09:00.000-05:00

Once, in my lengthy and illustrious minor hockey career, I received a phone call from the coach of a rival team. They were playing in a tournament and were short a few players and wanted me to play for them.

My head swelled so big, my dad had a hard time fitting it into the car.

I chose a corner of the dressing room and proceeded to get dressed without saying a whole lot to my temporary team mates. Why should I talk to them? After all, they needed me more than I needed them. Standing almost 6' 4" on skates, I was an imposing site to behold; and just to add to my pride even more, one of the regulars remarked: "Wow, Crowder! I had no idea you were so big! You're scary, dude!"

I felt as high as Kate Moss on a Friday night.

The time came to head for the ice. I left the dressing room last, because I was the secret weapon. The opposition had no idea what was in store for them and I couldn't wait to see the looks on their faces when I, bantam hockey superstar, roared onto the ice.

As I strode down the hallway, my equipment creaked and strained under my massive, hulking (i.e. awkward and gangly) 15-year-old frame. From above, I could hear the crowd of 30 (bleary-eyed fathers complaining about arena coffee) and my adrenaline surged.

My heart beat faster and everything rose like a crescendo with each step closer to the gate.

I was huge.

I was unstoppable.

I was about to lay a punishment on the opposing team.

I was a hockey monster !!

I was ... flat on my back looking up at the rafters?

I forgot to take my damned skate guards off.

Felled by two 12-inch-long pieces of plastic, I don't know which was louder: my body crashing to the ice or the farting noise my ego made as it completely deflated in front of the entire arena.

Remember kids: There's no "i" in "team", but there is in "idiot".

It "Buggles" the Mind.

2006-11-16T18:59:00.000-05:00

Radio has been around for, what, 100 years? (I'm sure PartyGirl can verify), so one would assume that the stations would have a vast library of music upon which to draw. Obviously that is not the case because, let me tell you something, when you hear the same song or the same artist over and over, day in and day out, you come to the realization that the radio station doesn't have any more CDs than I do. (I have about 10.)

There are all kinds of formats for radio stations, but they all essentially boil down to two different niches: genre-specific or time period-specific. If a station is dedicated to the 80s, that gives them 10 whole years' worth of music to choose from. Why, then, must they insist on playing Madonna every hour, followed by "I Ran" by Flock of Seagulls? If the station is termed "Country Hits", that doesn't mean "All Tim McGraw. All the time." There were country hits back as far as the 50s and 60s, you know.

Even the stations that claim to play "a variety of today's best music" has become synonymous with only James Blunt, Coldplay and Rod Stewart. Rod Stewart?? That guy hasn't had a good song since Maggie May!

(I cast a pox on all the pudding-heads who call in to request a song, but request something that is normally on the playlist! Pick something we haven't heard, why dontcha??)

Station Identification -- For the love of Pete, please stop telling me your call letters after every goddamn song. My memory may not be great, but I can sure as hell remember what station I'm listening two, given that you just told me 3 minutes ago. If I'm already listening to your station, you don't need to continually self-promote. Plus, if I'm not listening to your station, self-promotion is pretty much a waste of time.

Morning Shows -- Get it through your collective heads: You people are not funny. In all my life, I've come across only one radio station that had an entertaining morning show (in Detroit, of all places!). Studies have shown that people aren't in the best frame of mind during their morning (and evening) commute, so why are these idiots constantly blathering on about everything and nothing during this time? Play some damn music already and stop trying to manufacture your status as a local celebrity!

Contests -- Tell me…What is the point of holding a contest if the requirements or questions are geared towards vegetables? "For a trip to Fiji, a new Lexus and $100,000…Mike, what is your name?" Runners-up get 2 free passes to Billy-Bob's Waffle Hut and Cheese Museum.

I have friends who are in radio and I know that they work in hovels, keep ridiculous hours and get paid less than winners of Canadian game shows -- that must be how the radio stations can afford to give away so much crap all the time.

So now, with iPod's gigabytes of memory whereby thousands of songs can be stored, I think people are finally waking up to the fact that they can listen to the music they want without the annoying DJs or incessant commercials. And for Luddites, such as myself, who will likely never understand an iPod, there is satellite radio. No DJs, virtually no commercials and a variety of music and information that can keep even my attention span for more than a few minutes.

But until the price of satellite radio comes down or my son gets old enough to program an iPod for me, I'm stuck risking carpal tunnel in my fingers from poking the channel buttons in my car and stereo remote, looking for a radio station that doesn't suck like a Hoover.

Video may have Killed the Radio Star, but the radio industry, itself, is an accomplice.

Santa & the 2nd Regiment

2006-11-13T13:49:00.000-05:00

For us Canadians, Remembrance Day was this past Saturday. A time to reflect upon the efforts, hardships and sacrifices that so many men and women endured and continue to endure in order for us common-folk to enjoy the benefits of not wearing a Swastika or a burkha.

Some of us choose to celebrate by attending a parade or a wreath-laying ceremony. Some choose to reflect in a more intimate or private setting such as a church or at a loved one's graveside.

But not the folks in my neighbourhood. Apparently in my 'hood, Remembrance Day is to be celebrated by covering one's house with Christmas lights and the gaudiest of decorations. Santas, elves, reindeer; the works...There's even a Mickey Mouse in a red and white suit! Last I checked, Mickey had very little involvment with Christmas and even less to do with honouring war veterans.

Let me tell you something...there are all kinds of ways to remember our fallen heroes, but inflating a 10-foot plastic Santa isn't one of them. Hey, I'm not suggesting that you have to be standing outside, saluting a flag every November 11th, but it just seems to me to be a little disrespectful to be cursing the price of red and green spotlights at Canadian Tire while a little, wrinkly man in a wheelchair sits quietly by the check-out, hoping you'll toss in a quarter to buy a poppy.

And on top of that, it's November frickin' 11th, for crying out loud! That's at least 20 days too early to be making like the Griswalds.

It saddens me to know that because Remembrance Day isn't a 'marketable' holiday, stores pay it little attention. Instead, as soon as Hallowe'en is over (and in some cases, even before it has passed), out come the Christmas displays, the wrapping paper and the music. And it bothers me even more, knowing that there will always be people out there that will rush from store to store, holiday to holiday, no matter what time of year it is.

Perhaps these folks should pause for a moment in between the cha-chings of the cash register and think about how they came to be so fortunate to have such a life.

Monty Python: Ahead Of Its Time

2006-11-07T18:47:00.000-05:00

There is a relatively new disease that has afflicted millions of people around the world and it has reached epidemic proportions, yet very little is being done to eradicate it. And what has been developed is reasonably ineffective because the disease mutates so quickly and randomly.

The disease causes symptoms from mild headaches to significantly increased aggression and right up to the more extreme, such as sudden, inexplicable bouts of Tourettes.

And the worst part is that this horrible pus-filled infection was created by and continues to be perpetuated by humans.

This disease is called spammers. They are a boil on the butt-crack of humanity and they need to be lanced.

Let me tell you something…Spammers are one of the lowest forms of life I can think of and it's about time we started ridding them from the planet. I can't think of anything so pointless as the generation of spam (other than, perhaps, the existence of Paris Hilton).

Seriously…Who actually has time to write these things? And if the spam itself is not written by a human, we all know that there is a computer program behind it that was written by some pimply-faced dork still living out of his (or her) parents' basement who still holds a grudge because Mr. Sulu didn't win an Oscar.

I've about had it with the constant bombardment of emails for Viagra, Cialis, singles dating sites, low mortgage rates and the latest stock tips. And given what I believe to be an accurate stereotype of a spammer, they wouldn't know anything about those topics anyway!

There isn't even any effort put into the messages anymore! Most of the time, it's just random sentence fragments and miscellaneous symbols and gibberish. That tells me that spammers aren't even expecting people to read their messages and they're just malliciously creating Internet graffiti that serves absolutely no purpose but to waste my time.

And I don't like people who waste my time.

"Just delete the spam", some say. Unfortunately, that's like standing with a pail at the mouth of the Amazon and attempting to prevent the water from reaching the ocean. The only way to stop the spread of this vile sickness is to eliminate the source of the problem. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting that we kill spammers. Even I'm not that cold hearted. All I'm suggesting is that if these clowns think that the world revolves around spam, spam and more spam, then I say we should send them off to the Cave of Caerbannog.

Life Lesson #12: Call Before You Dig (yourself into a hole)

2006-11-02T16:53:00.000-05:00

How many of you people think it's okay to randomly "stop in" or "drop by" unannounced on family, friends or neighbours? Hands up... Uh huh. Although I can't tell how many of you raised your hand, I know that some of you did. And you people are asking for trouble.

For example, and this is purely hypothetical, let's say that you've just purchased your very first house. After a harrowing day of lugging boxes and furniture, you and your spouse decide to head upstairs to "christen" the new place. Shortly after beginning the process, the doorbell rings.

Thinking it's probably just one of your stupid friends who forgot their coat, you throw on a pair of boxers, which now barely conceals everything that needs to be concealed, and head for the door. With an exaggerated "You loser! We're busy! What do you want?", you fling the door wide open…and come face to face with your real estate agent (who has brought you a gift basket as a housewarming gift) and she morphs from an articulate professional woman into a red-faced, stuttering fool who can't retreat back to her car fast enough.

(insert awkward, uncomfortable moment here)

Clearly, it is the real estate agent who is at fault here. Had she called ahead to say "Are you guys moved in yet? I'll be over shortly to check out the place." this situation could easily have been avoided.

Dodge, Disney and Dumbasses

2006-10-31T20:14:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-26T18:49:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-25T18:52:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-20T19:51:00.000-04:00

"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*

2006-10-17T20:07:00.000-04:00

*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.

2006-10-17T20:05:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-13T21:20:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-09T13:33:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-10-04T19:06:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-03T20:44:00.000-04:00

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.

Life Lesson # 9: The gym is over-rated

2006-09-25T20:20:00.000-04:00

I used to be able to lift and carry rocks, trees and soil, and haul them all over the place. Nowadays, I carry a case of beer from the car to the basement and have to take a nap afterwards. I used to run like the wind, but now I mostly shuffle around and break wind. I do have a washboard stomach, but it looks like I've got a load of laundry in it.

All of these things eventually led me to the inevitable: I needed to join a gym.

I would describe myself as having a "pipe cleaner" physique -- long, wiry and fuzzy; not a whole lot of curves or definition, but I can sure get bent out of shape easily -- so I thought I would put some effort into attempting to remedy that by doing a little cross-training, aerobic exercises and some weights.

I signed my life away to get a membership (admittedly, I was drawn in by the free gym bag, t-shirt and water bottle), and was then introduced to Sven (pronounced "Tank"), who would go over the gym's policies, give me a tour of the facilities and teach me to use the equipment. The 20 minute tour essentially consisted of "Here's the weight room, always have a spotter. Here's the cardio area, always spray and wipe the equipment when you're finished. Here's the change room, don't pee in the showers."

I guess I was interrupting his routine and he wanted to get back to flexing and grunting at himself in the mirror.

Day 1 -- I went into the change room which was filled with mostly naked men, built like Mr. Universe. I emerged unscathed, feeling like Daniel leaving the lion's den. A mighty victory for my wimpy self.

Given that this was only my first day, I didn't want to overdo it so I decided to hit the treadmill. I've seen people on TV use these, so I figured "how hard could this be?". I stood on the platform, looking at a computer system that would have made Bill Gates uncomfortable, but thanks to the 4-second briefing that Sven gave me, I remembered there was "default-beginner" setting. I hit the button and began my descent into hell.

I ran for what seemed like an eternity. Turned out to be only 14 minutes, but my lungs were burning, my legs were going numb and I was having a hard time focussing on the task at hand because I had somehow become surrounded by what I can only describe as "incredibly hot chicks, wearing incredibly tight work-out clothes and who SO obviously wanted me and my fabulous buns o' steel".

Finally, the auto-pilot treadmill started to slow and eventually brought me back to a walking pace (which, by this point, was more like a drunken stagger). And proof that there is a God…It finally stopped. Sven's words of "wipe the machine down when you're done" echoed in my throbbing head.

I jumped off the machine and immediately realized that something was amiss. Somehow, my body was not registering the fact that the floor was no longer moving. As a result, the good folks at Equilibrium Central were sent into a panicked frenzy trying to compensate.

Before I knew it, I was at a 45-degree angle to the floor, desperately clutching for a hand-hold. I got nothing but air. I tried to work my feet to get myself upright, but succeeded only in propelling myself forward, pinwheeling my arms…

…and crashing head-long into the one-way mirrored glass wall, leaving a big, sweaty smear, like a bug on a windshield. In front of all the girls on the treadmills and stairmasters. Oh yeah. Now they TOTALLY wanted me. I also discovered that there was a yoga class in session behind the mirrored wall and they had witnessed the entire catastrophe.

Day 2 -- I stopped in on my way home from work and cancelled my membership.

Today's lesson, kids, is that despite what societal pressures there might be, there is no hard-and-fast rule that says you have to look like a Greek God/Goddess. Me? I'm happy to settle for looking more like a Greek letter (although I do realize that one day I'll probably wind up looking more like this one and have to head back to that hell hole).

Wal-Mart's New Back To School Essentials: Flak Jackets

2006-09-22T20:00:00.000-04:00

Honestly, people, what is the world coming to? I don't understand what has gotten into kids these days, but let me tell you something…I weep for the future.

Remember the good, old days when boys used to bring frogs to school to scare the girls? If someone were to bring a frog to school today, it would probably get shot. Kids today are bringing guns and knives to school like we would bring hockey cards and gum, back in the day.

What happened to spitballs and drawing ugly caricatures of the teacher on the blackboard? Students have taken to stabbing, shooting, drugging, raping and blackmailing students and staff in order to get their C in Social Studies (and an A in criminology).

By now, many of you have heard about the Montreal shooting. I also posted about the ass-munch legal student who fired a pellet gun at fellow classmates the very next day. Parents, students, teachers and law enforcement are on edge because of all this. And yet the brainless wonders just keep coming. On Tuesday, two highschool kids show up wearing military fatigues and gas masks just for shits and giggles. Add these three stories to the growing list of school violence in recent times.

While I'm sure that violence in schools didn't start with Columbine, that event is certainly the benchmark that brought this issue into the mainstream. A number of questions repeatedly emerge out of each of these occurrences.

What causes these kids to go apeshit and want to kill people? Is school really that stressful -- moreso than it was 10 or 15 years ago?

And who's to blame?
Video Games? Maybe we should all go back to Scrabble and Donkey Kong.
Music? Ever listened to SlipKnot or Coal Chamber? THAT is some scary shit.
Parents? If they had better control of their children, perhaps this wouldn't happen.
Media? Constant images of blood and guts can de-sensitize people and/or give them ideas.
The janitor? His incessant mopping and sweeping could drive anyone to the brink.

And what do we do about it? Some suggest metal detectors, security guards and locked classrooms. Yeah, 'cuz THAT makes a school a comfortable place that is condusive to learning and higher education.

Lots of questions. Not much time.

In a couple years, my little guy will be heading off to school; out from under my protective wing and into the big scary world. If we don't fix this problem soon he'll most likely be packing a sandwich, an apple and some heat into his Barney lunchbox.

Why? Part Duh.

2006-09-17T11:25:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you something...It never ceases to amaze me how many things there are in the world that make me scratch my fuzzy head and simply ask "Why?"

#1 Why is it that politicians, no matter whether they be municipal, provincial (or state) or federal, believe that the more lawn signs they put up, the more votes they'll get? There's an intersection not far from here that one candidate has erected no less than 12 signs of various sizes! Is there anyone out there that actually votes based on the number of signs they saw?

"I saw 600 "Marv Hermanson" signs on the way to the voting station. He must be the man for the job!" If that's your voting strategy, then I think it would be best if you just went home, put your head between your knees and repeated: "I am an idiot."

There is already so much financial retardation when it comes to politics, so I suppose it shouldn't be such a surprise that politicians devote so much of their campaign budget to lawn signs that may not even be able to be used in subsequent elections!

#2 Why would a 22 year-old man with a promising future as a lawyer feel that it would be appropriate to fire a pellet gun from his car while driving on the campus of his university the day after a psycho goth loser went on a shooting rampage at a college, just two hours away? Yeah, I highlighted the fact that it was a day after the shooting, but I'm not suggesting he should have waited for a more apt moment to terrorize his fellow students. Obviously there is NO acceptable time to shoot at innocent people, but given that this guy had enough grey matter to get into law school, surely he could have realized how much trouble he would be in.

Or perhaps I'm giving the law profession too much credit.

#3 And while we're on the subject of mental midgets and shootings...Why is it that whenever something like the Dawson College shootings happen, the bastard ends up getting killed before anyone has a chance to kick his teeth in? Same thing happened at Columbine, I think. Sure, he's dead and will never kill again, but it seems like he's getting off fairly easy compared to the kids who will forever be haunted by the physical, emotional and psychological scars. Suicide bombers suck ass that way too.

#4 Why do kids have wheels in their running shoes now? Why don't these things result in more wipe-outs, twisted ankles and cracked skulls than they do? Hey, this from the guy had trouble mastering the Velcro 'laces', back in the '80s.

Can anyone explain any of these to me?

Where's Helen Reddy When You Need Her?

2006-09-11T20:06:00.000-04:00

Some of you loyal readers may recall a piece I wrote on racial intelligence. Well, guess what? The same guy who conducted that cockamamie project is back in the news again with yet another completely plausible and thought-provoking study. This one deals with intellectual differences between the sexes.

Oh, and by "completely plausible and thought-provoking", I really mean "utterly ridiculous and nobody gives a flying monkey crap".

According to his study, men have a slightly higher IQ, on average, than women, and it doesn't matter what your income, education, or ethnic background. So that suggests that if you're Black, making minimum wage, have a highschool education and are female; well then, you're so dumb you'd better wear a helmet to work, my friend.

I don't know whether this guy actually believes what he writes or whether he just loves the media attention. But let me tell you something…Women are just as dumb as men. For every stupid thing a man does, I'm pretty sure we could come up with an equal idiot action from a woman.

For example, I'm pretty sure NASCAR is entirely a male creation, but to balance it out, the women have countered with Trading Spaces Marathons.

So why would this guy want to pursue this issue? Will it really advance our society to know whether men are smarter than women? And who funded this study, anyway? I bet if I were to do some digging, I'd find at least a couple of bucks thrown in the kitty from "NO MA'AM"

Given that the supposed intellectual difference between the sexes is only 4 or 5 IQ points, I can't help but wonder what the scores would look like if this study had been conducted by a female professor. Or instead of looking only at academic SAT scores, there was a nationally-recognized "human" test that included such topics as "fashion coordination" or "social etiquette".

When was the last time you heard about a female serial killer? How many wars have been started by women? How often has a woman said "Hey, y'all! Watch this!"?

Us male brains may be slightly better than female brains, but that doesn't necessarily mean we're using it properly.

Coming Soon: OMC TV

2006-09-06T18:59:00.000-04:00

These days, it seems just about any idiot with a pulse can get their own TV show.

Let me tell you something...It's a sad day when networks become so desperate for ratings and accolades that they stoop to airing the drivel I'm seeing lately.

Allow me to illustrate with a few "viewers choice" examples:

The Simple Life -- Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. One has a head full of nothing but air and the other weighs almost as much. Thankfully, Nicole has faded into the background, somewhat, but unfortunately, Paris is still doing her best to extend her 15 minutes of fame (which was about 14.5 minutes too long to begin with).

Rock Star: Supernova -- Holy Jesus, what a crap show this is! First, there's Tommy Lee. One time drummer for a famous metal band, two-time convicted criminal. With pearls of wisdom like: "Dude, grab the groupies and meet me backstage. That was awesome!", I just can't understand why Pamela Anderson left him for that other intellectual, Kid Rock.

And then there's Dave Navarro whose only real claim to fame is nailing Carmen Electra. Yeah, okay, he was apparently in a band a few years back, but as Miss Jackson asks: "What have you done for me lately?"

Oh, and we can't forget that both Tommy and Dave have had their own shows before this one. I didn't realize that a weekly viewership of roughly 175 people constituted primetime success.

So You Think You Can Dance -- Admittedly, this one is somewhat humourous, watching loser after loser pretend to be Shakira and then be all shocked when told that an old Canadian orangutan has better rhythm. The British guy with the wrinkly puss is just Simon Cowell on Valium and the smiley chick is just annoying.

Dancing/Skating with the Stars -- What dumbass came up with this concept? Take washed-up celebrities, match them with actual athletes (who may or may not be washed up at this point) and get the public to judge them all to find out who sucks the least.

World's Most Amazing Police Chases/Caught on Tape/Car Crashes etc.... The title is so misleading. First of all, 90% of the videos are from the UK, so it's not really the "World's Most...". Secondly, a lot of the videos aren't that amazing. And thirdly, why is it necessary to stretch three and half seconds of footage into an 11 minute segment. The car crashed. The driver lived. I GET IT ALREADY!!

Thanks to satellite TV, we now have access to hundreds and hundreds of channels from around the world. Specialty channels, Sports, News, Comedy, Movies -- anything you want, any time of day (except Bugs Bunny. I can't seem to find that wascally wabbit anywhere!!)

The fact that there are so many channels isn't my main complaint. What really frosts my cupcakes is that there are so many channels with absolutely nothing of any real quality. Bring back shows like The Gong Show, All in the Family and Sanford & Son. That was good stuff.

There must be a lot of money in becoming a TV star. Seems everyone's doing it. Maybe I should look into getting my own show. I have no experience, no talent, a face better suited for radio and no real thoughts as to what my program would be about. But then again, that hasn't stopped the likes Bob Saget, Ozzy Osborne or Jessica Simpson from getting their mugs on my screen.

Stupid Corporations.

2006-09-05T20:26:00.000-04:00

Just a quick and dirty rant today because I'm too angry to be all flowery and poetic.

I don't like big corporations. How can you trust anyone that rakes in the profits, hand over fist, and then has the balls to complain that their taxes are too high or that their business is too slow?

Once they get to a certain size, these companies seem to lose touch with the people who actually made them as big as they are. Customer service? Forget about it! You're just another account number in their system (which reminds me of a rant for another day about why it's necessary to have an account number that contains more digits than there are people on the planet)...

Let me tell you something...There are two well-known telecommunications companies that have somehow unbelievably lost the ability to actually communicate. I won't name names, but suffice to say that one rhymes with "Hell" (how appropriate) and the other rhymes with "Dodgers" (what they seem to become when asked a direct question). (Apologies to my non-Canadian friends as these hints may not be that helpful).

Instead of the old-style "Press 1 for this…Press 2 for that…", (which I guess is SO passé), both corporations have taken to using a voice-activated menu. Guess how much I love listening to the cheery robot voice and giving my one-word answers for the first 28 minutes of my phone call? About as much as I'd love having my prostate checked by Captain Hook. Ar, matey.

And when I finally DO get a real, live person on the line, I'm told that I've reached the wrong department and that they'll have to transfer me which then means I've been sent to purgatory called "on hold" to listen to music that is A) far too loud and B) far too Michael Bolton. All because I took a wrong turn somewhere in their labyrinth of Q&A with Mr./Ms. Cheerful instead of speaking to an actual human.

As you may have guessed, I am currently embroiled in negotiations between these two firms for their services. Both have claimed that the transition would be seamless, however somehow in all of this, I've become the project coordinator. I've been scheduling technicians for hook-ups, making billing arrangements, and negotiating pricing packages.

You can be sure I'll be submitting a timesheet to both companies so that I can start collecting a paycheque for all that I've done for them. Surely with all of their hundreds of millions of dollars in revenue they can fork over a couple grand for my time. Oh, and perhaps make a trip to HMV for some new "on hold" muzak.

Hell-itosis

2006-08-31T19:25:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you something…There's not much worse than having a conversation with someone whose breath is so bad it's as if they had a shit sandwich for lunch. Of all the pet-peeves I have, I think the one that bothers me most has to be bad breath.

It can come from anyone. Male, female, young and old. And it can range from the mildly unpleasant "just ate a spicy taco" breath to the eye-watering, paint-peeling death-breath that has you gagging and running for the door. Even my 2-year old gets mung-mouth on a regular basis and it can be so bad, particularly after his afternoon nap, that I've thought about giving him some Altoids.

I once had the unfortunate experience of working with a guy who didn't believe it was necessary to brush his teeth in the morning. "I brush my teeth before I go to bed. Since I don't eat breakfast, I don't have any food in my mouth until lunch time, so why do I need to brush my teeth before then?"

Because it smells like you licked the ass-end of a skunk, that's why.

If someone were to do a study, I wouldn't be surprised in the least if the results showed that the distance at which a person speaks to you is directly related to the grossness of their breath. Invariably, the person who feels it is necessary to speak to me at a distance of roughly 3 inches will also have breath so bad it's visible. And, of course, their story will likely be about "how high the helicopter hovered while honeymooning in Hawaii"

The thing of it is -- it can be prevented! So please do everyone a favour: Brush your teeth, chew gum and for cryin' out loud step back a bit!

Mickey Mouse Astronomy

2006-08-28T20:05:00.000-04:00

Holy Hannah! Did you hear the news? This is big. I mean REALLY big. I'm talking "lock up the women and children, grab yer gun, head for the hills, Tom Cruise's ego" big. Are you ready for this? I hope you're sitting down because this is gonna knock your socks off.

Pluto is not a planet.

Yes, you read that right. While you go collect your socks, I'm going to go cancel my Interplanetary Cruise Lines vacation plans.

Okay, so this is sort of old news by now, but my beef is that it was news at all.

Let me tell you something…I don't think there is anyone on THIS planet who really gives a crap whether a bunch of über-nerd scientists, who have most likely never kissed a girl, consider a frozen peanut billions of miles out in the dark of space, a planet or not.

What kind of slow-ass news day was it that enabled this to be one of the top stories of the day? Sure, it was great have a break from all the 'who shot/invaded/raped whom' nonsense I'm normally subjected to, but I would have thought they could have found something a little more meaningful to report. What's next? "This just in… The CFL is no longer considered a true sports organization." ?

As a result of this astronomical shocker, text books all over the world will have to be revised to reflect the fact that there are now only 8 planets in our solar system instead of 9. Well, as anyone who's ever attended a post-secondary institution for more than a single year can attest, every text book in the world is revised annually so that incoming students cannot purchase used textbooks because the footnote on page 786 has changed slightly. So I can't imagine it'll be a big undertaking for the printers to delete the 2.5 pages of text relating to Pluto from what I assume must be the 50 astronomy text books that have ever been printed.

So the question remains: If Pluto isn't a planet, then what is it? Since everyone's faith in the nerd community has been shaken to the core, I suggest we turn to the one organization that has never led us astray and has always maintained a hard line on life's truths:

Gravity does not exist unless you look down;
You can be shot in the head repeatedly and it will only turn your face black;
A coyote can withstand an infinite number boulders, dynamite explosions and train collisions;

and Pluto is a dog.

Life Lesson # 8: Leave The Acting To Hollywood

2006-08-28T19:59:00.000-04:00

Have you ever tried to pretend to be someone more exciting or interesting than you really are? Perhaps fabricating an exotic story line for the stranger seated next to you on the plane? Or to the hottie seated next to you at the bar?

There's definitely something fun about pretending to be someone you're not, but be careful boys and girls, because it could come back to bite you in the ass like Cujo on a t-bone.

She was new to our sleepy little town. Tall, blonde hair, big blue eyes. Quite attractive. I thought I should go up and introduce myself and perhaps ask if she'd like me to show her around. I saw her at the same time, same place every week, so I knew when I would get my opportunity. Finally, the day arrived. I was dressed in my Sunday best, idly chatting with a few friends, waiting for the right moment.

And then...there she was. Standing in her usual spot by the entrance, smiling and wishing everyone a good day. I turned to the people in my group: "Watch and learn, you losers. THIS is how you do it." I turned up my collar, à la James Dean and sashayed across the crowded room towards her. Others began to notice my exaggerated swagger (think Cheech & Chong meets George Jefferson) and I gave them a wink and two thumbs-up.

I focussed on my target. Our eyes met. She saw me coming and smiled. AT ME!!
I was golden.
I was the man.
I was da bomb.
I was almost there.

I was…on my ass, looking up at the ceiling.

Being so intent making a show of crossing the room and walking up to this woman, I had forgotten about the 2 steps that led down to the landing upon which she was standing. And, because karma is such a bitch, I had completely wiped out and landed in a crumpled heap at her feet with a sore tailbone and a severe contusion on my pride.

As you would expect, I became the laughing stock of the town for a short period. For those of you who have read my other Life Lessons, you'll remember that this is not the only time I have entered municipal lore. It is, however, the first time I publicly humiliated myself.

I was 11 years old. The incident happened at church. The woman was our new Minister.

Listen kids: the moral of this one is that you might as well be who you are. People will find out eventually, anyway, so you're best to make it as painless as possible.

Under The Weather

2006-08-23T08:52:00.000-04:00

Have you ever stopped to think about what the best job in the world would be? There are plenty of worthy occupations out there that could provide a meaningful existence or eternal happiness. To name a few: doctor, teacher, host of a travel show, porn star etc.

But let me tell you something...I've given it some thought and I think I've come up with the ultimate career. I'll describe it for you. See if you can guess it.

Hundreds or thousands of people listen to you everday. Sometimes more than once per day. That's how important and valuable your words are.
On any given day, you get to choose the location to give your speeches. One day, you might feel like standing beside a picturesque stream. The next day, at a nearby farm. Or maybe you just don't want to be outside and elect to stay indoors. Whatever your fancy! In fact, it is actually encouraged that you avoid your desk!
You can also decide what you want to wear. Feel like a shirt and tie? Go ahead! Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts? Hey, why not?! No need for conformity. Whatever you're most comfortable in.
And what about performance expectations? Oh, don't worry about that! If you make a mistake, don't panic. We'll give you another chance. In fact, it doesn't matter whether you perform 100%, half-assed, or if you're completely off in the rhubarb. We'll always give you another chance!

Any guesses as to what this most fabulous job might be? I'll tell you. A weatherman (weatherperson, if you're gonna get all PC on me).

Honestly, I can't think of another job that is as cushy as this one, (no, not even government!) and actually allows you to screw up day after day and still keep your position. Today, for example, the man said "Sunny with a few clouds, and a high of 21". I'm looking out my window and I don't see any sun (no, it's not night time). And it's nowhere near 21. Come on, people. Let's at least get CLOSE to an accurate forecast.

I could probably be just as accurate if I were to stick my head outside and have a look around. "Cloudy today. A little chilly. Back to you, Steve."

It wouldn't be so bad if they prefaced their forecasts with "Here's what we think it'll be like over the next few days...", but instead, these cocky bastards stick their noses in the air and declare "Tomorrow will be..." and "It's going to be..." as if there is no possibility of them being wrong. Such arrogance!

And while we're at it, why do they insist on being called "meteorologists"? They don't study meteors.

And another thing: Why is it, when you're leaving to go somewhere, you turn to your friend/ spouse or whomever and ask "Do I need a coat?" Like THEY will know if you're going to be cold or not.

Going Ape Over Wars

2006-08-21T19:17:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you something... I've had just about enough of all the media coverage of these wars everywhere. Afghanistan, Iraq, Isreal/Lebanon, Rwanda, and where ever else.

Don't like someone's politics? Send in the troops. Someone step on your patriotic pride? Bomb the snot out of them.

But what really upsets me is the fact that countries have taken to using primates to do their dirty work. And it's gotten to the point that you can't swing a cat without hitting a news story about some crazy fool using gorilla warfare tactics.

I've seen the Dian Fossey documentaries and as far as I can tell, gorillas are not very well suited for military operations. Sure, they have opposable thumbs and could probably fire a gun, but I'm not sure how well they'd respond to the screaming commands of the drill instructor. And I imagine the others would scatter pretty quick after the first one eats a grenade instead of chucking it.

Or maybe the wars are actually fought by big hairy men stomping, beating their chests, threatening one another with leafy branches and flinging poo at each other.

My guess is that either scenario is equally effective at solving conflicts.

What's left?

2006-08-09T19:46:00.000-04:00

I seem to have reached a dead end. I think I've ranted on just about everything there is to rant about.

Religion -- check
Environment -- check
Stupid/Strange People -- check
Kids -- check
Neighbours -- check
Politics -- check
Corporations -- check
Celebrities -- check

Wow. Three and a half months into this blogging stuff and I'm already out of material. I could always go back and cover the same topics, but I don't want to bore you with the "been there, done that" kind of thing (although that's a sign of a true "old man" -- telling the same stories over and over again, eh?). Even the Life Lessons are getting harder and harder to remember!

I'm going to take a bit of a sabbatical and conduct some intense research for a week or so. I can tell you that this research will involve me sitting on a deck at a cottage, drinking beer and swimming in a lake. Not necessarily in that order, either.

Hopefully you won't forget about me while I ponder the intricacies, delicacies and lunacies of life. Feel free to submit your ideas and suggestions while I'm gone!

In the meantime, you might want to check out a couple of interesting and off-the-wall sites that, for reasons just beyond my grasp, continually fascinate me.

Trust Proof -- no idea what the title means, but she's a cute, cultured (read: artsy-fartsy) type whose specialty is photographs of…well…stuff.

Damebramage -- for something completely different. As rare as they are, each post is a sign that she's forgotten to take her medications. But don't worry…She works in the medical profession.

See you all in a week or so!

Life Lesson # 7: One of These Days, You're Gonna Get a Surprise

2006-08-07T16:36:00.000-04:00

Shopping for a new car has never been one of those chores that has me bounding out of bed at the crack of dawn, eager to take on the challenges of negotiation.

So when the time came for my fiancée to replace her Model T, I was less than enthusiastic about spending my weekend going from parking lot to parking lot, looking at everything we couldn't afford.

After finishing up with only our 1st dealership of the day, I pulled out of the lot and headed for the next one. Little did I know that it would be "number 2" that would send me home, near tears. Here's how our conversation went:

Her: "So do you think we should go see the Honda dealership now?"
Me: "Sure, if you like. I think it's just down the road, on the left."
"Okay." (After driving for 30 more seconds, I make a right turn)
"What the…?? Where are you going?"
"Home."
"Why?"
"Because. I have to."
"What? Why?"
"JUST BECAUSE, OKAY? SOMETHING HAPPENED AND I HAVE TO GO HOME! NOW!!" "What happened? What's wrong?"
"Nevermind! I don't want to talk about it!"
"What?? You just went from zero-to-spazz in 3 seconds and you won't tell me what's wrong?" *sniff sniff…* "What's that smell?"

What I had just experienced was something that I, until that very moment, thought was an impossibility. A wives' tale created by adults to conjure horrible images of embarassment and ridicule in little children's minds. Not so, my friends. SO not so.

I'll spare you the graphic detail as I think most of you are intelligent enough to figure this one out on your own. I'll just skip right to the lesson for today.

Remember, boys and girls…Let your farts come naturally. Don't, under any circumstances, put undue force behind them; or you may end up with a surprise in your shorts.

Even if you're 26 years old, out with your soon-to-be-wife and have to drive back home, sitting in your own filth, staining your car seat, having to park a mile from your apartment building and waddle to the slow-as-molasses elevator (in the front lobby, of course) which takes you to the 11th floor, and waddle another quarter mile down the hall to your apartment. All while carrying your significant other because she's hysterical with laughter.

Yep. Even then.

Holiday Inn: Alcatraz

2006-08-01T19:53:00.000-04:00

You know, like it or not, our society has rules. Sometimes we may think they're ridiculous, petty or a waste of time, but every single one of them was brought into existence with the intention of protecting the public's health and safety in some form or another.

And again, whether we like it or not, most of us elect to follow these rules. Why? Because, as ironic as it seems, living under constraints enables us to take advantage of the freedoms and comforts we've come to enjoy from living in a democratic and civilized society. If you break the rules (and get caught), the consequences are such that you must give up a portion of your freedom and suffer some degree of discomfort. And the degree varies by the seriousness of the offense. A traffic ticket. A night in the drunk tank. A week of community service. Years in prison. The death penalty.

However, there are some people who feel that the rules do not apply to them. And despite breaking one of the rules, they don't believe they should be giving up their rights, freedoms and comforts. Let me tell you something… I'm getting pretty damn sick and tired of hearing about convicted criminals who complain that their new living conditions are "sub-par".

"There's no cable TV."
"I didn't get a pillow."
"The food is yucky."
"My cell is too small."
"The guard yelled at me."
"I had to pee in front of 5 other people."

Oh, I'm so sorry, your highness! Is there anything else we taxpayers can do to make your life a little more comfortable? I mean…sure, you raped and killed a bunch of people, but we wouldn't want you to be distressed any more than necessary. I bet that nasty trial you had was such a bother. Here…Can I get you the Wall Street Journal? How about an X-Box?

Come on, folks. This is San Quentin; Not Sandals. As far as I'm concerned, you gave up your right to creature comforts the day you broke the law. You no longer get a say in how you live your life. Did your victims have a say? And I don't even want to hear a word about how inconvenient it was for you to vote in the last election! You should just be thankful that you were allowed to vote at all.

And speaking of being thankful… If you think the conditions are bad in the Kingston or Edmonton penitentiaries, perhaps you'd be interested in a transfer? I hear there's bed space in Cambodia, Turkey and the Gulags of Siberia. I, personally, would be happy to buy your one-way ticket.

These criminals may have taken away someone's life or have left a trail of emotionally and/or physically scarred victims (not to mention surrounding family, friends and communities). Yet these rule-breakers are guaranteed a roof over their head, at least three full meals a day, a bed to sleep in, access to books, television, education and other self-improvement programs and yet they have the audacity to bitch about how rough their lives are. Well boo-hoo. Hey, if you're really fed up with your suffering, I know a way we can put an end to it.

It's a sad state of affairs that our criminals are treated better than our handicapped or homeless.

Keeping Up With the DICKs

2006-07-31T18:59:00.000-04:00

What would a crazy Old Man be without the occasional rant about his neighbours?

Let me tell you something…I've been in my new place just 11 months, now, and already I've discovered that most of my neighbours are idiots.

Here is list of suburbanites that I've inadvertently surrounded myself with:

#1 - The husband speaks only to me and will not acknowledge my wife. Family is constantly in a hurry and/or late for stuff; possibly because any conversation with the wife lasts a minimum of 25 minutes. They always state how gossiping is bad for community morale, yet they are the first to come running over asking "what did they say?" if they spot us talking to one of the other neighbours.

#2 - Cigar smoking chimney of a man -- and the prevailing winds are ALWAYS blowing this way. His wife hasn't smiled in 30 years. They blast hip hop and rap so loudly that it echoes throughout the subdivision. Two kids: One is 14, the other is 5….(I'm thinking: "oops") They like to yell at both.

#3 - Wants a pool. Puts up the fence first! Asks me to share the cost of said fence (of course, it's the Rolls Royce version), but turns me down when I offer less than 50% (because I don't want a fence). A week later, he comes back to accept my offer. And within 12 hours, the posts are in the ground. Yeah, that fence was going up on the property line whether I liked it or not.

#4a & b - Brothers living next door to one another. Neither ever wears a shirt or shoes or speaks to anyone other than each other. 4a's wife is a blonde bombshell. 4b's wife has been into the magic mushrooms a little too long -- loopy as a froot (and she's named after a tree!). Both had babies within 2 weeks of each other, but I've never seen the two children at the same time. Verrry suspicious, indeed… AND, 4a doesn't recycle. Anything. Ever. They may be next on my list for a protest.

#5 - Retired couple. Fancy cars. Perfect lawn. Perfect landscaping. Yeah, there's always one of these in every 'hood. Standard greeting to everyone is: "Hi, we were the first house in the area. We're not putting up a fence." Uuuhh…okay…

#6 - Young couple who apparently believe we're living on the Equator. Their airconditioner is constantly running. And I'm so glad they selected the model with the soothing turbo-prop Cesna engine.

#7 - They seem friendly enough -- for a 109 year old Asian couple who don't speak English.

And then there's me. I'm nice when I need to be. I try to keep my domestic life inside the house. I don't bother anyone. You know…If more people were as perfect as me, this would be a much better place to live, don't you think?

The area is full of kids, predominantly in the age range of 6-9 years and their backyards contain play structures that make Canada's Wonderland look tame. And it always seems to be that if little Johnny has a 10-foot slide with Cirque du Soleil trapeze bars, then within a week, little Suzie will have have the same thing, PLUS an Olympic-sized trampoline; and then a week after that, the Ritalin Twins will have all that and a water park with a lifeguard. Yes…All in a 40 X 20 yard.

My little creature seems completely satisfied playing on the driveway with a broom, some chalk and a water gun. Cost me a grand total of 9 bucks and I don't have to worry about broken necks. And on top of that, when he's finished playing with those things, I can make use of them all, rather than watching them decay in my un-tended back yard. I'll use the broom to sweep the driveway, the chalk to draw the outlines of the kids that have killed themselves on the monster play structures and the watergun to squirt the strays that wander onto my property (dogs, cats, children).

Perhaps I shouldn't complain so much. Most of us are DICKs (Double Income, Coupla Kids) and we're all just trying to live that elusive (i.e. expensive) North American dream. The neighbourhood is clean (so far), there's no crime (yet) and there's lots to do (if you have a car).

But optimistic ranting just isn't as much fun. Plus, I'd have to rename the site to "toomuchhappiness.blogspot.com" and I'm too busy spying on 4a's wife to have to figure out how to do that.

Life Lesson # 6: You Don't HAVE To Listen To Your Boss

2006-07-27T20:24:00.000-04:00

This one is dedicated to a couple of my close, personal blog friends. You know who you are...

Let me set the scene for you:
- I've just graduated university and landed my first job, which, amazingly enough, happens to be in my field of study
- The job is in the big city and they want me to start right away
- Luckily, my university roommate and his parents live in the area and they offer to take me in until I can find a place of my own.

And now our story begins. Get comfy, because this could be a long 'un.

It's a surprisingly hot day in May when I show up for my first day of work with an environmental engineering company. I've been instructed to "dress for the dirt" because my first assignment is to join a crew of guys to plant terrestrial vegetation around a wetland. I've got an old T-shirt, a pair of doctor's pants (O.R. scrubs), a hat, work gloves and work boots.

I am SO ready for this! Look out world, I'm kickin' ass and takin' names!!

The morning passes without incident. By 2pm, I'm as gross and grimy as Kid Rock looks. The crew supervisor comes to me and suggests I hook up the watering gear and start watering what we've just planted.

Looking at the hose, I can't help but notice that it is of approximately 1920s vintage. The connections don't quite fit right, and there are more holes in it than OJ Simpson's testimony. The supervisor notices my hesitation and offers this advice:
"You're gonna get wet, ya know. If you've got boxers on, I might suggest you set your pants aside so that you have something dry to ride home in. Your boxers will just look like shorts."

Remember, this is my first day of my working career. I wasn't about to disobey a suggestion from my new boss. Plus, it was just a bunch of guys and we were in a relatively secluded area (yes, I realize how that sounds. Don't even start, franko...). I didn't exactly have boxers on, though. They were the cross between boxers and briefs -- clingy like briefs, but they came to my mid-thigh.

"What the hell?" I say to myself and step out of my scrubs and started watering. I got wet. And muddy. But I didn't care. I was doing a service to the environment and to the community and so what if I had to expose my lilly-white toothpick legs to do it? I wanted to show this company that I was dedicated and willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done.

At the end of the day, we all packed up, climbed into the truck and headed back to the shop, which was a 45 minute ride. On the way, we stopped to fill the truck with gas and because I was sitting at the window, I was elected to get out and pump. And go in and pay.

Back at the shop, I unloaded the truck. I felt so good. I was hot, tired, filthy and completely exhilarated.

Jumping into my car, I head back to my friend's place (40 minute ride). I park, walk up the pathway, past the garage and round the corner into the backyard where my friend's father yells out "Jesus Christ! What the hell kind of job are you at that you come home with no pants on, boy??"

Oh, and I should mention that they were hosting a BBQ for a bunch of their neighbours.

Honestly...That was the first moment I realized that I had no pants on. I hadn't had pants on since about 2:30pm. It was now after 6pm.

Yes. Nearly 4 hours; completely oblivious to the fact that I was wandering all over creation with no pants on.

What's weird is that, aside from my friend's father, nobody else that I had spoken to even acknowledged the fact that I was standing there in my gitch. None of my coworkers. The gas station guy. Other people at the gas station. The admin people back at the shop.

So remember boys and girls: Just because your boss says it's a good idea to take your pants off, it doesn't necessarily mean that you should.

Unless you see it as a means for career advancement.

Hey, now that I think about it, I became a crew supervisor in under a year. Hmm... I think I'd rather believe it was because of my skills and work ethic, as opposed to my willingness to drop trou' without question.

Why?

2006-07-26T18:48:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you something…I've seen some strange behaviours in people and I want to know why. Here are a few that I'd like to throw out there for discussion amongst yourselves.

Why do people think that by repeatedly pushing the elevator call button, it will arrive any faster? After pressing the "Up" or "Down" button, do you think the elevator says to itself (in the typical Eyore monotone voice) "All right, all right. I'm coming."? But if you press the call button a thousand times in rapid succession, the elevator says (sounding more like Robin from Batman and Robin): "Holy Hannah! This guy needs a lift right away! I better get on my horse!" ? Listen; press it once. You don't need to remind the machine that you're waiting.

Similarly, why do people insist on pressing the crosswalk button a hundred times or even feel the need to lean on the button? Again…press it once. The thing knows you're there. Pressing the crosswalk button (I'm talking about the Walk/Don't Walk signals) does not change the traffic lights. Think about it for a second…Can you imagine the mayhem that would ensue if every crosswalk button instantly changed the stoplights?

Why do people walk up or down escalators? If you want to walk up or down the stairs -- TAKE THE STAIRS!! My assumption is that these are folks who only want a minimum amount of physical activity. Taking the stairs is too much work, but just standing on the escalator leaves them with a slightly guilty conscience. The whole premise behind an escalator is that you get a leisurely transfer between floors, so get on, stand still and just enjoy the damn ride.

Why do people throw money away? I don't mean in the abstract way such as sinking welfare cheques into racetracks and casinos. I'm referring, literally, to the act of physically throwing money away. Pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters (and the occasional one and two dollar coins for us Canucks) tossed into fountains. I'd be willing to bet that millions of dollars end up sitting at the bottom of decorative fountains around the world. A quarter here, a quarter there -- may not seem like much, but it doesn't take long for it to add up to a load of laundry at the local Rinse 'N Fluff. From there, it's not too difficult to get it to add up to a beer at the pub. And for the love of Pete, don't throw away beer money. Hey…If you're so rich that you can afford to toss your money away like yesterday's trash, let me give you my address; send it here and I'll dispose of it for you.

Why do people feel it necessary to hold records? For clarification, I'm talking Guinness World Records, not the vinyl LP's. Most worms eaten in 30 seconds. Longest ear hair. Longest fingernails. Most pierced woman. Seriously…Who gives a crap? Is your life really going to be that much better if you can put "Current world record holder in…" on your resume? Every day I break my own personal record of Most Consecutive Days Alive. That's the only record I care about.

So? What do you think? Any insight you can provide would be most appreciated. I'm going to head to the mall where I can watch people jackhammer the elevator button, do the escalator like a stairmaster and throw coins in the fountain. Maybe I could get the record for most idiots spotted in a single location...

(Incidentally, for those of you who do give a crap, the current records for the aforementioned stunts are: 200 worms, 5.19" ear hair, 24' 7.8" total length of fingernails, 720 piercings)

The REAL AdScam

2006-07-24T20:10:00.000-04:00

Hey, remember when you used to paint eggs for Easter? Lines, dots, squiggles and swirls. And the truly talented chumps… um… I mean…artistes could draw ducks, bunnies and chicks on them? (I could draw chicks, too, but they weren't the cute, fluffy poultry kind.)

Wasn't that fun? Well it seems that some meathead over at CBS has decided to ressurect that long-lost art by placing promotional slogans for their TV programs onto eggs! I haven't heard whether they'll be using pastel colours or not, but I somehow doubt it.

Let me tell you something…If this turns out to be my last blog post, it's because I've gone on an anti-advertisement rampage and have been sent to jail or sent to the funny farm.

Advertising on eggs? Just saying those words causes the vein in my forehead to throb. Is it not enough that a 25-minute primetime program, (which is what we used to get 15 years ago), has turned into a 60-minute marathon of drivel comprised of roughly 20 minutes of actual show and 40 minutes worth of corporate pandering? Just how many times do they think I need to be reminded "You're watching CBS!" ?

Is it not enough that when I go to a movie that is scheduled to start at 7pm, that really means 7:30pm because of the damned commercials we're forced to sit through -- and this after remortgaging the house for tickets, popcorn and a drink??

Advertising is everywhere -- TV, radio, Internet, email, cell phones, billboards, magazines, newspapers, telephone poles, sporting events -- you can't go 3 steps without seeing some corporate logo, loitering around like a prostitute looking for her next trick. And I don't even want to get into the ridiculous amount of product placement that goes on in TV shows, movies and the ultimate in advertising whoring: tattooing on willing participants.

On top of that, the ads these days aren't even remotely intelligent. One of the worst is of the two girls eating Aero chocolate bars, talking to each other with their mouths full, orgasming over how wonderful the bubbles are. A few months later, I see an ad with two women sitting in a kitchen, mooning over how smooth their ice cream is. A little research reveals that the ice cream and the Aero bar are made by the same company: Nestle. Those commercials tell me that Nestle needs a beating.

And if I have to hear that f*cking commercial that consists of a thousand f*cking phones clicking shut, the next click that the f*cking whack job who came up with that f*cking idea hears will be that of a gun. Deep breath in...Hold...And release...Deep breath in....

Some of the proposed slogans that are to be printed on the eggs include: "CSI cracks the case..." and "Catch the egg-citing drama on Numb3rs…" What wit! What originality! What complete and utter monkeyshit!

Not only am I continually assaulted by ads that have been pulled from a marketing exec's ass, but now I'm soon to be subjected to those pulled from a chicken's ass. I wonder how long this campaign will last before people (such as myself) chuck the ads at their office windows?

(Check out HERE and/or HERE for a sanctimonious plug for some folks with the right idea.)

(Note: The title is a bit of an inside joke relating to Canadian politics and has nothing to do with this post)

Get Your Hands Outta My Pocket

2006-07-20T20:36:00.000-04:00

Have you ever come to the realization that you may be in the wrong industry?

Let me tell you something...Whoever came up with the concept of "insurance" was a certifiable genius and I'm not sure why I didn't venture into that field, myself. Probably because I'm just certifiable without the genius part.

Think about it: you give some money to a guy who basically says "I'll hold onto the cash until you need it". Then, the day you need it, he says one of two things:

1) "I'm not giving you your money back. Now pay me a shitload more." or

2) "Here's some of your money. Now pay me a shitload more."

See? Genius! Insurance companies should be called "Hoovers" because they suck so bad.

And I find it so insulting when the company decides to "thank me for my patronage". Wow, I've been giving you thousands of dollars ever year for 16 years and you thank me with a $20 calendar?? At the end of the year, I wrote them a detailed letter expressing my disappointment at how ineffective the calendar was at doubling as toilet paper.

Believe it or not, but there are companies out there that actually insure insurance companies! Man, I wish I'd gotten in on that.

Banks are also notorious for the good ol' "bend over and take it" approach to service. "Have some money? Keep it here! We'll look after it for you for a small fee." Sounds pretty good, eh? Except for the "small fee" part, which as we all know, actually means "every time you breathe, it will cost you money".

What really frosts my cake are the user fees that the bank imposes when you actually have no money! A minimum balance, for example. Don't have two grand? That'll cost you $6.50/mo. Not enough money to cover a cheque you wrote? That'll cost you whatever the cheque was worth PLUS 75 big ones. Apparently financial institutions can get blood from a stone.

Boo hoo. The bank only had a profit of $100 bajillion. Gee, it's going to be a lean Christmas for Tiny Tim this year. The more I think about it, the more I believe that our grandparents had the right idea by hiding their cash in the mattress and under the floor boards. Hey...It earns just as much interest, but without the fees! I wonder if there is a bank for banks?

Okay, I better stop now before I give myself horrible ulcers. And then have to go on disability, which is paid through insurance, who will then increase my premiums, which I'll have to pay for out my savings, which I hardly have any, which means the bank will charge me higher fees...

Holy Hannah, somebody stop the madness!!

Life Lesson # 5: Be Warned, Lest Ye Be Humbled

2006-07-17T19:51:00.000-04:00

I am not really a spa kind of guy. Don't get me wrong, though; I love a good massage or a foot rub, but I'd rather stay away from the girly-type treatments like pedicures and facials. However, I figured I was comfortable enough with myself that I thought I could handle taking my wife to a spa resort in Grenada for a week. As part of the vacation package, we were both entitled to a daily treatment of our choice.

Of course, my wife thought she'd died and gone to heaven. But as with most of my life's disasters, I approached the situation with "how bad can this be?" (That should be a life-lesson in and of itself).

The week was going well:
Scalp massage. Fantastic.
Swedish massage. Awesome.
Foot treatment. Incredible.

Seaweed Wrap. Great googly moogly, what the hell was I thinking?

Now some of you may have experienced this before and will know where I'm going with this one. For those of you with no prior wrap experience: PAY ATTENTION. The following horror story is for your own good.

My first clue that I was in trouble came as I entered the treatment room and the woman handed me a tampon. I screamed like Homer Simpson and threw it against the wall. How bad is this session going to be that I'm going to need a tampon?? And just where the hell do you expect me to put it?? (THIS is why guys don't go to spas). She explained to me that that was my disposable underwear and then stepped out of the room to allow me to change.

Disposable underwear? This was definitely not in the brochure. Note to self: Kill travel agent when I get home.

Unrolling the little cotton tube reveals what appears to be two Kleenex -- one for the front, one for the back -- attached by a couple pieces of string. I thought: You gotta be kidding me. I'm supposed to WEAR this?? It was like herding cats, trying to get everything in place before the woman returned!

After laying back on the table and feeling quite vulnerable, the woman proceeds to paint me with what amounts to seaweed puree. Who would have thought that something that smells like a wharf could be good for the skin? Oh, and did I mention that this concoction was also applied at the soothing temperature of approximately 6 degrees? I'll forego the shrinkage jokes.

The "wrap" part of the program involves being cocooned in a plastic bag, followed by a heated blanket. "The heat from the blanket", says the woman, "activates the skin cleansing properties of the seaweed mixture". I think what she meant to say was "...causes your body to emit an odour similar to rotten compost". Great, so now I look AND smell like a cabbage roll.

20 minutes later, she returns and informs me that I am to get into the shower and rinse off. I make a move to step out of my disposable undies only to have the woman say "Oh no, not yet. We're not finished." Say WHAT?

Now what do you suppose happens when you get a Kleenex wet? Right. It clings like saran wrap. And turned just as transparent. I'm sure the one on my front actually shrunk a size or two and because it had, there was no way I was getting that party under control again. The one behind was nowhere to be found, despite my valiant attempts to retrieve it (and my dignity) from the abyss.

Resigning myself to the fact that modesty has left the building, I dry off and return to the treatment room, head down, not wanting to make eye contact and having no clue as to what horror could possibly come next.

The final stage of the treatment involves this woman rubbing lotion all over my body. And I mean ALL OVER. She got into places my wife hasn't seen. And the whole time I just kept thinking: "Please don't go up; Please don't go up; Please don't go up."

At last, I was released back out into the wilds of the resort, blinking at the bright sunlight and feeling more than a little violated. I spent the remainder of the afternoon, clutching my knees, rocking back and forth, muttering "No. No. Momma said you're not supposed to touch me there."

It was one of the most humbling experiences of my life, but if I can save at least one of you from going through the same thing, then I've done my job. Next time we're going to Disneyland.

But, boy, did I have some fabulously smooth and glowing skin!

Ain't No Flies On Us. I Wish.

2006-07-12T20:15:00.000-04:00

I spent much of today pondering one of life's greatest mysteries. No, it's not "How can anyone find Courtney Love attractive?" The quandry I'm stuck on has plagued humankind since about 1913, and that question is "Should you tell a person that their fly is down?"

Being caught with your fly down can be very awkward, depending on the situation. It's not so bad if your significant other mentions it while you both watch TV, but it's quite another sensation to be told, after the fact, that your shirt tail was poking out of your barn door during your entire presentation to the Board of Directors.

The answer to this question is not as clear-cut as it may seem. There are subtleties and nuances that must be observed and understood before deciding to take action or not. Let me tell you something…Today I sat through almost an entire hour whereby my manager regaled a group of us with story after story, completely oblivious to the fact that he had some fruit poking out of the loom. I'm not usually one to pass up a good burn on my manager in front of others, but since he hasn't done my performance appraisal yet, I thought it would be in my best interest to just to keep quiet.

For me, I would want someone to tell me that my junk is hanging out before I parade around any longer than I already have. And because of this, I will usually be the one to speak up if I spy a low-hanging fly. There's something just a little too creepy about having one less layer of cloth between me and a foreign wang. It's just too unsettling for me not to say anything.

Obviously, being told that the world can see your gitch can leave you quite red-faced. (God help you if you've decided to go commando that day...) It means that at least one person knows that you just came from the washroom and that they can see your leopard-print bikini briefs. There is no graceful way of doing up a wayward zipper without attracting the attention of everyone in the room, but at least you can do it and get it overwith.

On the other hand, if you are the person observing this fashion infraction and bring it to the offender's attention, you rat yourself out as having been looking at their crotch in the first place. Definitely something to keep in mind.

And this raises another important question: What about the sexes of the parties involved? Is it any better or worse if a man mentions it to a woman? Or vice versa? Or from one guy to another? With such a litigious society these days, I wouldn't be surprised if the courts have seen a case or two of alleged sexual harassment because some poor guy tried to save his female coworker some embarassment. (Note to all men: it may be best to tell her that her fly is down instead of trying to zip it up yourself…)

And do you tell the person immediately or wait until a quieter, more private moment? And what's the best way to handle a half-zipped zipper?

So many questions. No straightforward answers.

I say we rally for the installation of Velcro flies (much safer for the men!). Either that, or we all start wearing those stretchy waist-band pants with no fly at all.

MacDonald's Pays Too Much

2006-07-10T19:56:00.000-04:00

Years ago, a kid was the envy of the neighbourhood if his soap-box racer had burlap on the seat. "Hey, nifty threads, Pete! That sure looks swell!" Today, however, somebody needs to explain to me the rationale behind buying a $17,000 base model Honda Civic, and then sinking an additional $26,000 in accessories into it.

A stereo system that can make a Nine Inch Nails concert sound like Zamfir in an elevator. Neon lights in the under-carriage, making the car look like a dance club on wheels. A spoiler (aka: whale tail) that has apparently been stolen off the ass end of a 747. And whatever the hell that cylinder is attached to the tailpipe, making the car sound more like a flatulent man in the Grand Canyon.

And don't forget the tinted windows, low profile tires, custom seats, coloured head and tail lights and fancy paint-job. Oh, and the ever-present something-er-other hanging from the rear-view mirror. More bling than Mr. T.

I ask you: Why? Why do you think this makes you look cool? Why would you take a perfectly good car and turn it into a vehicular Frankenstein? And more to the point: why do you apparently make more money than I do and can therefore afford such obscene luxuries?

Let me tell you something…these kids sure have some messed up priorities if they've got $43,000 to blow and they choose to spend it all on their stupid car. If you want a fancy, fast car you can get a decent BMW, Mercedes or even a year-old Lexus for that kind of money! And those all have more room in the backseat for…uh…you know…taking friends to library.

And what's the deal with street racing? After spending so much time and money "pimping your ride" (see, I'm down with the youth lingo, yo!), I simply cannot understand the logic behind wanting to risk destroying your car, your life and/or someone else's life by drag racing on city streets. Is it simply for the honour of saying "My unit is bigger than your unit"? A $2 ruler could settle those scores.

Some people blame video games like Grand Theft Auto or Super Mario Kart for planting the seeds in the kids heads that if you wreck, you can hit the reset button and try again. Some people blame the parents for not keeping control of their kids, allowing them to buy these vehicles and do all kinds of surgeries and mutations to them.

I think the real problem is that minimum wage is set too high. How else can a grease-ball teenager afford such a thing? I didn't own my first car until I was 22. It was a 6 year-old Pontiac Sunbird, and even then I barely had enough money to put gas in the damn thing, let alone pay for the "Calvin pissing" sticker .

Whatever happened to scrounging up and pooling all the loose change you could find so that you and your friends could buy a case of beer and then get wasted out behind the barn? 40-grand buys a lot of beer. And you don't even have to buy insurance.

Guesses?

2006-07-08T09:13:00.000-04:00

Anyone notice anything different about me today?

And no, I did not just have my hair done.

Life Lesson #4: Think through the plan before taking action.

2006-07-06T21:13:00.000-04:00

When I was about 6 or 7 years old (who knows…I wasn't paying much attention back then), I decided I desperately needed an influx of cash. For what? I haven't a clue. All I knew was that I needed it. And bad.

So what does a little kid do to get some green, right away, and by putting in as little effort as possible? Canvass the neighbourhood for donations to a charity, of course.

No papers, no identification. Not even an envelope to keep the money in. And yet, a pile of houses ponied up some dough after looking into my big doe eyes and hearing my well-rehearsed and undoubtedly convincing sales pitch: "Hi. I'm collecting for the Cancer Society. Can I have some money?"

In the end, I wound up with what probably amounted to $10 or $15, but to my monetarily virginal mind it seemed closer to a grand. One house even was even kind (naive?) enough to provide me with an envelope to carry my windfall…er, I mean…charitable donations.

On the ride home, I even devised a cover story in the event that my parents would question me about where the money came from. "I found it at the highschool. In this envelope. Just sitting under a tree." Oh yeah, I was good to go.

I nearly got away with it all if it hadn't been for one single, yet Rita MacNeil-sized, flaw in my plan.

Shortly after returning home -- I hadn't even found a place to stash my cash yet -- the telephone rang. Seems one of my canvassed houses had somehow inadvertently forgotten to pick up her tax receipt for the donation she gave.

Buh-sted.

But that, in and of itself, is not my fatal blunder. As any well-trained child should know, you don't talk to strangers. I had kept that in the back of my mind -- and collected money only from houses where I knew the owners! Friends of the family and parents of kids I went to school with.

So my near-perfect heist went to crap faster than a Steven Seagal movie.

As you can probably imagine, my parents hit the roof. I had to go back to all the houses to return the money and explain what I had done. In addition, I had to do enough chores around the house to earn the equivalent amount of money which would then truly go to the Cancer Society.

So obviously, the lesson for today is that if you're going to steal from your neighbours, don't go home afterwards.

Watch Your Language!

2006-06-30T20:20:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you something…I don't know where some people learned to talk, but I'm thinking they need to go back for a little extra tutoring. Have we become so lazy as a society that we can just make up words and pronunciations instead of learning and using the proper vocabulary?

I'm not talking about regional variations where accents may wreak havoc on words and phrases (I fully acknowledge that "y'all" and "yewstacud" are perfectly legitimate in Alabama). I mean regular, everyday, well-established English conversation.

Some examples:
Nuclear -- say it with me slowly…"New-klee-ur". It's not "nookie-ler" or "new-cue-ler". It's all I can do not to have a meltdown, listening to what I assume are literate senior officials and politicians use the incorrect pronunciations. They should know better.

Schedule -- the "sch" is pronounced "sk", not "sh". Anytime I hear someone say "shed-ule", I ask if they learned that word in shool, perhaps as part of a learning sheme.

Ask -- I know this one's a tough one for some, being a whopping three letters and all. The trick, here, is to say the sound of each letter individually… "a"…"s"…"k"… a-s-k. Next time I hear someone say "aks" or "ass" I'm going to stab them in the eye with a pencil. Or better yet, whack their 'ass' with an 'axe'.

Supposedly -- I can't count the number of times people say "supposably". That's not even a word! Is it a combination of 'supposedly' and 'possibly'? Supposedly you be edjumacated.

Like -- No exaggeration, I once heard the following sentence: "So, like, does Tim like, LIKE like her?". I actually felt my brain turn to pudding. If it wasn't for the fact that it was a 10 year-old girl uttering the phrase I may have gone mental and pummelled her. The world is already saturated with Valley Girls, thank you very much. Please don't add to the planet's misery.

I know there are others, but, well…you know…pudding.

I'm not asking for everyone to become Shakespeare. Lord knows there are enough people at the other end of the spectrum -- people that use big words and phrases in an effort to sound intelligent but only end up looking as smart as Leo DiCaprio in What's Eating Gilbert Grape -- I'm just saying that there are folks out there that sound as articulate as Beeker from the Muppets. And just like Beeker, they may be cute for the first 10 seconds but any longer and you just want smash their face with a brick.

PS: A gold star to anyone who can properly use "yewstacud" in a sentence...

Thou Shalt Not Kick Off Your Sunday Shoes

2006-06-27T20:52:00.000-04:00

So I hear through the grapevine that the Pope has issued an edict to all Catholic churches, stating that electric guitars and modern music are not to be played during Masses. Instead, the churches are to put more effort/resources into reviving choirs, organ music and the traditional Gregorian chants.

Of course, my first thought was "What the hell does the Pope know about modern music?" This guy is older than dirt and probably thinks Beethoven is still on the charts. Church attendance is at an all-time low, particularly among the younger generations, and yet the Pope declares another "ban", aimed primarily at the youth. After all, He wouldn't want people getting too riled up about spirituality and having any fun while doing so.

Perhaps His Holiness was watching Footloose and got to the part where the Reverend declares that "rock & roll is the devil's work" but then he (the Pope) shut the TV off so he could rush back to his blog to issue the statement (It was on TV! It must be true!), thereby missing the part where Kevin Bacon changes everyone's mind by dancing like only a white, 80s fool can.

But then I gave it a bit more thought, and let me tell you something…This Benedict guy may be smarter than the average Pontiff. The dude is using reverse psychology.

As any parent knows, the best way to get kids to do something is to tell them that it is forbidden. So for the Church to say "thou shalt not play Personal Jesus" should, in theory, spur the kids into action. I can see it now… an underground economy of kids trading Jesus Jones CDs in the confession booths; Sunday afternoon jam sessions in the vestibule. The madness would be unstoppable!

I'm just surprised that they haven't gone all-out and banned the act of attending church altogether. Bo Peep (B. Pope?) would gain control of his flock once again.

I mean, look at the success the Church has had through banning female priests. And homosexuality. And premarital sex.

Life Lesson # 3: A closed mouth gathers no foot.

2006-06-24T12:39:00.000-04:00

Gather 'round, chilluns. It's storytime again.

The phrase "think before you speak" is probably not new to most of you, but it certainly bears repeating.

Two instances, one more recently than the other, have served as my constant reminder that verbal diarrhea can land you in a pile of shit faster than Phil Mickelson can lose a golf tournament. Faster than Britney can drop her baby. Faster than Angelina can scoop it up and adopt it. Okay, you get the idea.

So I was staying at a hotel in downtown Toronto when I walked into the hotel restaurant and immediately spied Walter Gretzky and a handful of other folks sitting at a table. One guy had his back to me, but the flowing blonde hair told me that it was none other than the Great One, himself. I bolted from the restaurant and flew back to my room to get my autograph book, knocking down my own mother in the process.

I returned to the restaurant in what felt like 7 hours, but was probably closer to 7 seconds and without a moment's hesitation, walked right up to the table, gave a cursory glance to Mr. Gretzky and turned to the man with the hockey hair --- and it wasn't Wayne!

Now, any true Canadian hockey fan would have saved face by turning back to Walter Gretzky and asking for his autograph. After all, he's only the most famous hockey dad in the world! But not me. I looked him dead in the eye and blurted "Hey! Have you seen Wayne?"

The table erupted with laughter and I melted into the carpet. I think I may have even wet myself. Mr. Gretzky's response was "No, but if you do, tell him his father's looking for him, too!"

The second painful reminder of the faulty connection between my brain and my mouth came at my 10-year highschool reunion. I was sky-high with excitement at seeing 'the gang' and catching up with long-lost friends. Everyone was sharing stories of jobs, marriages and children. This was shaping up to be a great weekend.

I rounded a corner and there in front of me was THE hot chick from my class. She'd put on a little weight, but then again, so had everyone else. Back in school, we were from two different worlds, so I was rarely given an opportunity to speak to her. Today, however, I decided I was going to talk to her.

We said our hellos, exchanged a forced hug and then it all went to hell. And I mean ALL THE WAY to hell. Here's how the next few seconds of conversation went. See if you can tell where my train derailed.

Me: Wow you look great! Are you living here in town?
Her: Thanks! Yeah, I'm still here. But I don't mind it so much anymore.
Me: Oh that's good. And, hey! I see you're expecting! That's pretty cool, eh?
Her: Uh...Thanks. But I'm not pregnant.

Cue the sounds of everyone within a 50 foot radius gasping, the soft "thunk" of my jaw hitting the ground, the 'smack' of my wife slapping her forehead and then trying to pull her wedding ring off and then crickets chirping.

Honestly, I looked to the sky to see if there was any chance that I could attract a lightning bolt. Not a cloud in sight. I was stuck there.

I sputtered an apology (which was more difficult than you might expect, because you don't want to sound like you're apologizing for the fact that she's, how shall I say...portly).

Every single man on the planet knows the all-time, golden, cardinal, #1 rule of speaking to a woman: You NEVER, EVER suggest that she is pregnant unless you actually see a baby crowning. And even then, you're best to keep quiet. And for some reason, that day, I ignored the rule.

I am officially the President of the Putz Hall of Shame.

So I beg you...Listen to the Old Man. I tell you these things so that you will not suffer the same humiliation as I have.

Light travels faster than sound. That's why people may appear bright until they open their mouth. Therefore, it's best to keep it shut and let people think you're a fool than to open your mouth and let them know it.

This Is Not A Free Country

2006-06-23T21:32:00.000-04:00

There are too many potholes in the roads.
The waiting list for a doctor is too long.
The lakes and rivers are too polluted.
The weatherman is never right.
This museum sucks.
My taxes are too high.

I bet you've said at least one of these phrases sometime in your life. Hey, I've said them all.

Let me tell you something…I'm getting sick and tired of hearing people complain that the government-provided services are inadequate, and then in the same breath complain that they pay too many taxes. I can't stand these whiners that want everything handed to them for free, on a silver platter.

For example, my federal government recently announced a $500 subsidy to parents with children under 16 who want to sign them up for sports programs. The whole idea is to get kids out of the house and into a healthier, more active lifestyle. Far be it for me to praise the current government, but I thought this wasn't a bad initiative (forget about the fact that the $500 is considered additional income and is therefore taxable!). Well wouldn't you know it…From out of the woodwork come the artsy-fartsy bleeding hearts, crying foul.

"What about the kids who don't play sports? What about the kids that choose to pursue music programs, theatre or other cultural experiences? Why can't we get money?"

I think I used to beat up those types of kids. Unless you're taking accordion or tuba lessons, you're not burning too many calories that way. And theatre?? What Smedley goes to theatre camp in the summer and doesn't get pummelled at school the following September?

Perhaps I shouldn't be so harsh. After all, I took piano lessons for years. I even participated in 2.5 school plays. But I also played hockey, soccer, golf, skiing, running and baseball. My point is that this particular government funding program is aimed at reducing the number of fat- and lazy-ass kids out there.

No matter what program is announced, there is always going to be someone out there saying "I didn't get mine!" Come on! Don't be such an ungrateful dickweed. You live in a great country. It provides you all kinds of amenities from electricity, running water and transportation infrastructure to international security, immigration programs and environmental protection that most of the rest of the world can't (or aren't allowed to) even dream about.

And how do you think those programs came into existence? The calculation is quite simple: The more tax you pay, the more programs your governments can provide. The less you pay, the less services and programs your governments can provide.

The pessimists among you will say "no matter how much tax I pay, the government will still screw things up". And maybe that's true. But then again, if people would smarten up and elect the right (and by "right", I mean "correct") representatives, then perhaps things would change.
So what if the system doesn't operate perfectly? Other than nature itself, nothing ever does, so quitcher bitchin. And hey...the system is sure as hell better than the current state in Iraq/Afghanistan/Russia/Enron-- pick a country.

All I'm saying is that we should be a little more thankful for what we have, from all three levels of government. I hate paying my bills and taxes as much as anyone, but the one comfort I take is that I know I'm getting some benefit out of doing so.

You can have your cake and eat it, too. But you also have to help buy the ingredients.

Who Wants to Know What?

2006-06-22T20:44:00.000-04:00

I love this blogging stuff. I really do. As many people can tell by my so-called wardrobe, I've never been too big into the latest trends, so when I first got up the nerve to try blogging I didn't really have any expectations as to where it would lead. I thought I'd try it for a few weeks and just see what happens.

But, let me tell you something...This is fun! I love getting comments -- even the negative ones (although there's only been one, so far). I love seeing my hit counter increase everyday (even though I know that it counts return visitors as unique if there is more than a 6-hour time lapse from their last visit). It's pretty cool knowing that there are people all over the world reading what I wrote, regardless of whether or not they provide comments.

But I have to say that this new-found hobby is already starting to take its toll on me. The pressure to provide output. The stress of having to come up with original material in a timely fashion; it's coming dangerously close to being like work. And Lord knows we've all got enough of that!

So for today's post, I thought I would take a page from a blogging acquaintance of mine and open the floor for questions, comments and/or discussion. What do you want to know? What's your beef? What's on your mind?

Anything and everything. Whatever you want. A discussion free-for-all!

Fire away!

Mindless Ramblings on Intelligence

2006-06-21T20:57:00.000-04:00

A few years ago there was a study published that claimed that, according to the average circumference of people's head, Asians were the most intelligent race, followed by whites and then blacks. (I guess there are only three races in the world?)

(Note: I hesitate to use the term "African American" because I presume he measured the heads of people outside of the United States, hence not everyone is American.)

Needless to say, the author of the study was ridiculed, discredited and considered a racist. Personally, I found it surprising that there are people out there that would fund such a project and also that there is an organization that said "Hey, that looks like a credible and worthy project! Let's publish those results!"

Let me tell you something...I don't know how big his sample size was, but I presume it was more than a handful of people from each race. I mean, I've seen some pretty big heads on white folk (Dee Snyder, Dog the Bounty Hunter) and blacks (James Earl Jones, Dennis Rodman), so he must've found some pretty massive melons over there in Asia. What did he do? Sample only Sumo wrestlers and Buddhas?

In terms of how smart a particular race is, I'm not sure there is a way to determine if one race is more intelligent than another. I'm no PhD, but I'm pretty sure that taking a tape measure to someone's noggin isn't the way to do it. And are we talking book smarts or street smarts?

I think it's safe to say that each race has its share of braniacs (Albert Einstein, Martin Luther King, Mahatma Ghandi) and embarassments (Tom Green, Mike Tyson, Pokemon), and Asians, as a whole, are not any smarter than anyone else.

On the other hand, perhaps it may provide an explanation for the invention of those damn Sudoku puzzles.

Fork You, Cutlery Inventor!

2006-06-16T20:24:00.000-04:00

Who was it that looked upon the methods by which food was consumed and said "You know what? This bites. We need some tools!" and then took it upon him/herself to develop and distribute the three implements we all use today. Oh, and who was the Wile E. Coyote Super Genius who came up with the spork??

Let me tell you something…I would be an avid supporter of a movement to abolish cutlery and go back to using just my two hands. Just think of all the problems that could be avoided if we no longer had knives, forks and spoons.

#1 -- Save the planet by reducing the amount of dishes washed. I would imagine those without dishwashers would be particularly happy as this would also be a time saver.

#2 -- Never embarass yourself again. Get rid of those awkward "what would Emily Post do?" situations. Don't you hate going to a fancy-shmancy restaurant and discovering that there is more cutlery at your place setting than you have in your entire house? Which fork do I use first? Which spoon is for what? What is the proper way to eat (spaghetti/peas/Chunky Soup)?

#3 -- Live to eat, don't eat to live. What I'm saying is: enjoy your meals. How much more fun would your meals be if you could just use your hands to gouge into the mashed potatoes and claw at the apple pie? Return to your youth, I say!

Okay, so I can only think of three benefits, but I'm sure there are more.

We already eat so many foods sans cutlery -- wings, hotdogs, hamburgers, fries, pizza -- why not go whole-hog and use our hands for everything? I'm pretty sure that the use of utensils is not the only thing that distinguishes us from common cave-people, so I'm not too concerned about society reverting back to the Neanderthal ages. Not that some of us have far to go, mind you.

"But what if it's too hot to handle?" you might whine. Listen, if it's too hot to touch, sticking a fork in it will not make it any cooler any faster. Didn't Humphrey Bogart say "just put your lips together and blow"?

We don't have to get rid of every single piece of cutlery, though. After all, it's pretty challenging to flip a steak grilling on the BBQ, or to stir boiling soup with your fingers. Safety first, you know! I'd just like to free up a little drawer and counter space.

So go ahead and get greasy to the elbows and see if eating isn't an all-around more enjoyable experience. If anyone asks, tell them the Old Man said it was okay.

And, hey...if this little revolution takes off, you'll want to be invested in the napkin industry.

Life Lesson # 2 -- Soap Should Have Warning Labels

2006-06-14T20:21:00.000-04:00

Listen up, kids. The Old Man is about to reveal another tidbit of potentially life-saving information. Okay, perhaps it's not life-saving, but it could sure save you some horrible embarassment.

I'm hoping that it's pretty safe to assume that all of you shower. Regularly. And use soap. Those of you out there who use liquid soap, you're excused and can go back to your regularly scheduled life. I want to talk to the people, like myself, who choose not to use the frou-frou puff balls and liquid savon and instead opt to use a regular bar of soap.

Do you realize how dangerous these things can be? I'm going to share with you a couple of my experiences that could have avoided, had someone cautioned me about the dangers of old soap beforehand.

Experience #1 -- As you all know, a bar of soap does not last forever. It eventually erodes down to a slippery, toonie-sized pancake (for those unCanadians out there who don't know what a toonie is, look it up) that is virtually impossible to pick up if dropped. What I didn't realize was that those little suckers can also magically disappear, without warning. Not only that, but they can reappear most unexpectedly. There I was, in the shower (try not to visualize…) going about my business, using my 4 X 4 X 0.5 (centimetres, I'm talking here) slice of soap when all of a sudden -- -- it was gone! It was not in either hand, not on the floor of the shower, not plastered on the wall, not stuck in the drain. I even checked outside the shower to see if it was heading for the pub (it was Irish Spring, after all). Nothing. Not a trace.

There was nothing I could do except finish up with shampoo and then go about my day. So skip ahead a few hours, and I find myself experiencing a little itchy discomfort in my right armpit. Sure enough, that sliver of soap has reappeared, deep under my arm. Tricky little beggar had disguised himself with a mullet and a goatee at this point, too. I had to get the jaws of life to extract him from that jungle.

Experience #2 -- Now, you'd think I would have learned from my previous experience and ensured that I always had a substantial piece of soap with which to work. But I'm lazy and I love to procrastinate, so as the soap got smaller and smaller, I continued to say to myself: "I'm okay for one more day. I'll get a new bar tomorrow." Well, that decision came back to bite me in the ass. Literally.

When those slivers get small enough, they develop sharp edges of which Gillette would be envious. Now, I don't want to completely gross out my sensitive readers, so suffice to say that I gave myself a rather abrupt "how do you do" as I ran the razor/sliver down my unmentionable hindquarters region. It hurt almost as much as the laughter from my wife as I tried to explain that I'd hurt my butt with a piece of soap.

Hey, I never said these stories would be fit for the Queen. I only said they'd be informative.

So, for the safety of all your 2000 parts, I urge you to replace your soap in a timely fashion. Either that, or you'll have to start buying the frou-frou puffs.

Life Lesson #1 -- Digging for Gold in the Car

2006-06-12T20:27:00.000-04:00

Gather 'round, boys and girls. It's story time.

As an old man, I feel it is my duty to go beyond the ranting and raving and attempt to impart some wisdom on the youth of today. So today's post will be the first of hopefully many "Life Lessons".

These won't be just any lessons, mind you. Any shmuck can tell you to eat your vegetables, look both ways and don't forget to flush. Me? I'm going to tell you some of the lessons that I've learned in my 3-plus decades of life here on earth. Lessons I learned the hard way because I did not have anyone to tell me about them.

Why the change of heart? Why, all of a sudden, step away from the rants in order to pass along valuable information? Because that's me. I'm such a giver. And the proverbial monkeys might fly out of my butt.

On with today's lesson.

As you'll see, I'm going to start my story with "When", rather than "If" because I know everyone does this. Don't try to deny it. I've seen you on the highway...

"WHEN" you pick your nose while driving, please take my advice and use the proper technique. I don't care so much whether you're a lefty or a righty, a pointer-picker or a thumb-stuffer, you need to be cognizant of where your elbow is. Particularly if you're a lefty.

Resting your arm on the door or window sill is not the way to go. It only takes one camouflaged pothole for you to jam your spelunker through your sinus cavity and into your brain. The one time you let your guard down will be the one time you're in your newly-pressed suit, with a white Ralph Lauren dress shirt of course, and the floody blood gates will open and there won't be a damned kleenex, napkin or dirty sport sock within 15 miles.

Believe me. It's pretty hard to explain the hemmorage all over yourself once you get to your meeting.

So please...Pick smart. Lift your elbow.

Sticking It To Transit Riders

2006-06-09T07:47:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you something…I'm starting to wonder if public transit riders are either (A) afflicted with a multiple personality disorder; (B) aliens; or (C) both (à la Tom Cruise).

I thought I could get away from the lunatics on the highway by relaxing in a rickety, sweltering, 180 passenger sardine can of a bus, but much to my amazement, that is the certainly not the case. What is the matter with you people??

Many public transit users are so…how shall I say it…unique, that I think they deserve special recognition for their daily displays of dumb. So I've developed an identification system that will allow "normal" people to quickly identify the societal wackos and take appropriate action. I've created stickers: "Bus Bitch" for the girls; and "Bus Bastard" for the boys.

(I thought I could upload pictures of said stickers, but apparently there are some issues with photo uploads. If you'd like to see them or put them to use, send me an email and I'll pass them along.)

How does one earn such a fabulous accolade? Transit riders must exhibit one or more of the following behaviours.

Runners -- these folks are actually entertaining to watch from a safe distance, however it's not so fun when they plow through you like Oprah at a buffet. Believe me, folks, once the bus has pulled into traffic, it's not going to stop for you no matter how much you yell, bang on the side or claim that your tie is stuck in the door. I'll admit...I laughed a little at the woman who wiped out so bad chasing her bus that she lost a shoe, her business suit was destroyed and her lunch rolled for almost a full block. Chances are, the next bus will be arriving in about 3 minutes. Why don't you come here and get your sticker while you wait?

Cutters -- Didn't we all learn back in Kindergarten to line up single file for stuff? Apparently many people think that to get on a bus they have to storm the door like a SWAT team. I saw a guy actually shove an elderly woman (and I'm talking Jurassic, here) out of the way so that he could board first. To the driver's credit, he made the guy get off the bus and wait until everyone else had boarded! If you're going to act like a child, then you'll be treated like one. Here's your sticker.

Door Jams -- these paranoid freaks are so terrified of missing their stop, even though they know they have a 90 minute ride ahead of them, that they refuse to move away from the doors. As my stop approaches, I'll try to stand so uncomfortably close to them that I can count the hairs in their ears, and then do my utmost to bump them or knock the cell phone off their face. It's the best way to attach my sticker.

Social Handicaps -- I don't know what is rattling around inside the heads of these mental midgets, but I can tell you I bet it smells like poo. There are a variety of different forms of this affliction, but it all boils down to the same thing: I want them off my bus. Here are a few examples:

Priority Seating -- unless you're pregnant, elderly, disabled or have small children, these seats may as well not exist to you. Pick up a sticker on your way to the back of the bus.
Seat hogs -- the seats are made for two people. I don't have leprosy. I don't smell that bad. And I'm (probably) not going to make a pass at you. Put your bag on your lap and move the hell over.
Cell phones -- for the luvva Christ turn it off! Trust me -- you're not that important. The rest of the bus does not need to know that, like, Misty said that, like, she thought Crystal heard about, like, Tanya asking Nick if he LIKE liked her, but Nick wasn't sure if, like, he was gay or not.
Hold the bodily functions -- there's not much worse than being crammed in a 90-degree aluminum Twinkie with 100 other people when the ever-familiar waft of a bum-burp disperses throughout the area, turning a simple, unpleasant ride into a modern day Auschwitz. Believe it or not, on one such occasion, someone from the back actually yelled out "Aaww, who FARTED??". We all looked around to see if the skunk would blush and then we were going to drag him behind the bus. You can probably guess where I would have put my sticker.

Not all bus riders are etiquette retards. I have seen some heroic acts of kindness and generosity. However those instances are all too often overshadowed by the morons who believe that public transit is their own personal shuttle service.

All I'm saying is that when you leave your house in the morning, don't forget your brief case, your lunch and maybe an umbrella, but most importantly, your brain.

Remember -- if some stranger slaps you on the back, chances are it's not because they want to be your pal.

Sandwich-Board People Know Best.

2006-06-06T19:03:00.000-04:00

Today's post was initially going to be another list of things wrong with the world. I had verbal lashings all ready for Angelina Jolie and her spawn's website; Albanian diplomats beating their children in public; and brainless wonders running amok after a hockey game, but I got part-way through and realized that I really didn't feel like ranting. After all, according to the crazy man on the corner with the sandwich board sign and breath that could stop a train, the world is supposed to end today, so what would be the point?

If you subscribe to the Doomsday Theory, then today is potentially your lucky day. The 6th day of the 6th month of 2006 -- or, 6/6/6. A bit of a stretch, don't you think? Give it a rest. Nobody writes the date like that.

Let me tell you something...I'm sure if Satan wanted to begin the Apocalypse he wouldn't do it on a Tuesday for cryin' out loud. Nothing big ever happens on a Tuesday**. I'll be sure to check back with these prophets tomorrow morning for an explanation as to why the world didn't end today. I'll probably get the same excuses as when the world didn't end at midnight, January 1st, 2000.

"Well, the Dark Lord was on his way, but one of the Four horses blew a shoe and they had to turn back."

I'm getting sick and tired of these Chicken Littles claiming that the sky is falling. How many times can they predict Armageddon and be proven wrong before their pea-brains actually grasp that they're only making complete asses of themselves? (Come to think of it, doomsday prophets aren't much different than weather forecasters!) Are they trying to incite mass panic? Because THAT obviously works. I don't know about you, but I haven't been to a good old fashioned Repent Riot in ages. Plus, 40 years ago they had a whole month in which to destroy the world (6/66), yet it appears the earth still turns.

If the apocalypse is imminent, then why doesn't it just happen? What's the hold up? Get it overwith, already! At least I wouldn't have to listen to the incessant caterwauling of Sandwich-Board Man -- my oh-so-credible news source.

Somebody go get some Nikes for those Four horses.

(**It has come to my attention that the infamous "September 11, 2001" occurred on a Tuesday. I mean no disrespect by my flippant remarks)

A Lighter Shade of Green.

2006-06-02T11:57:00.000-04:00

I hate bugs. Did Noah really have to take two of EVERY animal? Surely the world would still be as it is today if there were no such thing as mosquitoes, right? I also hate thistles; specifically the infamous lawn cactus. You know…the kind that camouflage themselves so well that you don't even see them until you've stepped, rolled or sat on it. Again…Would we really miss those damn things?

However as much as I despise natural annoyances such as these, I also have a special spot (in my colon) for chemical pesticides and herbicides. In my younger days, I was all for spraying like crazy to get rid of weeds and bugs, but that was before I learned about all of the environment and health concerns related to these chemicals.

So I've started to slowly change what goes into my body. Don't worry, though…I still make fun of vegetarians, vegans and other über-hippy, trend-of-the-week eaters -- hey, if humans were supposed to eat only leaves and berries, we wouldn't have been given incisors. I'm always up for a big steak, french fries, meat-lovers pizza, cheesecake and donuts. For breakfast.

I've started buying organic fruits and vegetables and other grocery items where ever I can. Sure, I'm paying through the nose for some of the stuff, but the fact that I've cut back on my intake of a smorgasbord of chemicals helps to ease the pain (although "I feel good" doesn't pay the bills unless you're James Brown).

One of the new organic items that I've taken to purchasing is breakfast cereal. First came the organic granola. It's good stuff. Then I went to organic raisin bran. It has bigger and more raisins than Post! And then, unfortunately, I went too far. In my effort to be a responsible consumer, I crossed the line. I bought organic muesli. I had never had muesli, and the picture on the box made it look intriguing, so I thought "what the hell" and made the purchase.

Let me tell you something…Never have I seen such a collection of leaves, twigs, seeds and detritus! When you add milk, it congeals into a wet mass that looks suspiciously like a suet ball. I'm tempted to wrap it in cheesecloth and hang it outside for the birds!

I mean, really! Who was the genius that went along the forest floor with a dredging net and boxed up whatever was captured? I'm surprised I haven't found any furry critters in the mix -- although I'm only half-way through the box, so the heavier objects may have settled to the bottom. What a great prize that would be, eh? Some people get games and toys at the bottom of the box. Some people get pedometers. I get a squirrel.

So while I do support the 'environmental movement', I don't think I'm quite ready to go whole-hog and trade in my manufactured Honeycombs for the sake of eating glorified birdseed.

Kermit said it best: "It ain't easy being green". Especially if you have to eat like him.

Quit Blowin' Smoke.

2006-06-01T11:41:00.000-04:00

This just in…Smoking found to be bad for your health! Hey, who knew??

It's hard to believe that there are still people out there who can deny that smoking is bad for you and everyone around you. These people also likely believe that Elvis is alive, the DaVinci Code is biographical and that socks and sandals are acceptable.

Let me tell you something…Despite the obvious economic benefits for the government, smoking is one of those things that I wish would have died with the Marlboro Man and leg warmers. Yet there are still people out there, smoking like chimneys, who claim that a cigarette makes them look cool, or enhances their "look". Premature aging, wrinkles, sallow skin, smelly hair and clothes, horrible breath, yellowed fingers, rotten teeth and an electronic voicebox over a tracheotomy hole. Oh yeah, baby! How hot is that?? Have a gander at this cowboy and tell me that smoking made him a sexy byatch.

(Note: This links to a large PDF file. You slowpokes on dial-up may want to go out for dinner while it downloads)

Thanks to a new law, Ontario is finally completely smoke-free. Not only Ontario, but what has typically been referred to as "Canada's ashtray" has also legislated everyone to butt-out in public places. That's right; Quebec has gone smokeless, too! Yes, the only thing being smoked in Montreal will be their deli meat sandwiches. Okay, so this may not be front-page news to most people, but it's big news where I come from.

I heard an interview with a small-town mayor about the smoking ban and once again found myself yelling at the radio and trying to stay in my own lane. The mayor, a smoker, himself, was quite forthcoming in his admission that smoking is a terrible habit, fraught with chemicals, toxins and impending health problems. However he followed up those statements with "I don’t really believe that second-hand smoke is a major health concern." (Cue the yelling and erratic driving).

I didn't get to hear much more of the interview because of my lunatic-like ravings, but presumably this wingnut believes that tobacco smoke is only toxic when inhaled directly from the source. Once it's in the smoker's lungs, 95% of the nasties are removed, leaving a relatively harmless cloud of air to be exhaled and then enjoyed by those around them. Hey, maybe we could get these people to suck on exhaust pipes to prevent vehicle pollution! Global warming solved! Feel free to nominate me for a Nobel Prize.

Listen…It's the GIGO principle: Garbage In - Garbage Out. I bet he thinks his farts don't stink, either. Anyone out there care to debate this one with me? Either topic: Second-hand smoke or stinky farts, I don't care.

My challenge to you is to name one positive aspect related to smoking -- other than keeping away bugs and self-righteous, non-smoker, soap-box preachers such as myself.