Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

My mother… God love ‘er. 

She does really well at keeping up with everything current, despite living in our little speck on the map all of her life.  I think having two grown daughters makes her a little more watchful of the trends and goings on. 

But this is rural New Brunswick:  the land of meat and potatoes; farmer’s country; where the dividing social line is whether or not your half-ton is a 4×4; where people hook up satellite tv not to broaden their viewing horizons but to have the option of watching the same CBS shows at 10 different time slots a day. 

Yes, this is still Carleton County and sometimes even my SuperWoman mom can’t hide her roots. 


After having lunch yesterday, we were driving through the town I work in, chatting about something.  Mom glanced over at me, looked past me, and interrupted herself mid-sentence to exclaim, “Well look!  There goes a midget!”. 

I was a bit taken aback by the statement but was also giggling at how “redneck” it is to be shocked at the sight.  

In a scolding tone, I said, “MOM!  They prefer to be called ‘little people’!”. 

And she replied, “Okay, well … there goes a little midget!”


I’m still not sure if she said it to be funny or if she really wasn’t getting my drift but, either way, it made me laugh. 

(Sorry if that offends… that wasn’t my intention)

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My father grew up on a farm, complete with cows, chickens, hay, barn, tractor… yup, it was a farm. 

Every now and then my dad tells me stories from his days growing up and working on the farm, which amuses me for two reasons … I like picturing my dad as a younger version of himself and I like remembering and learning new things about my grampie (who passed away in 1993). 

This particular story should be a bona fide joke that is told in small-town pubs everywhere.  Maybe it should even be one of those e-mail forwards that those people who don’t know better forward to everyone in their address list (please stop it!). 

Instead, it is a small slice of my dad’s life. 


My grampie always kept a bull on the farm for the purposes of … well, spreading the love to the neighbor cows.  For a price, of course.  I know… pimping out bovine is not a pretty thought but that’s the way it is on farms. 

The bull of this story was young and still rather small in comparison to the cow that had come a-visitin’ on this particular day… small enough that when it came time to do the deed, he wasn’t tall enough to … ahem, climb on.  He tried and tried but she was just too tall for him to get in position and do his thing. 

My grampie looked at my dad and said, “Go get the shovel”. 

So what do you do when the guy is just a little too short to get on the girl?  You dig a hole underneath the cow’s hind legs, of course… a hole just deep enough to bring her down to his level. 

It sounds far too simple but it worked!  The bull finished his business and I’m sure it was a lovely moment for both of them. 

I picture Grampie leaning on the shovel’s handle then, chuckling, and, with laughter in his eyes, delivering the punch line: “Well, that’s the first fuckin’ hole I’ve ever had to dig…”. 


Frig, I miss him.  And I wish I knew him today.  

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On this topic I can stay quiet no longer. 

I will alienate the die-hards in the crowd.  My words will fuel the debaters hanging on the edge of their seats, just waiting for something to argue about.  I may even infuriate some of you… the adamant among you.  Of all this I am aware and yet I feel I have held my tongue long enough.  For too long.  I must wage on. 

I seriously hate Crocs.  I loathe them, detest them, dislike them. 



There.  I said it. 

But it didn’t stop at Crocs, did it?  No.  My circle of hatred widened a little more with every style… the sandals, the boots, the sandals, the slippers.  And then all of those little decorations they stick in the holes. 

I mean, how many other ways can they reincarnate ugly? 

And then, as if the million-and-one true blue Croc styles weren’t enough, the million-and-one companies creating knock-offs and selling them at every dollar store and corner store would make sure that there was a style, a color, and a price for everyone. 

Great.  Lucky us. 

I may have been able to jump on the Croc bandwagon if people had bought sensible colors.  But no, what have people gravitated toward?  Not the neutral colors that might actually have a chance in hell at matching an outfit in your closet.  No, people would rather match sunshine yellow Crocs with purple shirts, pylon orange with hot pink shirts, and Barney purple with those red shorts.  Because people buy one pair and wear them with everything they own

My god, I cringe everytime I see someone walking down the street with feet that could be lighthouse beacons. 

And that is my biggest problem with Crocs.,, the fashion aspect.  Day in and day out we are exposed to TV commercials, magazine ads, website pop-ups, and countless other methods of advertising that tell us we need to be on the cutting edge of fashion.  Now, I’m not saying that we should fall for all of that crap but what is it about these flimsy, rubber, hole-filled monstrosities that make people okay with throwing out even the basics of fashion sense? 

Oh, and for the record… just because you fashion them like mary janes, does NOT make them fashionable. 

Is it geography?  Is it because I live in rural, backwoods New Brunswick?  Surely not, because I see them even more often when visiting the nearest cities.  Do you see these things in the bigger city centers as much as I do around here?  I’m dying to know … and a little bit afraid at the same time. 

So there.  Despite how comfortable you say they are, I still think they’re f’ugly. 

And then there’s the social aspect.  Every time a craze like this sweeps our pathetic nations I find myself a little less amazed and a lot more disgusted at how quickly people stick their tongues out to “baaa” and lick at the asses of the sheep in front of them.  I guess some people are content with that but I don’t think I get it.  I don’t think I ever will.  I don’t think I want to. 

And to close?  The clincher:  one of the greatest … ha ha … ahem, and most powerful men … he he… of our time, seen here with his nose smelling like sheep arse. 


‘Nuff said, right? 

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I am so busy lately I just haven’t had the time to write like I was for a while there. 

The music festival is on the horizon and, like usual, I dropped the ball for my piano students.  Not literally, of course, because they would in all likelihood forget all about the piano and take off chasing it.  I mean that, despite my adamance that I would be all over it this year, it slipped my mind again and then … suddenly … I need to pick songs, convince them that they like them, and then put in their entry forms.  All rushed and feeling like a big dope alongside the piano teachers with dozens of students that still manage to have everything under control, of course.  <Sigh>

Curling is curling as usual but being chairman of the board is adding a lot to my plate.  Planning the 50th Anniversary bonspiel, board meetings, committee meetings, bonspiels.  Sheesh! 

So I was talking to Will today … he’s a co-worker from the sane side of cubicle row who clips his nails at home and minds his own business.  We were saying how we felt like we needed a few days off because we’ve been so busy with projects and work and just life in general.  “I want to take the summer off and work on my house”, he said. 

So we started thinking… how does a person go about getting a whole summer off?  Maternity leave is an option, for me anyway… although I don’t really consider losing sight of your feet, waddling everywhere you go, and growing a human being as time off. 

No, we decided that the best way would be to just wig out some day and hope to get put on stress leave for a couple of months.  And that reminded me of this e-mail I got a few days ago:  20 ways to maintain a healthy level of insanity (although I wouldn’t consider all 20 of them blog-worthy so you’re only getting a chunk of them). 

Hmm … that seems to jive with our stress leave idea, doesn’t it? 

Let’s have a look. 

1.  At lunch time, sit in your parked car with sunglasses on and point a hair dryer at passing cars to see if they slow down. 

2.  Page yourself over the intercom at work but make no effort to disguise your voice. 

3.  Every time someone asks you to do something, ask them if they want fries with that.  Make a real effort to look like this guy when you do it though. 



4.  In the memo field of all your checks, write ‘For sexual favors’

5.  Finish all your sentences with, ‘in accordance with the prophecy’

6.  As often as possible, skip rather than walk.  Hum the Smurfs theme song. 



7.  Ask people what sex they are.  Laugh hysterically after they answer

8.  Specify that your drive-through order is ‘to go’.  More than once.  Make sure they get it. 



9.  Sing along at the opera



10.  Five days in advance, tell your friends you can’t attend their party because you’re not in the mood


11.  When the money comes out of the ATM, scream ‘I won!  I won!’. 


12.  Have your coworkers address you by your wrestling name, Rock Hard

13.  Put decaf in the coffee maker for 3 weeks.  Once everyone has gotten over their caffeine addictions, switch to Espresso. 



Any more ideas? 

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How did YOU get here?

After reading an entry by Joe a while ago, I started keeping an eye on the search engine terms that people use to get to my blog. 

Some comments: 

  • There are a surprising number of people out there looking for a donair sauce recipe. 
  • And, apparently, a fair number of people curious about laughing gas. 
  • There are also a fair number of people searching for the rapper Nelly that stumble across pictures of my chocolate lab.  Hey, she is much cuter. 
  • To the person that searched for ‘virgin kayak’ … I’m sorry you were disappointed. 

Today is a high point in my humble blog-dom… I am on the Blog Watch section of CBC’s site for my response to the swearing article.  Really, I am!  Check it out! 

Okay, so it’s no big deal.  But my mom will still be proud…

Oct. 25th EDIT to add:  I also apologize for the disappointment that the person who searched for ‘deep hole’ must have felt when they stumbled across my site. 

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It seems today there are many reasons why a person’s outlook on society would waver towards the negative… war, kids and gun violence, corrupt politics, and that’s just to name a few.  Well, friends, today my outlook is feeling very wobbly indeed. 

And it was this article that did it. 

I don’t claim to understand the world’s fascination with celebrity in general but there are a handful of celebrities whose goings-on just seem to stick in my craw, wherever on my anatomy that may be. 

I have never been a fan of Rosie O’Donnell.  She’s loud, obnoxious, narcissistic, and just way too in-your-face for my liking.  I mean, look at the picture for this article… does that not scream mental trouble?  From the days of her talk show to the recent feud that got her kicked off of The View, I’ve just never understood the attraction that so many people seem to have to her. 

Sure… she donates a bunch of money to charity.  Good for her.  Couldn’t she do it more quietly though? 

Sure… she came out as a big snuggly lesbian that gave her a personal and human quality.  But hadn’t that already been done, a bunch of times, and with far more … er, grace? 

Sure… she flung stuff at the audience with elastics.  I guess I should look on facebook for the ‘love being pelted by elastics’ group.  Maybe I will gain some insight there. 

So what is the root of that fascination, people?  I’d really like to know.  Really. 

The “Oh.  My.  God.” moments for me in this article: 

  • $2 million to write a 209-page book about infantile celebrity feuds you’ve had?  Let’s not forget the equally-as-childish “support  me, Barbara Walters” whining.  Geez, send some of that my way.  No, really … give me a topic, any topic, and I’ll scratch out 209 pages on it. 
  • Five emmies for outstanding talk show?  And six emmies for outstanding talk show host?  The “Oh.  My.  God.” moment there sticks out like a sore thumb that I might just have to stick in my craw to avoid shoving it in your eye.  Or worse. 
  • She’s still talking about that feud with Donald Trump?  Get over it!  A mature adult would have known when to stop with the back-and-forth of that fight while it was happening and yet here you are still talking about it?! 
  • The View won an award for Outstanding Achievement in Hairstyl… wait, let me start over.  There is an award for outstanding achievement in hairstyling?!  Well that clinches it:  They really do give awards for every facet of the entertainment industry!  (By the way, I’m still waiting for my Outstanding Achievement in Cubicle-sitting” award.  I would also accept the Outstanding Achievement in Looking Busy award.  I have my acceptance speech all ready, if you’re wondering). 

A random point to ponder… does the fact that “public pooping” is mentioned in this book speak more to Rosie’s level of sophistication or to the type of people buying this book?   Hmm … it really makes you think, doesn’t it? 

In reality, I realize that the reason she show up on so many tv screens, books, articles etc. is a combination of the fact that yes, she generates money and that yes, there are people out there who like her, regardless of how inconceivable any of that seems to me.  Does it shake my faith in society giving attention where it is due and not to some raving lunatic washed-up tv host?  Yes, it does.  Maybe I need to visit my local trailer park and have a sit-down over a box of wine to truly understand it all. 

If you can explain it to me, let me know … I might just put you in my acceptance speech. 

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Family Guy cracks me up …

Last night’s episode (a re-run) … Lois forces Brian to potty train after stepping in his “business” yet again.  After not being able to master it, at the end of the episode he says he’s figured out a solution.  Cut to mayor Adam West pointing on his lawn saying, “Ha!  They said those sausage seeds wouldn’t work and I proved them wrong!”

Brian the dog totally reminds me of my cousin Joe which makes everything he says funnier.  I’m pretty sure he’s toilet trained though.  No offense intended, Joe… it’s his low voice and wit that does it. 

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Until I have kids of my own, I live vicariously through my friend Kenny who has a 5-year-old, Sydney…  Well, sometimes she is a grown-up trapped in a 5-year-old’s body.  He told me of this morning’s conversation with Sydney over breakfast and I laughed so hard I figured it blog-worthy. 



Kenny:  “Syd, what do you want for breakfast?”

Sydney:  “Nothing, daddy”

Kenny:  “Sydney, you have to eat something for breakfast now that you’re going to school.”

Sydney:  “I’ll have some toast at school.”

Kenny:  “What do you mean, toast at school?”

Sydney:  “It’s really cool, daddy … they have food at school for kids that don’t eat at home.” 

Kenny, now slightly alarmed:  “You have to eat something for breakfast before you go to school, Sydney.  Do you want some toast?”

Sydney:  “No, I’ll have some later at school.  Their toast is really good.”

Kenny:  “You’ve had toast at school before?”

Sydney:  “Yes, I had some yesterday.”

Kenny:  “Sydney, did you tell people at school that you didn’t get breakfast at home and were hungry?”

Sydney:  “Yes, daddy…”


Kenny couldn’t help but laugh, despite the image his daughter had painted of him and his wife. 

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The Best of the Sopranos

Dr. Melfi:  “I think Anthony Jr. might have stumbled upon existentialism”

Tony:  “F#*$ing Internet”


Dr. Melfi:   Have you ever had a prostate exam?

Tony:  Are you  kidding?   I don’t let anyone wag their finger in my FACE.


Tony:  “What is that?” 

Irina:   “Chicken Soup for the Soul”

Tony:  “You should read “Tomato Sauce for Your Ass”, it’s the Italian version.


Uncle Junior:  “Flight risk?  I’ve been farting into the same sofa cushion for twenty years!”


Uncle Junior:  “The Federal Marshalls are so far up my ass I can taste Brylcream.”


Paulie:  “Don’t make me pull rank on you kid”

Christopher:  “F#*$ you, Paulie.  Captain or no Captain, right now we’re just two assholes lost in the woods”


Tony: He hurt my appraiser, what was I supposed to do? It’s on page four o’ the “Boss Manual,”


Paulie Walnuts: That’s why dinosaurs don’t exist no more.

Goomar: Wasn’t it a meteor?

Paulie: They’re all meat-eaters.

Christopher: METEOR! METEOR!

Paulie: Take it easy.

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This weekend was full of housework… I take one step forward and two steps back it seems.  I guess anyone who has tried to keep a house clean knows what I’m talking about.

Saturday night we went with mom and dad to a play by Weldon Matthews, called The Life of Merville Wade and the Waders, put on by a local theater group.  It was about a dead country singer whose impersonator is playing at a used car lot … his life story comes out while, at the same time, several different storylines occur with different characters. 

Weldon was a teacher at the high school in my day, although I was never in one of his classes.  He is an eccentric character with a long bushy moustache that he liked to twirl with his fingers while in thought.  His plays are mostly, if not all, based in small towns (stick with what you know, I guess) and full of satire appropriate for the small town crowd.  He’s a clever writer and has a knack for casting people into their roles.  It’s always neat to see something like that when you know some of the players.  It was a pretty good show overall. 

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