NEWS ITEM: Lindsay Lohan's father Michael claims God told him to build a rehab center.
I can only imagine that it went down very much like Bill Cosby's "Noah" routine.
GOD: Lohan!
LOHAN: Somebody call?
GOD: Lohan!
LOHAN: Who is that?
GOD: It's the Lord, Lohan.
LOHAN: Riiiiiight! Where are ya? What you want? I've been good.
GOD: I want you to build a rehab center.
LOHAN: Riiiiiight! What's in it for me?
GOD: Get someone to put up three times as much money as you'll need. Build it 300 meters by 80 meters by 40 meters.
LOHAN: Riiiiiight! Whats a meter?
GOD: You don't know what a meter is? Oh, yeah, I forgot - only America and Burma don't use the metric system anymore. Don't worry about it for now, Lohan. You can google it later. When you get it done, go out into the world and collect all of the rubes and halfwits you can get your hands on - male and female - and put them into the rehab center.
LOHAN: Riiiiiight! Who is this, really? What's going on? How come you want me to do all these weird things?
GOD: I'm going to destroy the world.
LOHAN: Riiiiiight! Am I on Candid Camera?
GOD: No, but there might be a reality series in it for you.
LOHAN: ALLLLLLLLL-Riiiiiight!
September 3, 2010
July 23, 2010
Maybe that's where he keeps his briefs.
Today on the CBC News website:
"The Supreme Court of Canada has upheld $5,000 in damages against British Columbia for breaching the charter rights of a Vancouver lawyer strip-searched by police who wrongly thought he was going to throw a pie at [then-Prime Minister] Jean Chrétien."
It's a fascinating story and a great example of what happens when the police get overstimulated. But one question is left unanswered:
Even if the cops legitimately thought that the counsel for the defense had been planning to throw a pie, what, exactly, did they think he was hiding up his ass that they had to strip-search him - a rolling pin?
"The Supreme Court of Canada has upheld $5,000 in damages against British Columbia for breaching the charter rights of a Vancouver lawyer strip-searched by police who wrongly thought he was going to throw a pie at [then-Prime Minister] Jean Chrétien."
It's a fascinating story and a great example of what happens when the police get overstimulated. But one question is left unanswered:
Even if the cops legitimately thought that the counsel for the defense had been planning to throw a pie, what, exactly, did they think he was hiding up his ass that they had to strip-search him - a rolling pin?
July 18, 2010
How else may I provide excellent customer service to you today?
Highlights of my recent chat with a representative of Sprint's Online Customer Service:
6:11:00 PM : [SPRINT] Connected to sprint.ehosts.net
6:11:00 PM : [SPRINT] Session ID: 582726
----
6:12:26 PM : [SPRINT] Thank you for contacting Sprint. My name is ********.
6:12:57 PM : [ME]: Hi ********. I need to cancel service on two of my lines.
----
6:16:42 PM : [SPRINT]: May I know which lines to be canceled?
6:17:10 PM : [ME]: XXX-XXXX and XXX-XXXX.
----
6:29:25 PM : [SPRINT]: You can easily cancel the lines/account by calling Account Service Department at -(888) 211-4727
6:29:56 PM : [ME]: Okay - so I still have to call the account service dept?
----
6:30:08 PM : [SPRINT]: Yes.
6:30:45 PM : [SPRINT]: The services are canceled by the account service department.
I thought places like this paid bonuses on how quickly they got people off the line?
6:11:00 PM : [SPRINT] Connected to sprint.ehosts.net
6:11:00 PM : [SPRINT] Session ID: 582726
----
6:12:26 PM : [SPRINT] Thank you for contacting Sprint. My name is ********.
6:12:57 PM : [ME]: Hi ********. I need to cancel service on two of my lines.
----
6:16:42 PM : [SPRINT]: May I know which lines to be canceled?
6:17:10 PM : [ME]: XXX-XXXX and XXX-XXXX.
----
6:29:25 PM : [SPRINT]: You can easily cancel the lines/account by calling Account Service Department at -(888) 211-4727
6:29:56 PM : [ME]: Okay - so I still have to call the account service dept?
----
6:30:08 PM : [SPRINT]: Yes.
6:30:45 PM : [SPRINT]: The services are canceled by the account service department.
I thought places like this paid bonuses on how quickly they got people off the line?
July 17, 2010
Yes, but I TYPE like Jack Kerouac.
I read an Associated Press article by Jake Coyle on the Washington Post's website about the popularity of a site called I Write Like which allows people to paste in a few paragraphs of text, compare it to a database of works by about 50 authors, and then tell them which author's style the software thinks they resemble.
Coyle writes that when others tried it out, I Write Like thought one of Mel Gibson's obscenity-laced phone tirades directed at his ex-girlfriend Oksana Grigorieva positively Margaret Atwoodian, while Margaret's writings turned out to be Steven Kingian, a distinction shared by Herman Melville.
I uploaded a few examples of my own (that's not) writing (that's typing) and got a different result every time. I write like Stephen King; I write like Charles Dickens; I write like James Joyce; I write like Kurt Vonnegut. It's good company, even if I turn out not to write anything like my homegirl Peggy Atwood. I'm relieved that none of my writing samples came back - as other people's have - with the alarming words, "You write like Dan Brown."
It could have been worse: "You write like the guy in your legal department who drafted the boilerplate Master Software Development Agreement With Intellectual Property Rights."
Coyle writes that when others tried it out, I Write Like thought one of Mel Gibson's obscenity-laced phone tirades directed at his ex-girlfriend Oksana Grigorieva positively Margaret Atwoodian, while Margaret's writings turned out to be Steven Kingian, a distinction shared by Herman Melville.
I uploaded a few examples of my own (that's not) writing (that's typing) and got a different result every time. I write like Stephen King; I write like Charles Dickens; I write like James Joyce; I write like Kurt Vonnegut. It's good company, even if I turn out not to write anything like my homegirl Peggy Atwood. I'm relieved that none of my writing samples came back - as other people's have - with the alarming words, "You write like Dan Brown."
It could have been worse: "You write like the guy in your legal department who drafted the boilerplate Master Software Development Agreement With Intellectual Property Rights."
July 1, 2010
In Which I Welcome Myself Home.
It's my first Canada Day at home in eight years. It seems only appropriate that I might enumerate a few of the many, many, many things that make me glad to be back.
So, without further ado...
Top Ten Reasons I Moved Back To Canada:
10: It snows 362 days a year in Canada.
9: The only occasion one ever has to think about Sarah Palin is to fill space in some stupid list.
8: Overwhelmed by the irreconcilable incongruity of America: so many cops, so few Tim Hortons.
7: Canada's late-night tv host wars were settled long ago. All hail George Strombopolous!
6: Don Cherry on Hockey Night In Canada is a much more reliable source of bizarre outfits than peopleofwalmart.com.
5: Having successfully ousted President Bush, I must now do the same to Prime Minister Harper.
4: I will need medical care in 10-20 years, so I am getting in line now.
3: On Canadian tv, they show boobies [note to self: get a tv].
2: I received an email from HM Queen Elizabeth II promising me cash if I helped her with a certain banking transaction.
1: It's my home and native land, yo.
So, without further ado...
Top Ten Reasons I Moved Back To Canada:
10: It snows 362 days a year in Canada.
9: The only occasion one ever has to think about Sarah Palin is to fill space in some stupid list.
8: Overwhelmed by the irreconcilable incongruity of America: so many cops, so few Tim Hortons.
7: Canada's late-night tv host wars were settled long ago. All hail George Strombopolous!
6: Don Cherry on Hockey Night In Canada is a much more reliable source of bizarre outfits than peopleofwalmart.com.
5: Having successfully ousted President Bush, I must now do the same to Prime Minister Harper.
4: I will need medical care in 10-20 years, so I am getting in line now.
3: On Canadian tv, they show boobies [note to self: get a tv].
2: I received an email from HM Queen Elizabeth II promising me cash if I helped her with a certain banking transaction.
1: It's my home and native land, yo.
June 21, 2010
Warning
The 22nd Toronto Fringe Festival starts next week; with more than 150 theatre companies and 800 performers involved, it's Toronto's largest theatre festival. It's got something for everyone, and some things not for everyone.
It's not just the old bugaboos, either, like "mature content," "violence," or "language" (and one supposes this last one should be inferred to mean the bad, coarse, or vulgar sense of the word, not the French or German). Consider some of the other audience advisory warnings that accompany the synopses of the various productions:
Warning: Awkward Situations, Adult References To The ElderlyWarning: GunshotsWarning: Smoking Herbal CigarettesWarning: AwesomeWarning: Fog MachineWarning: TrumpetWarning: Hedonism, Tomfoolery, Indulgently Floral LanguageWarning: Language, Nudity, Strobe Lighting, Fog Machine, Simulated Drug and Alcohol UseWarning: Content, Language, Dancing VaginaWarning: Content, Nudity, Audience Participation, Lap Dancing, And More!
Mama always worried that I'd end up in the big city, reveling in hedonism, tomfoolery and indulgently floral language - especially in the making of awkward references to grandma and grandpa. (Somehow, I doubt she'd have been able to bring herself to utter the phrase, "dancing vagina.") And now look at me: fire up the fog machine!
May 9, 2010
Signs of Toronto
Click on any photo to launch a larger version in another window.
Poutine seems to be well on its way to becoming The Next Big Thing in dining in Toronto. There are a number of restaurants dedicated to it, and even places with other gastronomical concerns seem to want to get in on the action.
Within a few hundred metres of Saigon Flower, there are at least two poutine shops: Smoke's Poutinerie and Poutini's. This sign points to the latter.
Also nearby: the erstwhile Belle's Appliances now houses a dojo in a building that will soon be sold and, like many of its neighbours, redeveloped into something much more higher-rent.
Photographer A.J. Messier said that shooting from that angle gave a nice compositional effect to his photo and allowed him to capture the phone number on the sign advertising giclée printing at very competitive rates.
The owners of the Lens Factory were doubtless glad that the smashed-in window was at their recently-abandoned old location.
The Liquor Control Board of Ontario runs the province's retail liquor stores.
Someone is perhaps mistaken in his or her belief that using three E's in "please" is legally binding.
Poutine seems to be well on its way to becoming The Next Big Thing in dining in Toronto. There are a number of restaurants dedicated to it, and even places with other gastronomical concerns seem to want to get in on the action.
Within a few hundred metres of Saigon Flower, there are at least two poutine shops: Smoke's Poutinerie and Poutini's. This sign points to the latter.
Also nearby: the erstwhile Belle's Appliances now houses a dojo in a building that will soon be sold and, like many of its neighbours, redeveloped into something much more higher-rent.
Photographer A.J. Messier said that shooting from that angle gave a nice compositional effect to his photo and allowed him to capture the phone number on the sign advertising giclée printing at very competitive rates.
The owners of the Lens Factory were doubtless glad that the smashed-in window was at their recently-abandoned old location.
The Liquor Control Board of Ontario runs the province's retail liquor stores.
Someone is perhaps mistaken in his or her belief that using three E's in "please" is legally binding.
April 18, 2010
Maybe the government should run the militaries of America's enemies.
Tea Party person Richard Harris (not the actor), articulates his movement's wet dream in an article in the New York Times: "Government should do the military and the roads and just about nothing else. They foul everything up if they do."
In other words, he wants an organization that he thinks is too incompetent or inefficient to do something like deliver a letter to be in charge of defending the country.
That's not "Tea Party," that's "Peter Principle."
It's too stupid to fail.
In other words, he wants an organization that he thinks is too incompetent or inefficient to do something like deliver a letter to be in charge of defending the country.
That's not "Tea Party," that's "Peter Principle."
It's too stupid to fail.
April 11, 2010
Another Pleasant Valley Sunday.
I went for a stroll today to take some photographs and came home four hours, eight miles and 130 shots later. These are a few frames from my walk along the Wheeling Creek portion of the Greater Wheeling Trail, runs southeast along Wheeling Creek, where both the creek and the trail parallel to I-70 through town, and along National Road. Click on any picture to launch a larger version of the image in a new browser window or tab.
The trees and grasses on the flood plain between the creek and trail are in full bloom at this time of year. The green shoot rose vertically from a trunk growing in several different directions, and the yellow flower blossomed along the hill below I-470.
Wheeling Creek cuts through the limestone that underlies much of West Virginia. The rocks in and along the creek are made up of layers of sediment.
Graffiti appears on signs and billboard towers along the trail.
Further along the creek, a man catches a fish near a bridge under Route 88.
On National Road through the Elm Grove neighbourhood, someone bought billboard space to beg for President Obama's help against the "corrupt" movers and shakers in Wheeling. (This person has a much larger and more detailed version of his complaint on a billboard downtown.)
On an abandoned garage, a "Wacko" tag.
The Grove Terrace Motel has a simple sign visible from the Interstate. I've also heard that inside the motel, it's sad and rundown.
The eastern junction of Interstates 70 and 470 is overhead.
Farther along National Road, a retirement home's new cottages for some of its residents look like they were designed by the same architect who worked on the tv show The Prisoner.
The house at 1343 National Road was built in 1902 by William L. Glessner, President of the Laughlin Nail Company.
At the corner of Washington Avenue and National Road, a spider hung in the air on nearly-invisible threads.
The trees and grasses on the flood plain between the creek and trail are in full bloom at this time of year. The green shoot rose vertically from a trunk growing in several different directions, and the yellow flower blossomed along the hill below I-470.
Wheeling Creek cuts through the limestone that underlies much of West Virginia. The rocks in and along the creek are made up of layers of sediment.
Graffiti appears on signs and billboard towers along the trail.
Further along the creek, a man catches a fish near a bridge under Route 88.
On National Road through the Elm Grove neighbourhood, someone bought billboard space to beg for President Obama's help against the "corrupt" movers and shakers in Wheeling. (This person has a much larger and more detailed version of his complaint on a billboard downtown.)
On an abandoned garage, a "Wacko" tag.
The Grove Terrace Motel has a simple sign visible from the Interstate. I've also heard that inside the motel, it's sad and rundown.
The eastern junction of Interstates 70 and 470 is overhead.
Farther along National Road, a retirement home's new cottages for some of its residents look like they were designed by the same architect who worked on the tv show The Prisoner.
The house at 1343 National Road was built in 1902 by William L. Glessner, President of the Laughlin Nail Company.
At the corner of Washington Avenue and National Road, a spider hung in the air on nearly-invisible threads.
April 3, 2010
Yonge Street Shopping List: Sushi, Tylenol, Lipgloss, Tampons and Condoms.
Click on photo to launch large version (1024x506) in another window.
March 25, 2010
The Art Of The Deal.
One in a series of essays about how to successfully negotiate anything. Or not.
I walked into the only pawn shop in my town and went to the back where they have their musical instruments (four no-name brand Strat copies, a violin, two basses and a 40-watt guitar amplifier).
"Can you do anything about the price of this bass?" I asked one of the staff, opening the door to negotiation.
But she had been raised in a house where her dad yelled at her to shut the door.
"No, the owner isn't here and we can't change prices," she said, unapologetically. "You could ask him" - she pointed to someone behind the counter - "but he'll probably tell you the same thing."
I did, and he did.
"This has been here quite a while," I observed. The little yellow sticker on it showed that it arrived eight months earlier. "And it's kind of beat up," I said. A previous owner had plastered stickers all over it, there were a couple of dings in the paint and it was missing a control knob.
"Yeah," said the man behind the counter. "But it's an Ibanez."
I put the bass back on its stand. I'd have felt guilty paying the price they wanted and depriving the pawn shop of the cachet of having an Ibanez in stock.
I walked into the only pawn shop in my town and went to the back where they have their musical instruments (four no-name brand Strat copies, a violin, two basses and a 40-watt guitar amplifier).
"Can you do anything about the price of this bass?" I asked one of the staff, opening the door to negotiation.
But she had been raised in a house where her dad yelled at her to shut the door.
"No, the owner isn't here and we can't change prices," she said, unapologetically. "You could ask him" - she pointed to someone behind the counter - "but he'll probably tell you the same thing."
I did, and he did.
"This has been here quite a while," I observed. The little yellow sticker on it showed that it arrived eight months earlier. "And it's kind of beat up," I said. A previous owner had plastered stickers all over it, there were a couple of dings in the paint and it was missing a control knob.
"Yeah," said the man behind the counter. "But it's an Ibanez."
I put the bass back on its stand. I'd have felt guilty paying the price they wanted and depriving the pawn shop of the cachet of having an Ibanez in stock.
March 8, 2010
I thought I'd shredded everything.
I dreamed about work today. That's not unusual - people dream about their jobs all the time - but what was odd was that I haven't had a job in thirteen months. I'll leave it to the experts to figure out why I suddenly manufactured a conversation with my old manager; I just want to tell you about the dream.
I was on some kind of cross-country road trip with about half a dozen people. We were all jammed into a too-small car - a two-door, four-seat, underpowered, non-airconditioned and weak-springed thing like a Neon or a Cavalier.
Our driver stopped for a bathroom break at a shopping mall somewhere. He parked the car out in some remote corner of the lot, a hundred yards from the nearest car or the nearest entrance to the mall. Everyone took turns going in to do their business; the rest of us remained in the car, crammed uncomfortably in the seats. (I don't know why we were too stupid to get out and stretch our legs - who knows why we do what we do in our dreams?)
The last person came back and got into the car; that was when I decided I needed to go to the bathroom. I squeezed out of the back seat - imagine the sardine in the corner of the tin farthest from the opening trying to extricate itself: that's what it was like.
I stood on the pavement, rearranged my clothing which had twisted itself into knots around me, and started across the pavement towards the mall doors.
My cell phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket.
"This is B____."
"Hi, B____. It's Steve G_______," said Steve G_______, who, even until the day he fired me, always used his first and last name when calling me, just in case I wouldn't recognize my manager's voice after talking to him daily for two years. "How are you?"
"Hi, Steve." I was confused. Why would Steve call me 13 months after he fired me? "I'm fine. What can I do for you?"
"Your desk," he said.
"My desk?"
"Where did you get the packets?"
My desk? Packets? What the hell was he talking about?
"There were packets in your desk," he said. "Ketchup, soy sauce, salad dressing. Where did you get them?"
"Excuse me?"
"Those packets of condiments in your desk," he said. "Where did you get them?"
"What?" I asked. Some of those packets would be two or three years old by now, and he wanted me to tell him where I'd got them?
"Jason ate the salad dressing in one of them," Steve said, "and he got sick, so I'd like to know where you got them."
In my dream, Jason was a new hire and my replacement, and I suddenly remembered that there was a half-used packet of ranch dressing in my top-left desk drawer on the day I'd left. I'd folded over the top and closed it with a binder clip so it wouldn't leak. Newbie must have put half a packet of two-year-old salad dressing - that had been open and in a desk drawer for half of that time - on his greens. And now he was sick.
"Uh, geez, Steve," I said, "I don't remember."
I woke up before I had to lie to him again.
I was on some kind of cross-country road trip with about half a dozen people. We were all jammed into a too-small car - a two-door, four-seat, underpowered, non-airconditioned and weak-springed thing like a Neon or a Cavalier.
Our driver stopped for a bathroom break at a shopping mall somewhere. He parked the car out in some remote corner of the lot, a hundred yards from the nearest car or the nearest entrance to the mall. Everyone took turns going in to do their business; the rest of us remained in the car, crammed uncomfortably in the seats. (I don't know why we were too stupid to get out and stretch our legs - who knows why we do what we do in our dreams?)
The last person came back and got into the car; that was when I decided I needed to go to the bathroom. I squeezed out of the back seat - imagine the sardine in the corner of the tin farthest from the opening trying to extricate itself: that's what it was like.
I stood on the pavement, rearranged my clothing which had twisted itself into knots around me, and started across the pavement towards the mall doors.
My cell phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket.
"This is B____."
"Hi, B____. It's Steve G_______," said Steve G_______, who, even until the day he fired me, always used his first and last name when calling me, just in case I wouldn't recognize my manager's voice after talking to him daily for two years. "How are you?"
"Hi, Steve." I was confused. Why would Steve call me 13 months after he fired me? "I'm fine. What can I do for you?"
"Your desk," he said.
"My desk?"
"Where did you get the packets?"
My desk? Packets? What the hell was he talking about?
"There were packets in your desk," he said. "Ketchup, soy sauce, salad dressing. Where did you get them?"
"Excuse me?"
"Those packets of condiments in your desk," he said. "Where did you get them?"
"What?" I asked. Some of those packets would be two or three years old by now, and he wanted me to tell him where I'd got them?
"Jason ate the salad dressing in one of them," Steve said, "and he got sick, so I'd like to know where you got them."
In my dream, Jason was a new hire and my replacement, and I suddenly remembered that there was a half-used packet of ranch dressing in my top-left desk drawer on the day I'd left. I'd folded over the top and closed it with a binder clip so it wouldn't leak. Newbie must have put half a packet of two-year-old salad dressing - that had been open and in a desk drawer for half of that time - on his greens. And now he was sick.
"Uh, geez, Steve," I said, "I don't remember."
I woke up before I had to lie to him again.
February 24, 2010
Make A Run For The Border.
The Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet and I took a little trip to Canada earlier this week. We entered and left at the Peace Bridge border crossing between Buffalo, New York and Fort Erie, Ontario.
SCENE ONE - Entering Canada
CANADA CUSTOMS GUARD: What's the purpose of your visit?
ME: I have a job interview on Monday. And NBC's Olympic hockey coverage stinks.
CANADA CUSTOMS GUARD: [laughs, then looks at The Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet] You've been to Canada in the winter before, right?
SHE: Our honeymoon was in Ottawa one February.
CANADA CUSTOMS GUARD: They're just a whole different level of mental there. Have a nice day.
SCENE TWO - Entering the United States
US CUSTOMS GUARD: Why were you in Canada?
ME: I had a job interview.
US CUSTOMS GUARD: [gestures at my 'Green Card'] You know if you move there you have to give this back, right?
ME: Yes.
US CUSTOMS GUARD: Okay, then.
SCENE ONE - Entering Canada
CANADA CUSTOMS GUARD: What's the purpose of your visit?
ME: I have a job interview on Monday. And NBC's Olympic hockey coverage stinks.
CANADA CUSTOMS GUARD: [laughs, then looks at The Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet] You've been to Canada in the winter before, right?
SHE: Our honeymoon was in Ottawa one February.
CANADA CUSTOMS GUARD: They're just a whole different level of mental there. Have a nice day.
SCENE TWO - Entering the United States
US CUSTOMS GUARD: Why were you in Canada?
ME: I had a job interview.
US CUSTOMS GUARD: [gestures at my 'Green Card'] You know if you move there you have to give this back, right?
ME: Yes.
US CUSTOMS GUARD: Okay, then.
February 20, 2010
I Hope I Get The Job.
I have a job interview on Monday. I just realized that I need the job, if only to be able to pay for the things associated with going to the interview:
Geez. It's a good thing I don't need a new suit, too.
* The car was overdue for an oil change and rotation. A sticking rear brake caliper also needed to be replaced, along with the rotor it shredded. Brake pads were replaced under warranty at no charge.
** The interview is in Toronto. It's about a 750-mile round trip. Our car, "Dirty Harry," gets about 30mpg. So 25 gallons of gas ought to get us there and back. If I buy gas in the US, I'll pay around $2.80/gallon, on average. Hence, $70.
***The Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet will accompany me.
| Haircut: | $17 | |
| Shirt, new, white (16-1/2" neck, 32" sleeve): | $25 | |
| Oil change, tire rotation, brake job*: | $493 | |
| Gas to drive to & from interview**: | $70 | |
| Hotel room: | $95 | |
| Meals, tolls, etc., for two***: | $130 | |
| Catsitter: | $20 | |
| Total: | $850 |
Geez. It's a good thing I don't need a new suit, too.
* The car was overdue for an oil change and rotation. A sticking rear brake caliper also needed to be replaced, along with the rotor it shredded. Brake pads were replaced under warranty at no charge.
** The interview is in Toronto. It's about a 750-mile round trip. Our car, "Dirty Harry," gets about 30mpg. So 25 gallons of gas ought to get us there and back. If I buy gas in the US, I'll pay around $2.80/gallon, on average. Hence, $70.
***The Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet will accompany me.
February 12, 2010
Ask not what you can do for your country; ask what you can do to improve your President's speeches.
See if you can spot the Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet's editing of President Kennedy's 1961 address to the Parliament of Canada:
Geography has made us neighbors. History has made us friends. Economics has made us partners. The Internet has made us lovers. And necessity has made us allies.
Geography has made us neighbors. History has made us friends. Economics has made us partners. The Internet has made us lovers. And necessity has made us allies.
January 27, 2010
No, look what YOU did.
The Next Door Neighbour Guy is somewhat less than diligent in cleaning up the deposits that his big black Labrador Retriever named Bubba leaves in the yards on our street.
(Our landlady, initially confused as to whether NDNG's dog or Two Doors Down Guy's dog Kiwi was responsible, once posted a large sign in the yard: CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR PETS IMMEDIATELY. Not that it helped.)
I was standing on my front patio yesterday trying to remember where I'd put the shovel, when NDNG pulled up and he and Bubba got out of their truck. NDNG walked up to greet me and strode through our shared front yard to shake my hand. As he got to the edge of my patio, he planted his left foot in the middle of a heaping helping of Bubbaturd.
"Oh, Bubba," NDNG said, turning to his dog. "Look what you did."
He wiped off his shoe on the grass, excused himself and went inside.
And I need to find that shovel.
(Our landlady, initially confused as to whether NDNG's dog or Two Doors Down Guy's dog Kiwi was responsible, once posted a large sign in the yard: CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR PETS IMMEDIATELY. Not that it helped.)
I was standing on my front patio yesterday trying to remember where I'd put the shovel, when NDNG pulled up and he and Bubba got out of their truck. NDNG walked up to greet me and strode through our shared front yard to shake my hand. As he got to the edge of my patio, he planted his left foot in the middle of a heaping helping of Bubbaturd.
"Oh, Bubba," NDNG said, turning to his dog. "Look what you did."
He wiped off his shoe on the grass, excused himself and went inside.
And I need to find that shovel.
January 24, 2010
With a name like that, is it even a sport?
The Lovely Mrs. byoolin's trebuchet asked me if I knew the internet meme that goes something like, "We [i.e., Canadians] will explain curling to you [i.e., Americans] when you explain the NRA to us."
She was taken aback that I had no idea what she was talking about. I frequently have no idea what she's talking about, but, bless her heart, the novelty does not seem to wear off.
She posited that the meme is flawed and that if it were hers to rewrite, she'd replace "the NRA" with "NASCAR." She provided a rational explanation, supporting documentation and, for all I know, may have hired McKinsey to consult on the issue.
Well, if it were mine to rewrite, I'd do it like this:
"We [i.e., Canadians] will NEVER explain curling to you [i.e., Americans]. We saw what happened with hockey: the FOX puck, obnoxious music between face-offs, advertising on the rink boards and a team in Phoenix Arifreakingzona, for crying out loud. If we explain curling, the next thing you know, there'll be cheerleaders on the edges of each sheet, Bud Lite logos on the rocks and the ESPN highlight reel will feature The Dirt Devil Sweep Of The Night."
Of course, this whole internet meme hinges on the absurd idea that there is anyone in America interested enough in curling to bother to ask someone to explain it. Can you imagine the pitch to the executives at FOX sports?
"It's got the strategy of chess and the patience of soccer, and it's on ice!"
She was taken aback that I had no idea what she was talking about. I frequently have no idea what she's talking about, but, bless her heart, the novelty does not seem to wear off.
She posited that the meme is flawed and that if it were hers to rewrite, she'd replace "the NRA" with "NASCAR." She provided a rational explanation, supporting documentation and, for all I know, may have hired McKinsey to consult on the issue.
Well, if it were mine to rewrite, I'd do it like this:
"We [i.e., Canadians] will NEVER explain curling to you [i.e., Americans]. We saw what happened with hockey: the FOX puck, obnoxious music between face-offs, advertising on the rink boards and a team in Phoenix Arifreakingzona, for crying out loud. If we explain curling, the next thing you know, there'll be cheerleaders on the edges of each sheet, Bud Lite logos on the rocks and the ESPN highlight reel will feature The Dirt Devil Sweep Of The Night."
Of course, this whole internet meme hinges on the absurd idea that there is anyone in America interested enough in curling to bother to ask someone to explain it. Can you imagine the pitch to the executives at FOX sports?
"It's got the strategy of chess and the patience of soccer, and it's on ice!"
January 5, 2010
Let's save some hate for Guam, people.
In Chambers County, Texas, three Puerto Rican men are in custody, charged with stabbing to death a man who had let them stay in his trailer.
Horrific crimes like this almost inevitably lead to a show of force from the peanut-brain gallery.
But my favourite comment comes early in the stream of invective, from the 10th person to comment.
That's my favourite comment because only 13 minutes earlier, the very first commenter made a bold prediction.
What CheeryEyed is hinting at, of course, is that Puerto Rico is an unincorporated territory of the United States and - since 1917 - people born in Puerto Rico are American citizens.
Horrific crimes like this almost inevitably lead to a show of force from the peanut-brain gallery.
Searcher61 wrote:
No reverence or value on human life. See what you want, TAKE it! "American Dream," INDEED! OUR American Dream is to DEPORT those who come here illegally to take advantage of OUR hard work, and to ELIMINATE those who come here illegally to take advantage of us AND kill us when we try to help them!...
lea1 wrote:
How long will will let these people come to our country? seems when they said where they were from "Devillier" would have asked about their legal status in our country... coming to our country for the illegals means food stamps,free medical care, and rights that we as americans do not have. It also means they can rob and kill and then move on.
sk134 wrote:
This is one reason why law officers should be able to ask the simple question :Are you here legally? If he could have asked, perhaps a man would be alive today.
Danzmark wrote:
Time to throw ALL these illegals out ! The American Dream doesn't include the rest of the Americans letting these parasites sneak in.
But my favourite comment comes early in the stream of invective, from the 10th person to comment.
Bear1949 wrote:
ILLEGAL ALIENS doing what they do best, KILLING AMERICAN citizens.
That's my favourite comment because only 13 minutes earlier, the very first commenter made a bold prediction.
CheeryEyed wrote:
I despise Puerto Ricans for whining that they can't be a state nor can they be independent. That said, I'm waiting for the idiots to call these goons illegals.
What CheeryEyed is hinting at, of course, is that Puerto Rico is an unincorporated territory of the United States and - since 1917 - people born in Puerto Rico are American citizens.
January 3, 2010
The peanut-brain gallery speaks.
In Decatur, Georgia, a 4-year-old boy was killed by a bullet from celebratory gunfire while attending a New Year’s Eve church service. The bullet is believed to have come from a weapon fired into the air before it pierced the church roof and struck the boy in the head.
We can be grateful to one of the website's commentators for immediately identifying the salient issue:
We can be grateful to one of the website's commentators for immediately identifying the salient issue:
What is the church roof made of...Saran Wrap? Once the bullet makes its way down towards earth and hits the roof, there should be enough friction force on the bullet to slow it down before it completely exits the roof material.
Jan. 1, 2010 7:50pm EST | from trizone
January 2, 2010
"Join The Discussion." (But try not to get too much spit on your monitor.)
Adapted from a letter I sent to the editor of The Globe And Mail earlier this week.
It's time for news organizations' websites to discontinue the practice of offering their readers the opportunity to comment on the stories they publish.
Billed as a way for a site's readers to share their thoughts, in reality the commenters rarely contribute anything thoughtful or worthwhile. Rather, the comments are frequently puerile, juvenile, inane and banal, and all too often they are simply hateful, vulgar, and offensive. Today's exemplar: theglobeandmail.com, the website of The Globe And Mail newspaper, "a blue-chip brand whose credibility is unchallenged... [and] universally recognized as Canada's newspaper of record."
Last Tuesday in Ottawa, a police constable named Eric Czapnik was stabbed to death as he did paperwork in his cruiser. A few hours later, a Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer on leave because of mental health issues was charged with his homicide. The comments section of the Globe And Mail's story provided a disturbing insight into how the feature has devolved. By 10pm that night, 28 of the 218 comments posted were deleted by The Globe's editors for content "not consistent with [The Globe's] guidelines." Many of those that remained were little more than malice-filled expressions of the commenters' personal biases.
Two commenters agree - before an arrest is announced - that the suspect "was either on probation, parole, or bail... AND he was unemployed and contributing nothing to society." Another speculates later that the suspect "wanted to die 'death by cop' style" but "didn't have guts" to kill himself. Yet another seems to imply that Const. Czapnik's murder and the death of Robert Dziekanski in 2007 is part of some kind of RCMP-organized attack on Poles; that writer might be on the same page as the one who believes that RCMP officers have "been given a blank cheque to cover up all their past murders." And there's no shortage of commenters calling one another "idiot" or "mental midget."
This sort of thing isn't isolated. Pick an online story at random and you're almost guaranteed to find something: airport delays? Let's call Muslims terrorists. Fired at age 42 for being too old? Let's make a crack about global warming. Unemployed at 59? Let's mock you because you were in a union. Gym memberships? "This is the most insipid drivel I have ever had the misfortune to read."
The Globe And Mail invites its readers to "Join The Discussion," but these people are uninterested in discussing anything. They just want another forum for their bilious, vitriolic, racist hatemongering. And websites like The Globe And Mail seem to be happy to give them one.
It's time for news organizations' websites to discontinue the practice of offering their readers the opportunity to comment on the stories they publish.
Billed as a way for a site's readers to share their thoughts, in reality the commenters rarely contribute anything thoughtful or worthwhile. Rather, the comments are frequently puerile, juvenile, inane and banal, and all too often they are simply hateful, vulgar, and offensive. Today's exemplar: theglobeandmail.com, the website of The Globe And Mail newspaper, "a blue-chip brand whose credibility is unchallenged... [and] universally recognized as Canada's newspaper of record."
Last Tuesday in Ottawa, a police constable named Eric Czapnik was stabbed to death as he did paperwork in his cruiser. A few hours later, a Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer on leave because of mental health issues was charged with his homicide. The comments section of the Globe And Mail's story provided a disturbing insight into how the feature has devolved. By 10pm that night, 28 of the 218 comments posted were deleted by The Globe's editors for content "not consistent with [The Globe's] guidelines." Many of those that remained were little more than malice-filled expressions of the commenters' personal biases.
Two commenters agree - before an arrest is announced - that the suspect "was either on probation, parole, or bail... AND he was unemployed and contributing nothing to society." Another speculates later that the suspect "wanted to die 'death by cop' style" but "didn't have guts" to kill himself. Yet another seems to imply that Const. Czapnik's murder and the death of Robert Dziekanski in 2007 is part of some kind of RCMP-organized attack on Poles; that writer might be on the same page as the one who believes that RCMP officers have "been given a blank cheque to cover up all their past murders." And there's no shortage of commenters calling one another "idiot" or "mental midget."
This sort of thing isn't isolated. Pick an online story at random and you're almost guaranteed to find something: airport delays? Let's call Muslims terrorists. Fired at age 42 for being too old? Let's make a crack about global warming. Unemployed at 59? Let's mock you because you were in a union. Gym memberships? "This is the most insipid drivel I have ever had the misfortune to read."
The Globe And Mail invites its readers to "Join The Discussion," but these people are uninterested in discussing anything. They just want another forum for their bilious, vitriolic, racist hatemongering. And websites like The Globe And Mail seem to be happy to give them one.
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