A Canuck Shall Run Amok On Mars

I recently ran across a news item from Owen Sound. Owen Sound — the city whose motto is, “We are not amused by the Southern Ontario Elephant.”

The news was about a young fellow who would rather live on Mars than spend the rest of his life in Owen Sound. Here is an excerpt from the story:

OWEN SOUND, Ont. — Trevor Uitvlugt says he isn’t vying to go to Mars for fame or money.

The 22-year-old Star Trek fan from Bruce County, Ont. — one of about 3,000 Canadians who has applied so far to go on a one-way trip to Mars — says he is going to make a difference for mankind.

“I said in my application video that I would be more lonely dying here not making a difference, then there and maybe making a difference,” said Uitvlugt...

Trevor UITVLUGT??? That sounds suspiciously alien. It could be Klingon — which would explain his affinity for Star Trek. Or perhaps it is Martian in origin. Mr. Uitvlugt, like any good E.T. is just trying to return home.

The article goes on to state that Uitvlugt is a kung fu instructor and lifeguard at the Family Y.

So, despite what he says, this young man IS making a difference here on Earth. I hope he can somehow find some Martians who are in desperate need of self-defense and water-safety instruction.


During the early days of space flight, many American and Russian children dreamed of following in the zero-gravity footsteps of their astronaut and cosmonaut heroes. But these dreams were not limited to those countries alone. Many a Canadian child had similar aspirations.

“I want to be an astronaut when I grow up," said a typical ‘60s era Canadian tyke.
“But honey, Canada has no space program," came the usual discouragement from the pragmatic adult.
“No problem,” said the undaunted star-gazer. “I’ll hitch a ride with the Americans on one of their spacecraft.”

So the children became grownups and persisted in their ambitions. They approached the National Aeronautics and Space Administration for a chance to ride into that great star-dappled ocean of infinity.

“You know," said the directors at NASA, “we don’t want you just along for the ride, going “Oooooh, aaaaah” and “Look at those stars! COOL!”  We expect you to chip in and add something worthwhile to this mission.”
“We might be able to lend a hand," said the Canadians.
NASA’s firm reply was, “Well, we’re hoping you could provide more than just a hand.”

Thus was born the Canadarm.

The Canadarm made its debut in 1981, and was a very useful tool in space exploration. It was used to carry, retrieve, and maneuver various space stuff during various space missions (I hope I’m not being too technical here). If needed, the Canadarm could also be used to grab an incoming and unwelcome alien by the throat or to deliver an impressive mechanical punch to the creature’s gigantic, green, scaly, four-nostriled nose.

The Canadarm was finally retired in 2011 due to the worst case of tennis elbow in the entire Solar System.

The world is still waiting for other countries to do their part and develop a replacement. In the works are the San Marinose (the alien might turn the tables on this one), the Venezueleg, the Panamouth, and the Germaknee.

Meanwhile, Trevor Uitvlugt is well-advised to listen to Elton John's song Rocket Man, with Bernie Taupin's immortal lyrics:

"She packed my bags last night, pre-flight
Zero hour, nine a.m."
Do most astronauts have their gear readied by their spouses?

"And I'm gonna be high as a kite by then..." 
Must be Whip Whitaker at the controls of this spacecraft.

"Oh no, no, no, I'm a rocket man 
Rocket man, burning out his fuse up here alone..."
“Burning out one’s fuse” is a euphemism for lonesome, solitary space activities. I leave it to your imagination.

"Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids 
In fact it's cold as hell 
And there's no one there to raise them if you did."
I think the cold Martian air is affecting the Rocket Man’s logic: There is no one there to raise kids if you raise them there.

"And all this science, I don't understand"
We can just hear it now:
Rocket Man: Attention Ground Control. My craft is shaking like a can of paint in a hardware store.
Ground Control: You need to make some adjustment with the servo-amplifiers. Also, you may be looking at trouble with the nuclear pulse propulsion thrusters. Remember as well that electrostatic ion thrusters use the Coulomb force and accelerate the ions in the direction of the electric field, while electromagnetic ion thrusters use the Lorentz force to accelerate the ions.
Rocket Man: HUH?
Ground Control: Come on buddy. This isn't rocket science, um, I mean brain surgery.

"It's just my job five days a week..."
Does he go back home to Earth on weekends? Maybe he takes day trips to check out Saturn on Saturdays and has fun probing Uranus on Sundays.

Personally, I'd rather explore Owen Sound.

I'll Have A Foot-Long Monkey Meat On Italian To Go

I thought you could buy a monkey meat sandwich at Subway.

Subway has had ads out (in Canada at least) that show some sort of breakfast superhero squad.

MORNING HUNGER IS NOTHING TO FEAR WHERE THIS TEAM OF SUPERHEROES IS FOUND

There’s an egg with an attitude ("The Awesome Ovum"?), a tomato (female, of course — perhaps “Toots the Tomato”) and some green fellow who might be known as “Phallic Vegetable Man”.

I’m pretty sure these superheroes represent the food that you can have on your sandwiches at Subway. The other member of the squad that I did not mention yet is a swaggering, helmeted monkey. He is the biggest of the group and appears to be the leader. Let’s call this super simian "One Tough Monkey".

Since you can get egg, tomato, and cucumber on your sandwiches, one can assume that you can also get monkey meat (if you so desire). I, for one, have no such desire. But I am curious, since there is no logical explanation, as to why the monkey is represented.  Could he just be a mascot? If so, why a monkey? In fact, I did a Google search and could not find one website that could explain this monkey business.

So, I recently walked into our nearest Subway and asked the girl behind the counter if they served monkey meat. She was courteous and professional, but her reply was a rather firm “No sir, we do not”. I thought I’d better not push it and ask her about the names of the anthropomorphized creatures from the Super Breakfast Squad.

While we’re on the subject of TV ads, I recently saw one that honestly, actually, believe-it-or-not was trying to get people to buy a washing machine cleaner. I think it was from the makers of Tide.

The woman in the commercial walks toward her laundry room and suddenly her face contorts into one of abject revulsion as she apparently smells this wretched putrid stench coming from her washing machine. She couldn’t have been more disgusted if a horde of sewer rats had committed mass suicide in her heating ducts.

Personally, I’ve NEVER washed my washing machine. If this woman came anywhere in the vicinity of our duds sudser, she would likely make a beeline to our washroom to call Ralph on the big white phone.

Now I may be wrong about this but don’t most people put a detergent directly into the washing machine when they do laundry? Does the washer not go through a cycle of sloshing and swishing around with warm sudsy soapy water for several minutes, going whoosha-wooka whoosha-wooka whoosha-wooka? Is not everything then put through a rinse cycle, which involves more sloshing and swishing — more whoosha-wooka whoosha-wooka whoosha-wooka? Does the machine not spin everything at the speed of a particle accelerator,  thereby ensuring that anything and everything but the clothes has been flung from the drum both prior to and after the rinse cycle?

I don't remember ever complaining, “I would do a load of laundry, but the washing machine is dirty” or “Honey, can we do something about this stinking washing machine? I’m afraid it will soil my used jock strap.”

Why doesn’t Tide market an additive to moisturize the water? Perhaps someone like the makers of Bounce could come up with a drying agent for your dryer. Crest could surely jump on the bandwagon and invent a toothbrush brush. Maybe GE could come up with a device to warm up your oven. There’s a whole untapped market out there!


Finally, on a completely unrelated note, I want to mention a scientific study in France that concludes men with guitars are sexy.  It is hard to argue against this, as the photo below illustrates:

ON TOUR WITH THE FÜHRER

Hey Anonymous, CAPTCHA This!

I always welcome comments on my posts. If nothing else, it proves to me that at least someone is reading my blog.

I moderate all comments lest I receive some accolade like “I hope you freeze to death, you ***********, *************, snow-shoveling, son-of-a-*****!”

As well, I have had the CAPTCHA option turned on, mainly because it seemed to stop the comments from one particularly pesky person by the name of Anonymous.

It is ironic that this person shares a name with the brilliant Anonymous who has given us so many sayings, songs, and poems. I believe the ancient Anonymous was some sort of Greek polymath and brother or sister to Aristomedes , but I could be wrong. I fear that the modern day Anonymous has only half the mental capacity of the modern day half-wit.

During the six months that I had CAPTCHA off, I received about 30 comments from Anonymous. Most of them were pretty much the same. Here are how the comments and my equally goofy replies would have appeared, had I posted them:

Anonymous
Hey very nice blog!! Guy .. Excellent .. Amazing .. I'll bookmark your site and take the feeds also? I am glad to seek out a lot of helpful info right here in the post, we'd like develop more strategies on this regard, thank you for sharing. . . . . . Feel free to surf my web-site...

    G. Thomas Boston
     I’m glad you’re glad to seek out all the helpful info I try to incorporate into my posts. Like me, you should develop more strategies on this regard. Glad I could share. I shall surf, but just the surface of your site.

Anonymous
Someone essentially lend a hand to make critically posts I'd state. This is the first time I frequented your website page and to this point? I surprised with the research you made to create this particular post extraordinary. Great job! My webpage...

    G. Thomas Boston
    Someone essentially tendered spam to pass it off as a legit comment I’d state. How frequently have you frequented other blog sites for the first time to this point? Don’t be surprised with the research I made to create this particular extraordinary post; ‘tweren’t nuthin’.


Anonymous
WOW just what I was searching for. Came here by searching for jacksonville impotence treatment center

    G. Thomas Boston
    Glad you found us. Unfortunately, very few people are aware that Snow Shoveling In Canada is just a front for the Jacksonville Impotence Treatment Center.                            

Here are a few more articulate comments from Anonymous:

• I'm very pleased to uncover this great site. I need to to thank you for ones time due to this wonderful read!! I definitely savored every little bit of it 

• Wow that was ѕtrange. I just wrote an verу long cοmment but аfter I сlіckeԁ ѕubmit my сomment didn't show up. Grrrr... well I'm not wгіting аll that ovеr again.

• Hi mаtes, how is all, and what you would like to say concerning this pіеce of writing, in my view іts trulу aweѕome іn favor of me. 

• It's perfect time to make some plans for the future and it is time to be happy. I've read this post and if I could I desire to suggest you some interesting things or tips. Maybe you could write next articles referring to this article. I wish to read even more things about it! 

and my favorite:

• Pretty element of content. I simply stumbled upon your website and in accession capital to say that I get actually loved account your weblog posts. Any way I will be subscribing for your feeds and even I achievement you access consistently quickly.

High praise indeed. And while I do appreciate the comments, I couldn't publish them due to the fact that Anonymous is trying to hawk something on his or her web site. Although, some of it is interesting:

• make money online no scam (Oh, suuuuuuure!)
• bathing suits juniors (If this person had truly read my blog, they would know that I’m soon to be more interested in diapers seniors)
• back pain between shoulder blades (as opposed to upper back pain)
• last minute wintersport weekend (now this one I should have investigated, being the snow-loving Canadian that I am)

I am in Canada
I am shoveling
I am snow
I am
I am
I am
I am Snow Shoveling In Canada

I always wanted to say that, just like all those cool people you see in so many TV commercials these days.

Anyway, CAPTCHA is an acronym. I think it stands for Can Anyone Perceive These Characters? Hahaha! Anyone?

Hold on. One of my editors has just informed me that CAPTCHA stands for Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart.

What kind of an acronym is that? There are too many words! The proper acronym for that would be CAPTTTTCAHA (pronounced capt-tititty-cah-ha). I don’t like acronyms that aren't succinct and to the point like NATO and SCUBA.

There once was a snorkeler from Cuba
Who thought he would one day try SCUBA
But raptures of the deep
Very nearly made him sleep
He somehow emerged in Aruba 

We might as well make up a new meaning for CAPTCHA. How about:

Curmudgeonly Advice: Please Tell Computer Hackers, spammers, automated software designers, and others of their ilk that you are tired of having to figure out those squiggly, distorted strange words and phrases, and that you no longer want to type them in just to prove you are not a ********* computer, and that if you ever get a hold of any these nerds-from-hell you will give them a swift kick in the lower binary region.

Amen.

A Boy, A Thracian, And An Airline Pilot Walk Into A Blog...

A friend recently inquired as to why I haven’t been blogging much lately. I said, “Who do you think I am? Leo ******* Tolstoy? In case you haven’t noticed, I've posted blog entries on everything from snow shoveling to sports, music, art, literature, poetry, holidays, travel, fashion, technology, animals and, literally, all kinds of topics from A to Z. My brain is tired!”

He responded. “Really? I've read your blog. It sure doesn't look as if you've overworked your brain on it.”

Well, he may be right. Even so, I just want to take this opportunity to send my best wishes to that friend who is currently in the hospital recovering from reconstructive nose surgery.

However, I have done some writing of late; I've reviewed some movies on the website Rotten Tomatoes.

I used to think being a film critic would have been the world’s greatest profession. Imagine, being paid to watch movies and expressing your opinion. Now I think it would be a nightmare! Can you imagine having to sit through three hours of a James Cameron supposed-epic, with music by John (The Big Schmaltzy) Williams, and possibly starring (and we'll scrape the bottom of the barrel here) Adam Sandler, and in 3D? I’d rather be a Wal-Mart greeter in Antarctica. But, I suppose there could be worse jobs.

As a favor to you faithful readers, I've decided to post some of my reviews here so you don’t have to e-travel all the way over to the Rotten Tomatoes site.


HUGO (2011)
Hugo is directed by either Spielberg or Scorsese. I think it's Scorsese, but it felt like Spielberg. The film even had some John Williams-style BIG music, composed by Canadian Howard Shore. Yeah, that's right, the Canadian saxophone player from the Canadian band Lighthouse! (I had to get in some Canadian content there)

This fantasy is about a boy who lives in the walls of a Paris train station. Not since The Legend of 1900 have I heard of anything this screwy. Inside these walls are the guts of the station's clocks. The guts consist of cogs, gears, counterweights, pinions, springs, and - inexplicably - steam.

During the course of the film, we learn that Hugo is the dude that built C3PO (or some C3PO prototype). C3PO reveals to Hugo that the local old grump (played by Ben Kingsley) is in fact a forerunner to movie wizards like Spielsese or Scorberg.

Anyway, I saw this movie in regular old boring 2D at a local theatre which hasn't changed much since its days as a Nickelodeon. I didn't realize it was a 3D film until the scene where some pages with drawings go flying from the kids' hands and drift all over the screen. At first I was thinking, "What the hell is this all about? Am I supposed to be mesmerized by fluttering stationery?" Then I realized that this was intended to be seen in super-duper 3D. "Ahh," I thought, "Now I see. Ooooh, that would have been so cool to see all that paper flying around in 3D." We haven't witnessed anything like this in cinematic history since the famous bolo-bat scene in the 1953 film House of Wax.

Hugo does a lot of hiding and running, primarily from a train station cop played by Sacha Baron Cohen. Cohen's character is an amalgam of Inspectors Javert and Clouseau. He and his trusty Doberman Pinscher cannot seem to track down the elusive boy who knows the station and its walls like the inner workings of an automaton. During one climactic scene, Hugo gives the Inspector the slip by doing a Harold Lloyd impression from a clock tower.

Once the Inspector catches up with Hugo, they have a talk. During the conversation, the little urchin makes the Inspector laugh. The Inspector tells him that he's funny. Hugo then says, "I'm funny how? I mean funny like I'm a clown? I amuse you? I make you laugh, I'm here to ******' amuse you? What do you mean funny? Funny how? How am I funny? What the **** is so funny about me? Tell me, tell me what's funny!"

Wait a minute. I might me confused. That dialog might be from a different movie - a real Scorcese film.


SPARTACUS (1960)
Editor’s Note — Anyone who has read ALL my posts will recognize that part of an old blog entry was used in this review. Forgive me. As I said, my brain is tired.

In 1960, Stanley Kubrick released his colossal, towering, gargantuan, monumental, epic blockbuster SPARTACUS!!!! Okay, it isn't that spectacular, but it is a pretty dang good flick.

Spartacus stars Kirk Douglas as an impudent Thracian slave. Thracians, as depicted in the film, were a race of people known for a particular physical characteristic - they had chin dimples the size of a walnut.

Because Spartacus is such an uppity wisenheimer, he is sentenced to a life as a gladiator. Not that it's all bad. He gets to work out a lot and is "whipped" into incredible physical shape. Also, he receives occasional visits from another slave who also happens to be a tasty dish named Varinia (played as a genteel aristocrat by Jean Simmons).

Douglas does a fine job as the brooding gladiator. Other standouts include Charles Laughton as Gracchus; not to be confused with Crassus, a gourmet who likes both escargot and shellfish, played by Laurence Olivier. Peter Ustinov provides some Oscar-winning semi-comic relief as the sniveling sycophant Batiatus.

Another major character in the film is Antoninus, played by Tony Curtis. Tony (which is short for Antoninus) is a "singer" of "songs". His "songs" are just poems spoken in a Bronx accent.

During the course of the movie, Spartacus escapes from gladiator school and assembles a considerable army of fellow undergraduates. Spartacus is well-loved by his men, and this is illustrated in one particularly moving scene.

When the Romans capture Spartacus and his men, Crassus threatens to kill them all unless someone betrays their leader (who Crassus believes is a communist). Spartacus - in a heroic effort to spare his men - stands up to reveal himself, but Antoninus beats him to the punch. He jumps to his sandaled feet and yells out, "I'm Spartacus."
This sets off a chain reaction. Another guy stands up and shouts, "I'm Spartacus."
And another, "I'm Spartacus."
Another, "I'm Spartacus."
And so on.

The Romans were very frustrated by this, because now instead of one pesky Spartacus, they found that they had to deal with a whole slew of Spartaci.

Legend has it that this event spawned an entire generation of scofflaws. Whenever a centurion confronted a non-Roman for some infraction - say a speeding chariot - the inevitable happened:
"Name?"
"Spartacus."
"All right wise guy. Thirty days in the dungeon."

Anyway, this is a very good film that I highly recommend. And, if I may, I'd like to close out this "review" with one of Antoninus' "songs":

"When the blazing wind hangs low in the western sky
when the sun flies away to the mountain
when the "song" of the crow scares the locusts from the fields
and maidens sleep in the sea foam
at last at twilight time..."

Or something like that.


FLIGHT (2012)
Flight stars Denzel Washington as Whip Whitaker, a pilot who can fly a passenger jet through the eye of a needle even though he's downed enough alcohol to put Haystacks Calhoun on his keester.

Whitaker is no stranger to other mind-altering substances. He apparently can drink ten gallons of 150 proof hooch, fall asleep, then get himself back on his feet by snorting several lines of cocaine. And with all those drugs swirling around in his liver, he can expertly maneuver a disabled airplane upside-down (to be clear, it's the airplane that's upside-down. Although the Whipster could likely fly it standing on his head). What a stud!

However this is a pretty good movie. You'll really enjoy it if you first dispose of your jaded negativity.

— — —

There you have it, two full reviews and one pathetic, measly, tepid critique.

But, before I go, I'd like to give a shout out to a fellow blogger who has a new book coming out. Congratulations Susan on the upcoming release of Hot Flashes and Cold Lemonade.

The Purg-Odan Weight Loss Plan

I can't fit into a lot of my old clothes anymore. I feel like Humpty-Dumpty trying on a pair of pants tailored for Pinocchio.

Perhaps this restrictive diet I'm on will help. No collops of meat or dollops of ice cream for me. No siree!

I just finished a tasty lunch of apple juice and clear chicken broth and am I full! I couldn't eat another drop.

For the next couple of days, I am restricted to a diet of sodas, juices, broths, Jello, and Popsicles  This is in preparation for a colonoscopy. This isn't my first. In fact it will be the third time I've had the pleasure of this particular experience.

A little later today I will have to add something else to this already diverse diet — Purg-Odan. Doesn't that sound scrumptious?

I had to go to the local drug store to buy this purgative. I checked the shelves and saw an item in the household cleaning products aisle called 2000 Flushes. “Ah," I thought, "That must be similar to what I’m looking for. Some worker must have placed it in the wrong section of the store.”

Evidently I was wrong, but 2000 Flushes would be a great name for these industrial strength laxatives.

I had to ask a pharmacy technician if they had any Purg-Odan. They did, and, of course, it was a behind-the-counter-because-you-must-exercise-caution-using-this-and/or-no-one-wants-to-acknowledge-that-it-exists type of item. I asked for two boxes. She wanted to know if I really just wanted one box, since each box contains two packets. “No,” I said, “I need two boxes with two packets each.” I swear she winced at this. That didn't help my apprehension. But when I saw that the product was advertised as Orange Flavor, I said, “Mmmmm! Sounds yummy. I can hardly wait.”

I thought I should complete this blog entry AND PRONTO because when that Purg-Odan kicks in I’ll be spending most of my time in the Oval Office.

By the way, here are some photos from the Purg-Odan website:

Does it actually make real oranges?

This product must be for men only.

Tonight’s Dinner Menu:

Appetizer — Apple Juice
Main Course — Chicken Broth (the Soup-Du-Jour), Tea (no milk), and more Apple Juice
Dessert — Jello or Fruit-Juice Freezies

At 8PM it will be another dose of Purg-Ocrap followed by a “snack” of water or Gatorade.

And tomorrow morning, while still asleep in bed, I’ll be dreaming that I’m Fred Flintstone eating a big 'ol Brontosaurus Burger, only to wake up and face another day of fluid fare.

*sigh*

Cut-Rate Cuba

Hello again dear reader.

If there is anyone who has been waiting with great anticipation for my next blog post, I do apologize for my absence. Likely, no one has noticed my non-presence anyway, but nonetheless, I have returned.

It has been another slow snow shoveling season. There is very little snow here in Minikin and the roads and sidewalks are as bare and dry as a naturist with a hangover.

So since I have nothing newsworthy on the topic of winter precipitation, I might as well tell you about our most recent trip to Cuba; that sunny and warm country of communism and American automobiles from the ‘50s.

My wife and I departed on Friday February 8th at 6:30 AM. A howling blizzard threatened to make us stay for at least one day at Toronto Pearson International Airport — not my idea of a winter getaway. But we did take off, and apparently just in time, for flight cancellations were the rule for the rest of that day.

Our destination was the resort island of Cayo Largo.

When we landed at Cayo Largo’s airport, I noticed a Cocker Spaniel having a nap in the late morning sun just off the airport tarmac. In Spanish speaking countries this is known as a siesta, which — if I can trust my knowledge of Spanish — is a combination of the words for yes (si) and this (esta). How this means “late morning nap” is beyond me. Only a Cuban Cocker Spaniel knows for sure.

Anyway, I thought, “How cute! This airport has a mascot.” But I was wrong. This was a serious working dog. In fact, there were several Cuban Cocker Spaniels which soon sprung into action and went to work. These weren’t garden variety house-adorning, lap-sitting, face-licking Cocker Spaniels. No siree! These were dope-sniffing Cocker Spaniels. I personally would think Bloodhounds, Bassett Hounds, and Beagles would be better suited for this kind of a job. But if I can rely on my knowledge of Spanish, Cocker Spaniel derives from the old Spanish meaning Coke-detecting Spaniard, or Spanish Cocaine Dog, or something like that, so these canines were well-suited for the task. They didn’t seem to find anything however. What would a Canadian be smuggling into Cuba anyway? Labbat Blue?

Woe betide those who try to smuggle Canadian beer past this beast!

Again, as in Mexico, we had to go through airport security with scanners, metal detectors, serious security agents et al. I still don’t understand this since we went through the same process on boarding the plane. Do the Cubans know something that Canadian security agents don’t? Did they think we were trying to smuggle pieces of metal that we ripped off of the plane’s body and wings to sell on Cuba’s thriving aluminum black market?

Anyway, after only a five minute ride from the airport we arrived at our resort, the Sol Pelicano. If my knowledge of Spanish is correct, I believe Sol Pelicano means Pelican of the Sun, or Sunny Pelican, or A Pelican named Sol, but I could be wrong on all accounts. It may translate as "one heckuva cheap, cut-rate, budget resort."

Much like the American automobiles in Havana, this place looked as if nothing had been done since the ‘50s. Now don’t get me wrong, it was a fine resort with empty fountains, an empty whirlpool spa, broken cobblestone pathways, crumbling sculptures, dried up gardens, dirty restrooms with faulty plumbing, and mysterious food choices. In short, a lovely and charming place.

All right, I’m being facetious. It really wasn’t all that bad, but it wasn’t all that great. However, I knew beforehand what we were in for since I read the reviews on TripAdvisor.

Keep in mind, when you visit Cuba, that you should not expect the amenities of the Waldorf-Astoria or even the Minikin Motor Court. Gear your expectations down to things like camping in the jungle or living out of your car for a week, and you will be delighted with your surroundings.

The food was a daily adventure. Most of the salads looked as if they were placed there by a Candid Camera type show to see if anyone would actually try them and then have their reactions filmed for the amusement of television audiences.

One restaurant had a vat of soup each day that was simply labelled “soup”. For all I know it could have been Cream of Iguana. In truth, I would have gladly tried some Cream of Iguana soup after a few days of the Pelicano’s cuisine.

By the end of the week, I was feeling less adventurous, and stuck with hard-boiled eggs and prunes for breakfast, white rice for lunch, and unadorned pasta for dinner.

Cayo Largo is an uninhabited island with long sandy beaches which sometimes disappear overnight depending on which way the wind blows. For us, the wind was mostly blowing directly into our faces at twice the velocity of exhaust from a jet engine. The water crashed onto shore, erasing the sandy beaches. So instead of white sand we had many miles of craggy rocks to walk on.

There was wildlife on our resort. We saw an abundance of stray cats who meowed around the buffet restaurant for scraps of food. It’s likely they never actually ate any, or else they wouldn’t have made such a fuss. I tried to pet some of them, but they ignored me even though I was saying in my best Spanish, “Aqui gato. Aqui. Gato, gato, gato.” Those dumb cats probably don’t even know there own language.

The other wildlife on the resort was an iguana the size of a Volkswagen. It would have made several vats of tasty soup. I didn’t need to call it, even though (if my knowledge of Spanish is reliable) I would have said, “Aqui Iguanatito. Aqui sopa ingrediente.” But this was a lazy lizard. I just reach out and petted his soft fur-less neck. He seemed to like it since he closed his eyes and looked quite content. Then again he was likely just happy I wasn’t going to make sopa out of him.

The ability to provide clean towels proved to be a real challenge for the resort. Clean beach towels were usually not available and our bathroom towels were, well, not necessarily something you would want to wipe your face with. My wife pointed out that one towel had, as she put it, “a rust spot, or...”.
I replied  “Or...” in an attempt to get her to elaborate, although I don’t think I really wanted her to finish her thought.

One of the best things about the trip was that we met some very nice people in Cuba; people from all over speaking a wide variety of languages. Most of them spoke their own lingo because they were not Spanish experts like me.

So in closing I would like to express gratitude, goodbyes, and thanks to our new-found Cuban friends. And I trust my Spanish is good enough to say, “Garcias und adieu kemosabes!”

My Knowledge of Art is Sketchy

The good people at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland recently decided to induct the Beastie Boys into their august museum of music.

The fact that this gruesome group should be so honored prompted me to tweet,  "The Beastie Boys induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is worse than showcasing children's refrigerator door artwork in the Louvre". And it's true. My ears would not tolerate 15 seconds of Beastie Boys "music", but I would go to an art gallery to see children's paintings and drawings.

Actually, I think that children's art would be great to see in a museum or gallery. After all, most of their artistic abilities far surpass mine.

For example, here is my best drawing of a horse (and I'm not kidding. I drew several before deciding this was the best):

But you don't have to be an artist to appreciate art. A recent painting of Canada's intrepid leader, Stephen Harper, has been creating a bit of a stir. Here is a censored version of it:

Those who have seen the uncensored version know very well that the black dot is quite disproportionate to the (ahem) item that it is concealing. I wonder if the artist knows Mr. Harper intimately.

By the way, is there really a Tim Hortons out there where you can lie naked on a sofa while being served a piping hot double-double? If there is, I think it would be prudent to order something a bit cooler, like an iced coffee. 

The Harper painting is funny, but is it art? Methinks not. Art should make methink and youthink. It should make you stare in wonder. It should make you wonder why you're staring.

A good example of this is a work entitled Voice of Fire. This fine product of creative genius sits in Ottawa's National Gallery of Canada. Canadian taxpayers forked over 1.8 million smackeroos for this work by American artist Barnett Newman.

I've actually seen it in person. I'll say this much for it — it's big. It looks like an enormous flag. In fact, it looks like the artist took North Korea's flag, removed the white from it, broadened the blue stripes and hung it sideways.

Voice of Fire

Flag of North Korea

Actually, there were several of Mr. Newman’s paintings at the museum — all very flag-like. One must conclude that this artist loves the look of flags. Considering the generous payment he received from the Canadian government, he probably has several banners of the Maple Leaf hanging around his house. At least he should.

The brilliant philospher Alan Watts once said about modern art, "The paintings look as if they had been made with excrement or scraps from billboards, and the sculptures like mangled typewriters or charred lumber from a burned-down outhouse."

He further clarified his statement with, "This is not to be taken as a rejection of "modern art" in general, but only of that rather dominant aspect of it which claims that the artist should represent his time. And since this is the time of junkyards, billboards, and expensive slums, many artists—otherwise bereft of talent—make a name for themselves by the "tasteful" framing or pedestaling of objets trouvés from the city dump."

I respectfully disagree. Why back in the olden days, there were painters like Johannes Vermeer, who gave the world such junk as The Astronomer.

Vermeer's The Astronomer. Personally, I don't get it.

A couple of centuries later, Henri Rousseau presented his masterpiece The Sleeping Gypsy.

The Sleeping Gypsy

Although I like this painting, I must say that I always thought the gypsy looks quite stiff, as if rigor mortis has set in. Perhaps he's already dead. This would account for the lion's lack of interest in making a meal out of him. The big cat probably wanted fresh juicy gypsy, not gypsy jerky.

Thankfully, art evolved further. Many years later we had artists like Jackson Pollock. Pollock bristled at suggestions that his paintings were not art (ha ha! get it? bristled... brush...  you know... paintbrush... forget it).

I think I see an astronomer in there

So, if we revisit my crude likeness of a horse, all we need to do is add some colorful crayon strokes; give it a fancy name and, Viola! — modern art.

Horse in Transition: A Study in Crayon, Opus 12

That should be enough to earn me consideration for induction into some sort of artistic hall of fame, don't you think?

Zoo — Is That With a Zee Or a Zed?

A blogging challenge does end, finally. Good heavens, I just kept losing my nerve; other posters quite rightly seemed tense; until verily we xclaimed, “Yay! Z!”

Stupid X.


All the animals in the zoo 
are jumping up and down for you 
— old TV ad for the Detroit Zoo (and other zoos)

Someone told me
It’s all happening at the zoo
I do believe it
I do believe it’s true
— Paul Simon

For my final post in the A to Z blogging challenge, I’ve decided to go to the zoo, so to speak. I intend to mention every animal on this planet from A to Z. It will be like a virtual Noah’s Ark!

Maybe I should reconsider. It might take a bit too long to include every creature, and besides, where to I draw the line? Do I mention fleas, dust mites, and tiny microbes? No, instead we’ll only do one visible animal per letter:

Aardvark — always has to be first on any animal list (not unlike the person who wants to be listed last in the New York phone directory by legally changing their name to Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzyxnski).
Buffalo — a large bovine known for its tasty wings.
Chimpanzee — I could never figure out why Tarzan’s pet primate was named after another C animal — Cheetah. That name became so ingrained in my mind, that I can never associate cheetah with swiftness; all I ever think of is a comic-relief ape.
Dingo — immortalized in the children's song, There was an Aussie had a dog and dingo was its name-o.
Elephant seal — this is one BIG ugly pinniped!

Just another day in the life of an elephant seal

Flamingo — also the name of a variation of Bingo, wherein frustrated players take a match to their losing cards.
Gorilla  — a large ape known to occasionally scale New York skyscrapers.
Hippopatomus — apparently one of the more dangerous animals in Africa. I don’t doubt it. Honestly, I once saw a documentary which showed a baby hippo trotting across the snouts of crocodiles in some river. The crocs just let the little guy strut on his merry way — for they could see the hippopatomus mom just a few yards off with her head halfway out of the water; her steely eyes focused on them.
Impala — a swift African antelope, not a Chevy.

The classic 1961 African Antelope

Jaguar  — a South American panther, not a British car.
Komodo Dragon — a large reptile, not a lengthy robe. Nor is it a rock band.
Llama — after seeing all of those clips from America's Funniest Home Videos, why would anyone stand near a llama?
Mandrill — in the name of equal rights, this monkey shall henceforth be called a Persondrill.
Newt — a reptile, not a Republican.
Orangutan — my favorite of the primates. They can give you this smirky look, as if they know they’re about to do something funny. It’s like “OK, good. You’re watching. See what I’m about to do now." It doesn’t even matter if they do anything at all. Just that look cracks me up.

Platypus — somewhere along the evolutionary process, this creature was on vacation.
Quail — let me say this regarding you mister quail, you’re no Jack Kennedy.
Rhinoserous Rinhoceros Rhinocerous — a difficult word to spell.
Swan — a heavenly bird that inspired some heavenly music.
Tasmanian Devil — a marsupial, not Errol Flynn.

Unicorn — No? Not a real animal? Dammit. Then we’ll have to go with Uakari  (wah-kahr-ee), another monkey.

Vulture — is it any wonder that Saint-Saëns did not compose a song about this bird?
Wildebeest — no gnus are good gnus.
X-ray Tetra —  and you thought I wouldn't find an X animal.
Yak — a large talkative bovine.
Zebu — known mainly for being alphabetically listed after Zebra.


And there you have it folks; from Aardvarks to Zebus, from Aaron to Zurishaddai, from Alpha to Zulu, from Apples to Zinfandel grapes, from Animals to Zombies (from Eric Burden to Rod Argent?), we’ve witnessed it all in this amusing and zany blogging challenge. I hope everyone had as much fun (?) as I did.

a, b, c, d, e, f, g, 
h, i, j, k, elemenopee, 
q, r, s, t, u, v, 
w, x, y and z,
Now I’m done the A to Z challenge,
This is how my blog posts shall end. 
(OK, so it’s not a perfect rhyme. But I don’t care, I’m done!)

Y Not Yodel?

Yodel-odel-lay-HEE-hoooooo!

I’ve always been curious about yodeling. Is it music? Is it gibberish? Could we not ask the same questions about hip-hop?

A Wikipedia article on yodeling states, “The earliest record of a yodel is in 1545, where it is described as "the call of a cowherd from Appenzell"". Yeah, a crazy cowherd.

Further reading reveals that yodeling may be a “method of communication between herders and their stock" and that “The calls may also have been endearments shepherds used to express affection to their herds.”

We can conclude from this information that those old-time Swiss yodelers were a lonesome bunch. And the rarefied air of the mountains likely didn’t help their mental faculties much.

The great Oscar Hammerstein was aware of this when he wrote these lyrics:

High on a hill was a lonely goatherd
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo
Loud was the voice of the lonely goatherd
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

Folks in a town that was quite remote heard
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo
Lusty and clear from the goatherd’s throat heard
Lay ee odl lay ee odl-oo

Note that the goatherd is described as lonely. Note as well the use of the word lusty, meaning lustful or lecherous in this context.

Yodel-odel-lay-HEE-hoooooo may sound like vocal nonsense, but my guess (given the information provided by Wikipedia) is that a rough translation of this utterance would be:

Yo, I love your crazEE hoooooves!
or
Oh, a goat’ll make MEE swooooon!

However, I could be way off-base. These Swiss serenaders may have just been hungry. They may have been calling to someone down below to bring them a tasty snack.

I do believe that yodeling can be done by anyone and anywhere. Give it a try!

If you wanted to insult someone, you could yodel,
You’re a loafin’ lazY gooooof!

At your next yoga class, you might want to try,
Yoga, lotus, crane, HALF-moooooon!

If you should find yourself at a Star Wars convention, you might have the urge to yodel,
Yoda-Solo-LeiA-Luuuuuuke!
and,
Obi-Wan KenoBI tooooooo!

Yodeling doesn't always have to sound like that. Calling out something like Ri-co-laaaa will do. Surely you’ve seen those Ricola throat lozenge ads with the two Swiss dudes standing on a mountain; one blowing an Alphorn while the other pitches the product.

This may be a common sight in Switzerland, but I think anyone in British Columbia would draw a few strange looks if they were to stand at Hells Gate and — with the accompaniment of a vuvuzela — yell into the valley “Halls with Mentho-Lyptuuuuuus!”

Come to think of it, maybe the original yodelers were just trying to clear their throats. Ri co la may be Swiss for “Fetch me a #^*@$* lozenge!" But they wouldn’t have had any decent throat pastilles back then. With the harsh Alpine air and all that goat and sheep hair flying around, a hearty Yodel lodel lay HEE hooooo could be effective in clearing out the throat, lungs and sinuses. In fact, I’m going to give that a try the next time I’m down with a cold.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go outside, climb up a ladder, and shout this final yodel from the rooftop:

This yodel ode’ll take ME tooooooo
my final entry — nameLY, ZOOOOOO!

Everything You Wanted To Know About Xargak

Today’s post is brought to you by the letter X.

Oh, the possibilities. What subject do I choose??? X-Men, X-Files, X Factor; need I go on?

In fact, X can stand for anything. X is used to denote any unknown number. X is used to abbreviate holiday names like Xmas and Thanx.

And although it is highly unlikely that any two bloggers in this challenge will choose the same X topic, I’ve decided to take a chance and write about a subject that’s probably on every A to Z’er’s mind right now; the planet Xargak.

I can hear the bloggers now, "Oh, sure. Make up an X topic. That's cheating!" Oh yeah? Read on and decide for yourself.

Xargak — the name evokes awe and guffaws. A forbidding planet; mysterious, severe, bleak, full of Xargakians.

This austere planet is 256 million light years away in the distant galaxy Xygala.

Little is known of Xargak and its inhabitants, but luckily, I’ve been visited in the late hours of the night by creatures from this strange land. Some people would pass this off as nothing more than sleep paralysis.

Once I saw a UFO,
It flew from sky to sky.
I could not say to where it went,
It simply left my eye.

Then late that night, while sound asleep,
I felt a presence near;
It probed my brain, it scanned my form,
From neck to feet to ear.

Suddenly, there came a thought:
Sleep paralysis was this.
It was a dream and nothing more;
I drifted back to bliss.

UFOs yes, extraterrestrials no;
A fact needs proof to be.
Billions of stars and galaxies we view,
Not a single alien we see.

I'm not sure who wrote that poem, but "HOGWASH" I say! I know when I've been Xargaked!

Xargakians are an exceptionally shy and secretive bunch, but they have a good excuse; they suffer from xenophobia. This could explain why they (and other aliens apparently) only visit us in the dark of night.

Xerography is the method by which Xargakians reproduce. When I learned this I exhaled with relief. I was afraid that those nightly visits were going to involve a little more poking than prodding.

x                            X                                    

A typical Xargakian signature.

Most Xargakians are excellent xylophone players. Their music sounds like a cacophonic mess to most Earthlings, but once you get an exact idea of what the music conveys, it can sound positively exquisite. Their favorite musician from our planet is Xavier Cugat.

Here are some more quick facts about Xargak:

The atmosphere is composed of mainly xenon with some traces of oxygen.

The vegetation is xerohytic.

The inhabitants are xanthodontic and xanthodermic.

The most common names for boys is Xerxes while the most popular for girls is Xenia.

An extremely popular beverage on the planet is fermented xylitol. If they do any tippling here, it's only with Dos Equis.

Earthbound Xargakians look forward to this indulgence.

If you ever encounter a being from Xargak, be aware of their exaggerated eyes and x-ray vision.

Finally, I wanted to show some promo stills from Xargakian cinema, but all their films are X-rated.

Maybe I should have put that at the beginning of the post to draw in a few more views.

Wacky Wishes

A Facebook friend recently asked "what would you wish for if you were granted one wish". I responded that I would wish for a million wishes. Another of her friends said he would wish that everyone could get along and work out all of the world’s problems. I’m sorry to say that there is as much chance of my wish coming true than his.

But one can always wish and hope. So, if there are any blog-reading genies out there, here are a few of my wishes:

I wish lasagna was a health food.

I wish I could visit Xargak (more on that tomorrow).

I wish I could yodel (more on that the day after tomorrow).

I wish it would snow (well, this is a blog about snow shoveling, isn't it?).

I wish The Temptations had recorded a song titled I Wish It Would Snow.

I wish Adam Sandler would stop making movies.

I wish more people were Bokononists.

Tiger got to hunt,
Bird got to fly;
Man got to sit and wonder, "Why, why, why?"
Tiger got to sleep,
Bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand.
— Bokonon on pretending to understand

Someday, someday, this crazy world will have to end,
And our God will take things back that He to us did lend.
And if, on that sad day, you want to scold our God,
Why just go ahead and scold Him. He'll just smile and nod.
— Bokonon on the end of the world

I wish this blogging challenge had ended three weeks ago.

I wish blogging was a highly lucrative profession.

I wish I could find a pair of sneakers that don’t look as if they were designed by a hyperactive caffeine-addicted teenager.

I wish the fad of streaking would make a comeback.

If only I could find some half-decent sneakers
I’d run like the wind with the fastest of streakers
To be swift and elusive, this action requires
That I put on my best pair of old PF Flyers

Streaking Shoe

Freaking Shoe

I wish companies would stop trying to pass off made-up ingredients as if they were essential to our lives. Stuff that we’ve somehow managed to live without like “Nutrivitalicious XG Flavanoids!”; or personal hygiene products that advertise “Now with Asparagus Oil and Palm Bark Extract!”

I wish it was the May Two-Four weekend.

Finally, I wish that all the bloggers in this challenge don’t get tripped up by X.

Vic-two-four-ia Day

Long ago life was clean
Sex was bad and obscene
And the rich were so mean
Stately homes for the Lords
Croquet lawns, village greens
Victoria was my queen...
— from Victoria by The Kinks

Victoria Day is less than four weeks away. Most Americans are probably thinking, “What the hell is that?” And many Canadians are probably thinking, “I don’t know about Victoria Day, but the May Two-Four weekend is approaching.”

From the Wikipedia article about Victoria Day:
The holiday is colloquially known as May Two-Four in parts of Canada; a double entendre that refers both to the date around which the holiday falls (May 24) and the Canadian slang for a case of twenty-four beers (a "two-four")...

I can't speak for those in other parts of Canada, but I never hear anyone around here refer to the holiday as Victoria Day anymore — it's always the May Two-Four weekend.

The holiday originally was a celebration of the birthday of Queen Victoria. All I care is that it kicks off the outdoor-fun season; although it can still be downright chilly at that time of year. Even so, this is a popular weekend for camping at nearby Pinery Provincial Park.

For me, camping on the Victoria Day weekend would be as much fun as bedding down for the night in a meat locker. Regardless, you have to make reservations weeks in advance to get one of the thousand or so campsites at the park.

There is usually a ban on liquor at the Pinery on that weekend. Couple that with the cool weather and you may conclude that:
a) Canadians are really champing at the bit to get outdoors and do something after the long winter
b) Canadians are camping maniacs
c) Canadians are a little wacky
d) All of the above (this is the proper conclusion)

Even as a youngster, I don't remember calling the holiday Victoria Day. Back then it was known as Firecracker Day. That’s what it was all about (that and a day off from school). There were fewer restrictions then on fireworks. It was perfectly legal to go to the corner store and buy a few sticks of small dynamite. BANG!

What a racket those weekends were in those days! It was a common sight to see some kid tossing firecrackers around all over the place, like a deranged Johnny Appleseed with explosives.

KA-POW!!! A dozen more dogs take cover under a bed.

The smallest firecrackers were known as “lady fingers”. Letting them go one at a time was pointless — you’d get a bigger bang from cracking your knuckles. The way to enjoy lady fingers (apparently) was to throw a whole packet of them at the feet of a friend and make him “dance”. The kids who did this would have been a riot in the old west. POP! POP! POP! POP!

My father used to buy these semi-lethal (yet legal) sticks of TNT called “cannon crackers”. He would ignite one and quickly cover it with an empty coffee can. Then, BOOM! — that can would shoot 15 to 20 feet in the air.

Dad bought a lot of fireworks to celebrate Victoria Day. I don’t think he cared a flying fig for British royalty, but he loved to entertain his kids (and, consequently, the rest of the neighborhood) with a pyrotechnical display. The show was pretty lame by today's standard; a few Roman candles (and here I thought the Chinese invented fireworks), sparklers, pinwheels, and cone shaped dazzlers that sprayed colored sparks as much as two feet skyward.

Some displays were much less brilliant than others. For instance, there were these tiny cylindrical pellets that you could ignite and then they would burn into a black “snake” of ash. Whoopee! You really needed a front row seat for that spectacle.

We had fireworks with names like Baker’s Dozen (a roman candle that shot off 13 flaming fireballs), Cascade, Volcano, and Guy Fawkes (named after some early fireworks pioneer).

My personal favorite was the burning schoolhouse. We’d laugh and cheer as it went up in flames and then watch wistfully as it finally burned down, imagining that it was our own school. But it was back to reality the following morning when we would see our edifice of education standing there as good as new.

This year I plan to start my Victoria Day weekend celebration as I usually do — in a lawn chair enjoying a cold beer while the other 23 chill in the fridge. And without one thought of Queen Victoria.

This holiday - what does it mean?
A day to fete some erstwhile queen?
Or is it an excuse to pour
myself a beer on this “Two-Four”.

Are U Wearing Undies?

U is for Underwear.

Let’s all say it together, “underwear”. See, that wasn't so difficult. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. We all wear underwear. Well, maybe not all of us or at all times. Some of us may prefer to “go regimental” now and then.

Underwear is important. It provides a needed barrier for our outerwear. It provides protection and support. As well, it keeps our tushes warm in winter when we're shoveling snow (See? I do mention snow shoveling now and again).

We should celebrate our underclothing. We could create a holiday, if someone else hasn't already beaten us to it.

I personally have a few different styles of underwear; briefs, boxers, boxer briefs. They are made from a variety of materials; cotton, silk, polyester, leather, and fur (just joking on the last two).

I’m partial to the boxer briefs. They aren’t as constricting as most briefs and not so roomy as regular boxers. Just in case you're not sure what boxer briefs look like, here is a photo of me in a pair (I hesitate to post this since I haven't been working out lately).

I really need to do some sit-ups.

Boxers don’t support me, so I won’t support the use of them. You might as well strap on a loincloth, or drapes, or just tuck a long shirt into your pants. But I do kind of like my bunny boxers. They're satin.

Is it a sacrilege to wear Playboy bunny shorts on Easter?

Tarzan of the Drapes

Do your boys hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie 'em in a knot?
Can you tie 'em in a bow?
Can you throw 'em over your shoulder
Like a continental soldier?
Do your boys hang low?
(used in a Fruit of the Loom underwear ad promoting briefs)

Jockey-style briefs are generally too tight. Oddly enough, I always have the urge to go see “The Nutcracker” whenever I wear them. (that joke was inspired by another Fruit of the Loom ad promoting boxers).

I’ve never owned a thong, nor do I have a great urge to wear one. I’ve always felt it would be a little disconcerting to walk around all day with a wedgie. I’d be constantly picking at my posterior.

Now let’s have a look at my wife’s underwear, shall we? My wife tends to wear... hold on a sec...

“Yes, honey? Well I’m writing an entry in my blog. I’m discussing underwear and I was just going to mention your unmentionables. What? You don’t want me to talk about your knickers? It’ll be all right. I know it’s a delicate subject but I’ll be brief. Ha Ha. Get it? But seriously, no talk of your undergarments? OK.”

Well that puts the kibosh on that. Maybe I can conjure up memories of a few of my old girlfriends’ underwear. Let me see... it’s been so long...  No, this isn’t going to work. Perhaps some female readers out there can send me photos of themselves in their underwear. You don’t have to be in your underwear. What I mean to say is you can just send a photo of your underwear... hold on...

“Yes dear? I was just asking some women if they would send some pictures of their underwear. It’s for educational purposes, I swear. You’ve read my blog. You know how informative it is. No? What are you doing? I think you're overreacting. Let go of my laptop. Hey.... "





U is for Ulysses by James Joyce.

I understand that this is considered a modern classic although I’ve never read it. But I had to choose something that begins with U.

Perhaps some female readers out there are familiar with this novel and can tell me about it. Maybe you’ve read it in your underwear. If so, I would appreciate... hold on a sec...

“Yes dear, it’s about Ulysses. No, don’t read it. Stop! Hey! Let go of my laptop. Let go I say... Hey... "

Taking Testing To Task

The April 22 edition of The Antler River Free Press contained an article about how immigrants employed as temporary laborers in Canada must pass an English test in order to continue working here.

This makes little sense to me. There are literally thousands of home-grown Canadians in all manner of employment who cannot pass your average English test. What preposterosity! Besides, since Canada is officially bilingual, why don’t we require that every working Canadian pass both French and English tests? Comprenez-vous?

I really don’t mean to cause concern,
But the English language is hard to learn.
And beyond that — let me throw in this wrench —
Many Canadians must also speak French.

One of the laborers quoted in the article is a Jamaican who has been working temporarily in Canada since 2008.

WHAT???!!! He’s from Jamaica??? Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t they speak English there? I know that Jamaicans may be hard to understand, but they do speak our lingo.

In response to this idiotic rule, Jamaica should instruct immigration workers at all incoming checkpoints to speak only Jamaican Patois. Then all Canadians visiting their country would have to repeat back everything the agent said to them verbatim or go home.

The article further states that the "test is required for seasonal farm workers, those in the construction trades, fast food, hospitality and many other low-paying jobs..."

This test is required for people in construction trades as well? If someone can build a quality addition to my house, then I wouldn’t care if all they spoke was Klingon. Although, I wouldn’t want to be misheard. The carport I want built might end up being just cardboard; or an airport; or a cardboard airport.

Mastery of the English language has no bearing whatsoever on most undertakings, skilled or otherwise. Can you imagine if the ability to speak English was the main criterion for architecture everywhere? We wouldn’t have St. Peter’s Basilica or the Taj Mahal.

A rendering of what the Taj Mahal would have looked like had Shakespeare been given the job to build it.

In spite of the fact that I believe this to be a ridiculous requirement, I am a patriotic Canadian and I hereby offer my services to the good people at Citizenship and Immigration Canada.

I've come up with a test that should weed out all those pesky hard-working foreigners who wish to sully our soil with their diligent labor.

I present to you the Snow Shoveling In Canada English Test:

“Eh?” is:
a.  The first letter of the Canadian alphabet
b.  A Canadian question tag
c.  Fodder for Canadian ‘orses

The word pyknic means:
a.  Having a rounded build or body structure, as in “He was quite pyknic due to all those picnics”
b.  A beatnik’s guitar pick
c.  A nick in a beatnik's guitar pick

A poltroon is:
a.  A float supporting a seaplane
b.  A wretched coward
c.  Cartoon poultry. e.g., Foghorn Leghorn

Foghorn Leghorn may arguably have been a poltroon, but a poltroon is not a cartoon chicken.

Macaronic means:
a.  Composed of a mixture of languages, as in “Canada is taking steps to ensure that it does not become a macaronic country.”
b.  Beyond moronic, as in “The requirement that temp workers pass an English test is macaronic."
c.  Resembling a picnic of pasta dishes.

True or False: spaghettinic is a real word.

Explain the importance of phonetics, and how the following words can be heard as a question and an exclamation:
Hoof hearted
Ice melted

Spell rhinoserous rinoceros rihnoseros that big armor-plated looking African mammal with the humongous horn on its nose.

Correctly pronounce Pekwachnamaykoskwaskwaypinwanik.

Applicants are required to attend a hockey game and correctly sing the words to the Canadian national anthem (either in English or French, or a combination of the two) with right hands over their hearts and left hands holding a cup of steaming hot Tim Hortons coffee.

As a final requirement to prove their Canadian worthiness, candidates are required to do the following:

Using only standard hand-held snow shovels, applicants must clear snow from the West Edmonton Mall parking lot in mid-January while saying, "Should we shovel snow slowly or shoddily, send us slow, shoddy shovelers somewhere sweltering" over and over again until the job is finished. If they do not finish the job or clear the snow properly in the allotted time and/or if they should flub any part of the tongue-twister during the task, they will be sent home.


Those who are proficient in Canadianspeak will recognize the fact that I spell words like neighbor and labor in the American fashion. If Canada Immigration officials ever get wind of this, I may be exiled to another country.

Barbados would be nice.

Surely Strange Stuff

My father was driving me and my brothers to school one morning way back in the early ‘60s. My youngest brother mentioned that he had a loose baby tooth. He was bemoaning the fact that no matter how much we wriggled it back and forth, the tooth just wouldn’t come out. Without missing a beat, good ol’ Dad replied, “Yes, but you must remember my son that tooth is stronger than friction”.


'Tis strange, but true; for truth is always strange;
Stranger than fiction: if it could be told,
How much would novels gain by the exchange!
How differently the world would men behold!
— Lord Byron, from his poem Don Juan

I’ve seen a few strange things in my life; none much stranger than what my wife and I witnessed on a mid-summer day while driving into Toronto on Highway 401. We were in heavy traffic in the middle of about four or five eastbound lanes. In the lane to the left of us we saw a guy driving at a good clip while wearing a welder’s mask!!! It didn’t seem to hamper his ability much, as he navigated his way through the traffic on his way to (what I can only guess was) work or welding school.

I found a good website with some strange facts about our nutty world. I’ve reprinted some of those facts here (with a few comments):

The king of hearts is the only king without a moustache on a standard playing card!
I’ve already checked so you don’t have to; the queen of hearts has no mustache either.

There are 18 different animal shapes in the Animal Crackers cookie zoo!
That is strange. I think I would be hard pressed to name 18 different animals (or crackers).

The Nobel Peace Prize medal depicts three naked men with their hands on each other's shoulders!
No weapons, no clothes to demonstrate wealth or social status, nothing to indicate religion or nationality; what could be more peaceful than that?

A car uses 1.6 ounces of gas idling for one minute. Half an ounce is used to start the average automobile!
Or the same fact could be stated as: a car consumes $42 worth of fuel when idling for one minute and approximately $14 when starting.

Some ribbon worms will eat themselves if they cant find any food!
These invertebrates really are what they eat!

In space, astronauts cannot cry properly, because there is no gravity, so the tears can't flow down their faces!
And so if follows that it's not the only thing they can’t do properly in space.

Slugs have 4 noses!
And, interestingly enough, Clyde Barrow’s nose had 4 slugs!

There wasn't a single pony in the Pony Express, just horses! 
Not true:

In the year 2000, Pope John Paul II was named an "Honorary Harlem Globetrotter"!
I don’t believe the Pope ever actually played with the Globetrotters, but I would have gladly paid admission to see that!

Men are 6 times more likely to be struck by lightning than women!
Did you hear that men? We may be 6 times more likely to win the lottery as well!

The website also cites several strange U.S. laws. Here are a few:

In Texas, it's against the law for anyone to have a pair of pliers in his or her possession. 
Someone must have tried to assassinate Sam Houston with a pair of pliers once, since no one in Texas would bat an eye if you were drinking beer while driving a pickup truck with a loaded shotgun.

In Miami, it is forbidden to imitate an animal.
This law makes the Miami Dolphins a band of outlaws.

It is against the law to mispronounce the name of the State of Arkansas in that State.
Oh sure. They had to have that law in a state with a tricky name. That’s like making it illegal for the residents of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch to misspell that city’s name (I wouldn’t want to try to pronounce it either).

In Louisiana, a bill was introduced years ago in the State House of Representatives that fixed a ceiling on haircuts for bald men of 25 cents.
That’s still highway robbery.

In Oklahoma, no baseball team can hit the ball over the fence or out of a ballpark.
Is that a law or a fact?

In Rochester, Michigan, the law is that anyone bathing in public must have the bathing suit inspected by a police officer !
Are there currently any job openings in Rochester, Michigan for beach police?

I'm sorry ma'am, but I'm going to have to inspect your bathing suit.

Here are a couple of animal-related laws from the Tar Heel state:

In North Carolina, it is against the law for dogs and cats to fight. 
In North Carolina, it is against the law for a rabbit to race down the street. (They’re not talking about the Volkswagen, are they?)
This could prove to be a real dilemma for rabbits. Since cats and dogs cannot fight, then they’re likely going to harass a few rabbits.

Finally, I’d like to present you with this strange fact:
I am still blogging in the A to Z Challenge! 

And here is a welcome fact: There are only 7 more entries to go!

Reekin' Robin

Count de Money: “Sire, the peasants are revolting!" 

King Louis XVI: "You said it. They stink on ice."

—  from History of the World Part I

Whenever we watch a movie which takes place in some day of yore (old west, medieval times, Roman Empire, etc.), my wife and I always speculate on how stinky and dirty the people would have been back then. This topic usually comes up in conversation when the film depicts a romantic scene involving two individuals who you know haven’t had a bath in weeks. It’s likely they’ve never brushed their teeth. 

So, because of that, I thought it would be my duty to set the record straight about one particular fellow and his band of very scary, hairy, smelling-like-a-carcass-rotting-on-the-prairie, merry men. That individual would be none other than Robin Hood.

Robin Hood was well-known for his penchant for thievery — robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. What is less known is the fact that the rich would frequently gladly pay Hood to get his putrid body the hell off their property and back into the well-vented woods.

Hood and his men, having lived in Sherwood Forest, never had many opportunities to bathe. There were no lakes around, just the odd babbling brook. Have you ever tried to get clean in a babbling brook, with no soap, shampoo, or conditioner; having to use a squirrel pelt for a washcloth? 

Here is a brief summary of Robin’s fetid yet merry band:

Little John 

Little John was second-in-command and probably the most famous of Hood's motley bunch. His large stature was matched only by his enormous stench. Little John's size made enemies quake in their boots, but it was his loathsome aroma that knocked their socks off.

Friar Tuck

The corpulent Tuck was a malodorous monk. With his gluttony for food and ale, one hardly needs a vivid imagination to get some idea of the foulness that emanated from this jolly yet gross gourmand.

Will Scarlet

One of the better smelling of Hood's assemblage was Will Scarlet; a dandyish dude who spent a great deal of the band’s ill-gained booty on clothes (usually red) made from the finest silk. That and the fact that he had a bouquet more befitting an aristocrat made him reviled by many of the men. It also did not help that when the band tried to hide in the woods — camouflaged in green and brown tights — there was Will looking like a gigantic cardinal sitting in a tree with his silk flapping in the wind. Not that it mattered much; for even if one were to be upwind of that band in a stiff breeze, one did not need to be a bloodhound to detect their presence.

Will Scarlet:  A breath of fresh air  — dubbed "Fop of the Forest" and "That non-stinking s.o.b." by his colleagues

Maid Marion

Robin, with all his repulsiveness, did manage to hook himself a pretty tasty dish by the name of Marion. The Maid Marion, by all accounts, looked just like Olivia DeHavilland. Her eyesight was fine, but she saw something in Robin beyond his less-than-Errol-Flynnish looks. Luckily though, her olfactory senses were severely impaired. This was not considered a detriment in Sherwood Forest.

The enemy of Robin and his merry band was the Sheriff of Nottingham. The Sheriff detested Robin mainly because Hood and his men would frequently visit Nottingham, leaving their pungent scent behind. Due to this, the county was the butt of many jokes and visitors would laughingly refer to it as “Rotting Ham”.

It’s ironic that through the years and after so many tales told and re-told, Robin Hood has come out smelling like a rose. It is also ironic that since nothing smells better than fresh-baked bread, pastries, and cake that a major brand of flour was named after this rank rascal.

Robin, more often than not, has been portrayed on movies and TV as a dashingly handsome fellow. In reality he looked like a backwoods deviant; similar to the scuzzball that Bill McKinney portrayed in Deliverance.

ROBIN HOOD  —  ALWAYS DEPICTED AS HANDSOME AND DASHING IN POP CULTURE

THE REAL ROBIN HOOD — ON A GOOD DAY

Robin Hood, Robin Hood, stinking up the glen

Robin Hood, Robin Hood, with his filthy men

Fouling the air 'round where he stood

Robin Hood, Robin Hood, Robin Hood