tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77130600465476314692024-03-24T03:11:00.789-04:00Snow Shoveling In CanadaGuy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.comBlogger112125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-37256223387972337402023-07-29T13:16:00.005-04:002023-08-19T10:54:10.090-04:00A Summer Rerun<p>Ah, Summer! — the weekend of seasons; time for vacation, sunshine, working your butt off in the blazing heat to do odd jobs around the house, and reruns.</p><p>Summer was the season for television reruns when I was a kid. There weren't a great deal of TV choices available to us back then. There were only three major networks and they all basically took the summer off. Although kids love summer and the break from school, many of us looked forward to the fall season and the new shows.</p><p>In fact, when the <i>TV Guide Fall Preview</i> issue came out, it was the third most exciting magazine of the year behind the <i>Sears </i>Christmas catalogue, and, well, any issue of <i>Playboy </i>that I could somehow get my hands on.</p><p>Therefore, in honor of television's time-tested tradition (and since in summer I'm about as energetic as a three-toed sloth), I bring to you a rerun — or should I say a repost.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>January 2012</i></p><p>My wife and I have started packing for our 10-day Caribbean cruise. I have two medium size suitcases ready for all my needs. My wife will use the largest suitcase in the house as her carry-on. Beyond that she has decided that she may need to rent a 26-foot U-Haul truck.</p>Among my paltry requirements are three swimming trunks. Two of these are the baggy jams-style variety that I swore I would never wear. Even so, I will be packing my “007“ shorts, as I like to call them (after the one Sean Connery wore in<i> Goldfinger</i>). Unfortunately, I’ve had to retire my Speedo.<br /><br />Back in Antler River, we had a house with a swimming pool and a hot tub. There isn’t room for any such extravagance in Minikin. Anyway, I used to always wear a Speedo in the pool or tub (if I wore anything at all). I have worn those baggy swim trunks in a hot tub. When the jets are on you get a bubble in your shorts that is so big it lifts your ass off the seat! Then you must push down on this gigantic mound of air and out it comes, “BALOOOP” as it breaks to the surface. Others who might be in the tub give you an annoyed look.<br /><br />You explain, “It was just some air in my shorts.”<br />“Yeah, 'air'.That’s what we <i>thought</i> it was”, they complain.<br /><br /><i>Beans beans are good, say reports</i><br /><i>Beans beans put "air" in your shorts</i><br /><i>The more you "air", the better you feel</i><br /><i>So eat beans at every meal.</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYuyLUIjps5C9A-Y0uWpcc73gqcbMEnBMNKVhHNo2T4PRpq8BiXrqotu1v8GWhk6NeO5h5SCkvg44yHjIuKHjJ81xEbrYGzKyvRzDAhqvmMipBkeJAklKOeh3Yw10ECBuHrrjSe9D3WVj-q7RPU74JUEt1QME5YGAUx_cBH1b1NUfkdajiw2lG1nXooIE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYuyLUIjps5C9A-Y0uWpcc73gqcbMEnBMNKVhHNo2T4PRpq8BiXrqotu1v8GWhk6NeO5h5SCkvg44yHjIuKHjJ81xEbrYGzKyvRzDAhqvmMipBkeJAklKOeh3Yw10ECBuHrrjSe9D3WVj-q7RPU74JUEt1QME5YGAUx_cBH1b1NUfkdajiw2lG1nXooIE=w382-h287" width="382" /></a></div></i><br />As I was saying, I always wore a Speedo in our swimming pool. The first summer that we were able to enjoy our new home, we decided to see how deep the pool was. I volunteered to be the measuring stick, and so I submerged, clad in only a speedo and swim goggles, to the bottom of the pool. While standing in the deepest part, with my hand raised as high as I could get it, I couldn’t touch the surface of the water. I needed something else to extend my reach. We decided to try it again with the <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/Rakes-Skimmers-Nets-Swimming-Pool/s?rh=n%3A6257510011%2Cp_n_feature_two_browse-bin%3A6307597011">leaf skimmer</a> (minus the pole). That did the trick as the skimmer broke the surface by a couple of inches. So now we just needed to measure this length.<br /><br />As I stood on the surface, dripping wet, in my speedo, and with my goggles still on, I held the leaf skimmer up high and struck a Statue of Liberty-like pose. My wife now had the task of measuring me from toe to skimmer. She got to her knees with a tape measure. Just at that precise moment, the hydro meter-reader walked through the back yard gate. Unfazed, he just said hello, read the meter, and left.<br /><br />It’s likely that he sees all kinds of things on his job. For all I know I may have been the third or fourth speedo-wearing, begoggled, Statue-of-Liberty-posing, leaf-skimmer-bearing, wife-on-her-knees-measuring man he had seen so far that day.<br /><br />Incidentally, I believe that France initially used the Statue of Liberty as a sounding instrument to determine water depth in the Mediterranean. Once it became outdated for use in such measurements, it was given to the United States as a gift. The Americans decided to use it as a statue.<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDl55sRoLrW6hYrlCBLuXc8plbEh6OcZ-RjDq3rUqEw6c6ckZINtCrVw0KjLS6j6wEjtdDA3EDKE3g6zlP3FVtrnqivyMLfc98vTWuAnwCiag1496d-jXQid5MKtx25mnhsEZt90XW3AQOHdXQsrW314qYTrZIdjB5eSKZvSFc_b0dLcLeJIutE4NTqGk/s500/Statue-of-Liberty.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="375" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDl55sRoLrW6hYrlCBLuXc8plbEh6OcZ-RjDq3rUqEw6c6ckZINtCrVw0KjLS6j6wEjtdDA3EDKE3g6zlP3FVtrnqivyMLfc98vTWuAnwCiag1496d-jXQid5MKtx25mnhsEZt90XW3AQOHdXQsrW314qYTrZIdjB5eSKZvSFc_b0dLcLeJIutE4NTqGk/w278-h371/Statue-of-Liberty.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <b><i>A sounding device for very deep swimming pools</i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">My days of donning a Speedo are done. So are my days of wondering how deep a swimming pool is. The other travelers on our cruise ship can thus relax.</span><br style="text-align: left;" /><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">I really am looking forward to this cruise. We’ve never been on one before and by all accounts we should enjoy it — especially the food.</span><br style="text-align: left;" /><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">Not that I am any kind of connoisseur. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been gobbling down dinner or lunch when I suddenly look over at my wife who’s picking away at her food.</span><br style="text-align: left;" /><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">“What’s the matter?” I’ll ask.</span><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">“Don’t you think it tastes and smells kind of funny?” she says.</span><br style="text-align: left;" /><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">At this point I’m usually halfway through the meal and am stuck with the dilemma of finishing it and risking a stomach ailment, or just cutting my losses and throwing the rest of it in the garbage (I usually just finish it).</span><br style="text-align: left;" /><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">Our dog ate very much like me. She would woof down her food so fast that she couldn't have tasted it. Quite often she’d choke on it.</span><br style="text-align: left;" /><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">I remember one instance when an insurance agent called our house around dinner time. I’d already started eating and so had our dog Jessie. Jessie was really going at it as my wife answered the phone (which was in the kitchen directly over the dog’s dinner bowl).</span><br style="text-align: left;" /><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">As the insurance agent was asking my wife if I was available, Jessie was making a god-awful racket with her meal; “CHOMP CHOMP... SMACK CHOKE CHOMP... HACK HOCK... CHOMP SNARF.... COUGH... SMACK SNORF... CHOKE HORK HOCK.... CAAWWWW... CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP... HACK...”</span><br style="text-align: left;" /><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">“I’m sorry”, says my wife to the insurance agent, “He can’t come to the phone right now. He’s eating his dinner.”</span><br style="text-align: left;" /><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">I think the fellow hung up in horror. I had to set up an appointment with him sometime, but I didn’t think I was going to get him to agree to a dinner meeting.</span><br style="text-align: left;" /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">And speaking of insurance, I think it would be a prudential choice for me to check my wife’s reactions to the food on the cruise before I dig in.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-3933697440878262112023-07-18T13:08:00.020-04:002023-10-14T19:40:36.394-04:00A Blinky Coot Sees Kinky Boots<p>Recently, my wife and I went to see <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kinky_Boots_(musical)" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><i>Kinky Boots</i></span></a> at a local theatre. As with any performance, we wanted good seats with an unobstructed view; like the views you would imagine from front row seats at the Colosseum of Rome. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKGeySrCDM-9XwQC7w2MM21RhS5isDNL_JgQb2s9yq3hJFoxg71YAxqCOoXoqvDZqmkx5yaZEB0kMkUeAswrhcvy7ZjElBqEHuqsO-4XKMtx8BYNyVJWmmGK3mgvQJUMW6aw2bs9dIOh9P4LNVv_nXO3EzjftRic2qtBRvufBs-kiEsMxYP9Qk5OwN7s/s1022/Colosseo_20202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="1022" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKGeySrCDM-9XwQC7w2MM21RhS5isDNL_JgQb2s9yq3hJFoxg71YAxqCOoXoqvDZqmkx5yaZEB0kMkUeAswrhcvy7ZjElBqEHuqsO-4XKMtx8BYNyVJWmmGK3mgvQJUMW6aw2bs9dIOh9P4LNVv_nXO3EzjftRic2qtBRvufBs-kiEsMxYP9Qk5OwN7s/w471-h265/Colosseo_20202.jpg" width="471" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Two seats up front, please."</span></i></b></div></b><p>We've had to deal with women seated ahead of us with sky-high beehive hairdos or wearing hats more suited for the Kentucky Derby. Or we have those seated behind us who talk as if they're enjoying an evening with guests in their sound-proof living rooms. Then there are the ones who laugh at the most inappropriate moments:</p><p>"O, never shall sun that morrow see!" says Lady MacBeth.<br />"HA HA HA!" says the guy behind me.</p><p>I'm reminded of the time my wife and I went to the movies to see Woody Allen's<i> Interiors</i>; a grim, plodding, Bergman-like drama. However, there was a woman in the crowd who laughed throughout most of the film. She was likely thinking, "Dammit! I paid good money to see a Woody Allen movie, so I'm going to have my chuckles. Funny or not."</p><p>Anyway, back to the theatre and <i>Kinky Boots</i>. I ordered our tickets online, and chose seats via a map that showed what was available for a particular performance. I saw two seats in the second row. However, it appeared as if there were no seats in front of them since there was a recessed area I took for the orchestra pit. Great! I called the box office and reserved them.</p><p>When we got to the theatre, the ushers asked where we were seated. There was at least one usher every five rows or so, mostly elderly pint-sized women. "Don't bother", I bellowed, "I know where I'm seated. Right up front!" With a swaggering strut, I made my way down to the front row, wearing a look so smug you'd think I owned the damned place. </p><p>My wife, on the other hand, seemed a bit confused. She started making her way back toward the least desirable seats in the house. "What the heck is she doing?" I said to the little old lady usher at my elbow. "Why is she way back there?"<br /><br />So, I trudged over to my spouse who informed me that our seats were P22 and P23. "Yes," I explained, "right up front, like I chose." Actually, I don't know what the devil I was thinking when I selected seats in row "P". I do recall thinking at the time that it was a strange seating label, like some sort of reverse derriere designator. "P" up front, standing for "<b>P</b>erfect", or at least "<b>P</b>retty good seats" and "A" as in "<b>A</b>wful" or "<b>A</b>re there binoculars that come with the seats for us laggard losers in the back?"</p><p>I looked at our tickets, which were masterfully produced by our HP printer, and then at the row designation, which was clearly marked "P". </p><p>"What? I can't believe it. I distinctly remember selecting front row!" Those little old lady ushers seemed to be much larger now as I could feel myself starting to shrink in stature and self-importance.</p><p>Befuddled, baffled and bewildered, I made my way back to the car where I'd left my cell phone to check the email confirming my purchase. "Yup. It sure is row P", I muttered to myself. So, I checked the theatre web site to see what I had done wrong. I found out.</p><p>The map of the theatre showing its layout has the diagram oriented as you might expect with the stage at the top of the page and the entrance into the theatre at the bottom. Once you go to buy tickets however, the diagram is flipped over, with the stage at the bottom and the entrance at the top! I thundered, "No wonder I blundered." By the way, that recessed area that I mistook for the orchestra pit was the area for the sound technicians and their soundboard. </p><p>I can just picture me, an old coot sitting there hearing the clicks and clacks of their work while blinking my tired old eyes, straining to see what was going on up there on stage. It appeared as if it was going to be a long miserable night. Fortunately it didn't come to that.</p><p>While griping and complaining on my way back to the theatre from my car, a lovely young woman (perhaps the senior seating manager) heard my grumbling. She snatched the tickets from my hand. Then brandishing her senior seating manager pen, changed the seating designations to fifth row, thus saving the day. She likely just did it to shut me up so I wouldn't spoil the evening for the rest of the patrons.</p><p>So how was<i> Kinky Boots</i>? Well, there were no big hats or high-rise hairdos in front of us, and we had relatively quiet folks behind us. And the show was good. However, during some of the slow ballads, I was wishing I was seated in the back row to have a good snooze.</p><p><br /></p><p>Finally, on a different note, I wanted to mention that a blogging and podcast database website known as<span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span><a href="https://blog.feedspot.com/?_src=logo" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: #2b00fe;">FeedSpot</span></i> </a>has the blog of yours truly listed on their <a href="https://blog.feedspot.com/humor_blogs/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Top 100 Humor Blogs for 2023</span></a>. I must admit, I was somewhat taken aback when I first learned this. <br /><br />However, it should be noted that the good people at <i>FeedSpot</i> apparently really know a good blog when they read one. But seriously, it is an unexpected honor. Thank you <i>FeedSpot</i>.</p><div><br /></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-34484036545191188992023-07-08T12:54:00.003-04:002023-07-09T11:28:23.401-04:00Flamin' Flamens! Ye Gods!<p>Great Zeus! Jumping Jupiter! </p><p>I, for one, could never keep straight in my mind all the different Greek and Roman gods. I mean, there are so many of them. And aside from the sheer volume, it's hard to remember which ones are Greek and which are Roman. </p><p>Therefore, I felt I should set the record straight on a few of those dizzying deities.</p><p>What a better way to start than with the obscure god <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Falacer" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Falacer</span></a></i>. According to Wikipedia, "he was assigned a minor <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flamen" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">flamen</span></a>" which is a lesser priest.</p><p>I thought perhaps<i> flamen</i> (especially a minor one), was someone who put out insignificant flames like a barbecue flare-up. In contrast would be a major <i>fireman</i>, who puts out conflagrations like the one started by that Roman bastard Nero. Forgive my use of the term fireman. Back in the Roman days, women did not have the right to be the heroes they are today. That has thankfully changed.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowOz59cV58bVKgNVlrMeiY6dbLFgY-KNKDnIm6ANWTvK5kzWl2D8rbWmo_RwLn9bsfSgIn6MPkGmQKnmkpqGw4kgJo4X9GcRkPlyJT5NQYUc5_PySTGFNbzQfZ_znF_lxfwCw3kdHf5j_oE-yp_9h_CsjEZGIu0A2piy30JGCMcKYvK0K8AT47CiqANg/s1186/EkYGnIwXsAEafPDa.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="1186" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowOz59cV58bVKgNVlrMeiY6dbLFgY-KNKDnIm6ANWTvK5kzWl2D8rbWmo_RwLn9bsfSgIn6MPkGmQKnmkpqGw4kgJo4X9GcRkPlyJT5NQYUc5_PySTGFNbzQfZ_znF_lxfwCw3kdHf5j_oE-yp_9h_CsjEZGIu0A2piy30JGCMcKYvK0K8AT47CiqANg/w392-h352/EkYGnIwXsAEafPDa.jpg" width="392" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b>Nero: Neither god nor flamen, just a flamin' fiddler</b></i></div><p style="text-align: left;">Further about the obscure god, Wikipedia states, "<i>Falacer</i>, or more fully <i>dīvus pater falacer</i>, was an ancient <i>Italic</i> god, according to Varro."</p><p>An <i>Italic</i> god? What, are we supposed to always italicize his name? Go ahead and unitalicize it if you wish. He was only an obscure god assigned a lesser priest. What's he gonna do? Curse you with some goofy Roman phrase like, "Ad hominus, max ominous, ineffectus, non erectus"?</p><p>Wikipedia goes on, "Hartung (<i>no clarification from Wikipedia on who the heck that is</i>) is inclined to consider him an epithet of Jupiter, since falandum, according to Festus, was the Etruscan name for 'heaven.'"</p><p>Which brought me to another Wikipedia article about "epithets" which states, "An epithet (from Ancient Greek <i>epítheton</i> 'adjective', from <i>epíthetos </i>'additional'), also byname, is a descriptive term (word or phrase) known for accompanying or occurring in place of a name and having entered common usage."</p><p>Also, "The word epithet can also refer to an abusive, defamatory, or derogatory phrase. This use as a euphemism is criticized by Martin Manser and other proponents of linguistic prescription. H. W. Fowler complained that "epithet is suffering a vulgarization that is giving it an abusive imputation."</p><p>Oh yeah? Just try calling "Jupiter" "Falacer", if you dare, and see if he doesn't consider it an abusive imputation. I wouldn't want to have to answer to that roar from the heavens, "<span style="font-size: medium;">Are you calling me an obscure god, assigned to</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> a minor flamon?</span>"</p><p>Here is more, I regret, from Wikipedia: "The etymology of flamen remains obscure, and perhaps undecidable. The term is traditionally connected with the Proto-Germanic verb blōtanan ("to sacrifice"), by positing a Proto-Indo-European stem blehdmen (or blehgmen), which could have originally meant "sacrifice". However, the link remains uncertain since it is impossible to decide whether the Latin form reflects an earlier flă-men, flăd-men or flăg-smen."</p><p>Which brings us to our next diety; <a href="https://www.dictionary.com/browse/amphigory" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><i>Amphigory</i></span></a>, the Greek goddess of gobbledygook. </p><p>Then there is <u><i>Palatua</i></u>; an obscure goddess who guarded the Palatine Hill. As opposed to being assigned a minor flamen, according to Wikipedia, "she was assigned a flamen minor." That, I guess, would be a religious leader under the legal age for priesthood.</p><p>Here are a few more Roman gods listed on Wikipedia. I didn't read the entire article on each, but I've provided what I am sure is an apt description or comment for each:</p><p><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disciplina" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Disciplina</span></a></i><br />The goddess of dominatrices.</p><p><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fecunditas" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Fecunditas</span></a><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><br /></span></i>Personification of fertility. Fecund always sounded too close to fecal for my liking. Hardly what might come to mind when thinking "fruitful". Then again, what personifies fertility better than, well, you know what.</p><p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Roman_deities#L" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Latona</span></a><br />Goddess of light. I thought that would have been <i>Daytona</i>.</p><p><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eos" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Eos</span></a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portunus_(mythology)" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Portunus</span></a>, and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artemis" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Artemis</span></a></i> <br />These were later re-envisioned as the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Three_Musketeers" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Three Musketeers</span></a>.</p><p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Roman_deities#S" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Scotus</span></a><br />God of darkness. Ain't that the truth!</p><p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Verminus" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Verminus</span></a><br />God of cattle worms. There's a god for that?</p><p><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caca_(mythology)" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Caca</span></a></i><br />There's a god for that?</p><p>As comprehensive as Wikipedia's lists are, we here at Snow Shoveling In Canada thought our readers should be aware of a few more obscure gods (assigned to negligible flamens).</p><p><i><u>Angina</u></i> - Greek goddess of chest pain.<br /><i><u>Angora</u></i> - Greek goddess of goat hair.<br /><i><u>Avunculus</u></i> - Roman god of uncles.<br /><i><u>Cerumen</u></i> - Roman god of earwax.</p><p>Finally, we have <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vulcan_(mythology)" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Vulcan</span></a>, </i>the Roman god of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spock" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">emotionless extraterrestrials</span></a>.</p><div><p>By the way, why are beings from the planet Vulcan referred to as <i>Vulcans</i>? After all, we don't refer to people from Jordan as <i>Jordans</i>, do we? Shouldn't the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Demonym" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">demonym </span></a>for someone from Vulcan be <i>Vulcanite</i>, or <i>Vulcaner</i>, or <i>Vulcanian</i>? </p><p>There really should be a god or goddess of demonyms. Perhaps <i><u>Demonyma</u></i>? I sure could use her help sometimes.</p></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-17152945609344503282023-06-22T11:47:00.254-04:002023-06-30T13:56:42.683-04:00Big Jerk Mac<p>In a <a href="http://canshovel.blogspot.com/2010/04/secret-to-overall-well-being-and.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">previous post</span></a> I stated, "I was a pretty skinny kid. I used to see those ads in the comic books for the Charles Atlas <i>Dynamic Tension</i> system for gaining he-man bulk. I was always afraid that I was going to be the guy who got sand kicked in his face. I actually sent away for one of those systems as advertised in the comics. It wasn’t the Charles Atlas one though. I can’t remember the name of it, but it was similar to <i>Dynamic Tension</i>. It was <i>Tense Dynamo</i> or <i>Tensile Dynamite</i> or <i>Demonic Torsion</i>, or something like that."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2gvUvVc3NGxgpfNPh1b6CvyF7OgV6CjFeC2-yO0mjCKahZJt9vDf6Vr-mIBO8QeQlQLqxz1IA0QC5XyAMopOZsCe1r9bN13XzfG4qGGB6Coe3Nd3TYR9YdmO8Fu8smdg2Kw5huuKPz0dxVkbLzLtf-iBoQDnXasTbuhBXg0TWwkgell_R1ydEL_EIGHQ/s1248/Screenshot%20(256)a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="1248" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2gvUvVc3NGxgpfNPh1b6CvyF7OgV6CjFeC2-yO0mjCKahZJt9vDf6Vr-mIBO8QeQlQLqxz1IA0QC5XyAMopOZsCe1r9bN13XzfG4qGGB6Coe3Nd3TYR9YdmO8Fu8smdg2Kw5huuKPz0dxVkbLzLtf-iBoQDnXasTbuhBXg0TWwkgell_R1ydEL_EIGHQ/s320/Screenshot%20(256)a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>A simple exercise from the Demonic Torsion</i></b><span style="font-weight: bold; text-align: left;">®</span><b><i> system</i></b></div><p>Some of you may remember from years ago, ads like these for the Charles Atlas method:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32rPuliyr5I1TAoSOWwDakVD0yP3xbzihRqcu0v6bEnoVRlVGjIapvA4Oojwp5LhUiQWTJcx6BvBmWjdADt5Ab1jnZwybH2MC7hDeOOqyi19sckIY2NuHAEgmaypllPDEL8wqD-hRSYwHQ6zmRK6m1cnKKHr3OB-_aB3SaAePMbcxDs5cUpfTcLcY5F8/s1165/Clipboard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1165" data-original-width="827" height="570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32rPuliyr5I1TAoSOWwDakVD0yP3xbzihRqcu0v6bEnoVRlVGjIapvA4Oojwp5LhUiQWTJcx6BvBmWjdADt5Ab1jnZwybH2MC7hDeOOqyi19sckIY2NuHAEgmaypllPDEL8wqD-hRSYwHQ6zmRK6m1cnKKHr3OB-_aB3SaAePMbcxDs5cUpfTcLcY5F8/w405-h570/Clipboard.jpg" width="405" /></a></div><div><br /></div>What's up with Mac? Charles Atlas not only made him a hulking beast, but also turned him into a world-class jerk. Jeez, he didn't need to smash the other guy in the face. That dude didn't really make him "dry up and blow away"; he just threatened him. Mac could have done the same. Also, why does he say "Wham!" while delivering the goods? Was he instructed to do that as part of the <i>Dynamic Tension </i>program?<div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj93g6ThMc2GRyyjyQD5cOi1W3hASaJO7KSYAjSTCGR0Pzn3I2t5tqPJ8S27sRg2hzatM7qpuhFw3ZLjgnj1XByWB4EiJ79QsG2aD0E5F1NbBco11zguOvVH3scYk2PesqFjt9Z1SkNV8E3O-7qim08m-uqolzg0lEl0aRPj-GO9JxRP7JisppLNVPuZBM/s404/nl%20atl4BAa.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="404" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj93g6ThMc2GRyyjyQD5cOi1W3hASaJO7KSYAjSTCGR0Pzn3I2t5tqPJ8S27sRg2hzatM7qpuhFw3ZLjgnj1XByWB4EiJ79QsG2aD0E5F1NbBco11zguOvVH3scYk2PesqFjt9Z1SkNV8E3O-7qim08m-uqolzg0lEl0aRPj-GO9JxRP7JisppLNVPuZBM/w408-h280/nl%20atl4BAa.jpg" width="408" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I guess brute strength and lots of testosterone defined a man back then. Here's my advice to all you guys out there. If anyone - like Grace or any of the other nitwits depicted in that ad - tries to tell you that muscles and toughness are the measure of a man, just pull open the waistbands of your pants and shorts, have a look down there, and exclaim, "Poppycock."</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If ever there was an ad campaign that begged to be lampooned, this was it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Therefore, I present to you a couple of satirical "ads" from past issues of the <i>National Lampoon</i> magazine.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div>From the August, 1973 issue, there's the <i>Psychology Ptoday</i> parody:<br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYiF40GJ8I1EmcmYp7Yq5czj9vQTxzYB8vgTC5H4W8rIdbZiFbC_QJaSb1_9kGs9SFoNO7Xvf3PipROdHIEehr-BZQQq1w0uyWTSQlVtrWlPd0lJNj0gvXtXDpdVYNAE6faIp6729yDiju4crbHfD_YVfL4iVHNbfSiPxfH8_jO79HCetePc1gc27x6q8/s1979/Clipboard1a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1979" data-original-width="1406" height="608" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYiF40GJ8I1EmcmYp7Yq5czj9vQTxzYB8vgTC5H4W8rIdbZiFbC_QJaSb1_9kGs9SFoNO7Xvf3PipROdHIEehr-BZQQq1w0uyWTSQlVtrWlPd0lJNj0gvXtXDpdVYNAE6faIp6729yDiju4crbHfD_YVfL4iVHNbfSiPxfH8_jO79HCetePc1gc27x6q8/w430-h608/Clipboard1a.jpg" width="430" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div><br />From January, 1974, their <i>Popular Evolution Magazine</i> parody:</div><div><br /></div></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv8GoAY2UiKGueWlg4xpwd5pFrqGoMr2-7maqi9gT_nwNG32QpI10x9t9Zu5TL-90_kKVBzE7singdB_JDPZRDvWmfDuFvDKqzC6YlhJr1pZSwFQRiLnuRXPtGTvHOpcNX4JrMpIaN1uCvebGsyy6UP15-0muwwo3AGG6750Wp-x5fSQvHvamfTSqfYTA/s3145/Clipboard3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3145" data-original-width="1901" height="713" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv8GoAY2UiKGueWlg4xpwd5pFrqGoMr2-7maqi9gT_nwNG32QpI10x9t9Zu5TL-90_kKVBzE7singdB_JDPZRDvWmfDuFvDKqzC6YlhJr1pZSwFQRiLnuRXPtGTvHOpcNX4JrMpIaN1uCvebGsyy6UP15-0muwwo3AGG6750Wp-x5fSQvHvamfTSqfYTA/w430-h713/Clipboard3.jpg" width="430" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><div>Let's just hope that humans have evolved into somewhat more rational, civilized and enlightened beings than what's been illustrated here. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>Now if you'll excuse me, I need to do my <i>Demonic Torsion</i> routine, after which I have an appointment with my chiropractor. Perhaps I should make an appointment with a priest as well.</div><div><br /></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-57122864075049900762023-06-16T14:37:00.005-04:002023-08-19T10:57:31.489-04:00My Rusty Old Maverick<p>The Ford Motor Company stopped making the ill-fated Edsel automobile when I was about six years old. I didn't buy one because I had no money and no driver's license. I wish I had though. They're a real collector's item now.</p><p>Some people have speculated that the Edsel failed because — unlike the symbols of power and masculinity associated with most cars in its day — its grille had a perceived feminine look. It resembled a woman's, um... it looked like, uh... let's put it this way, it reminded people of... how shall I say it?... a woman's "Virginia".</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgif4FyMcfTaRpzhYdDLv6KOFWXAuHzfU0QlhtzezqbQ7VNRCO8APchdLImOxHzdmSv_HtRCBmcAaOiDmmCQkgMkddD5C4e20r-KG7RNoLK6nbsLI_B6fuMOwfUt69itXlR-f7dZzCl9zkyqa3PORDXejOUHZjpZIzLb13wYLXFZcrVYniAsXQ6GdpZ/s703/EdselFord-1b.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="703" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgif4FyMcfTaRpzhYdDLv6KOFWXAuHzfU0QlhtzezqbQ7VNRCO8APchdLImOxHzdmSv_HtRCBmcAaOiDmmCQkgMkddD5C4e20r-KG7RNoLK6nbsLI_B6fuMOwfUt69itXlR-f7dZzCl9zkyqa3PORDXejOUHZjpZIzLb13wYLXFZcrVYniAsXQ6GdpZ/w438-h208/EdselFord-1b.jpg" width="438" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The Infamous Edsel Grille</i></b></div></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />My first car was a brand new blue Ford Maverick. Incidentally, my dad used the <a href="https://canshovel.blogspot.com/2012/03/euphemizing-with-stars.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">euphemism</span></a> "maverick" when referring to a man's, um... to his, uh... how shall we say?... his "Pennsylvania." Or better yet, since I grew up in Windsor, Ontario across the river from Michigan - let's call it his "Lower Peninsula". <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlDMztVRU6YR8uFLwLSTqJSybvXEf2bRszJxnDk6StnP4MReig5dCm5T6oLmkTAXbE5VhNNf8zi8iv88onnQ2D1naB44Xv5mhggA2WE6iAbBqsKvxabhdyClv28BbsU3EFMTOx99KNnI561_ygJlxuWEjF5pTcC6yf-3E75xW28O7esxTtqU5a_YD/s1148/mav3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="1148" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYlDMztVRU6YR8uFLwLSTqJSybvXEf2bRszJxnDk6StnP4MReig5dCm5T6oLmkTAXbE5VhNNf8zi8iv88onnQ2D1naB44Xv5mhggA2WE6iAbBqsKvxabhdyClv28BbsU3EFMTOx99KNnI561_ygJlxuWEjF5pTcC6yf-3E75xW28O7esxTtqU5a_YD/w404-h169/mav3.jpg" width="404" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: left;"><i>A 1975 Ford Lower Peninsula</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> <br /><div style="text-align: left;">I nicknamed my Maverick (the car, not my you-know-what) the "Blue Bomber." That would have been a strange nickname for the other thing. I drove my Maverick until it rusted out (and we can stop with the mental images now, please). Back then, Ford was known for their rusty vehicles. Even the venerated Mustang was dubbed the "Rustang".</div></span></div><p>I've always given my cars nicknames. I tend to do that with a lot of stuff. My <a href="https://greenworkstools.ca/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Greenworks</span></a> lawn mower is "<a href="https://godfather.fandom.com/wiki/Moe_Greene" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Mow Green</span></a>". I'm sure I'm not the only one who does that. In fact, a friend of mine has a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loppers" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">bypass lopper</span></a> that she's named "Cyndi" (Lopper).</p><p>My second car was a spanking new silver Plymouth Horizon. This little car (nicknamed the "Silver Bullet") with a four-on-the-floor gear shift was fun to drive, but the transmission made clunky noises that the mechanics could somehow never fix. I sold it to a very young woman who had just received her driver's license. When I demonstrated how to shift gears with the manual transmission, she looked at my left foot on the clutch and said, "You mean you have to do that every time?" Fortunately for her, her father was there to drive the car back to their house. I hope she became more adept at driving a stick shift than the contestants you see on <i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=500611551496473" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">The Amazing Race</span></a></i>. </p><p>My third ride was my first used vehicle. It was a black Ford Granada, and my only car with a V-8 engine. Not a great car by any means, it would emit this very strange wood burning smell every now and again. I never did figure out what that was. Maybe Ford made some parts out of wood back then to deal with the rust issues.</p><p>I sold this car after two or three years, and on my way to deliver it to the buyers, it did something it had never done before; it started to sputter and stall on the expressway, as if it were reluctant to go to its new owner. I found myself yelling, "You rotten piece of ****! What the **** are you doing to me?" This seemed to do the trick as the car settled down enough to make it to our destination. But being the honest guy that I am, I explained to the purchasers what had just happened. They didn't seem too concerned. Even so, I called them up a few days later to see how the car was handling. They said it was running fine. I'd say that car took the whole thing just a little too personal. My buddy liked to call it "Granada Your Mama".<i> </i>I preferred the "Black Stallion", with some emphasis on the "Stall".</p><p>My car ownership days hit a new low with my next jalopy. It was a well-used yellow Dodge Omni. On one trip down the highway, the radiator was failing and the car was overheating. I put the heater and fan on full blast to try to cool the engine to some degree. But it was a blistering hot day in the middle of summer. It was like racing in the Baja 500 in full winter gear.</p><p>On another jaunt, from under the hood came a loud "POW!" That bucket of bolts died right then and there. I should have just called a cab and left it where it was, never to have to look at the thing again. I originally gave this piece of crap the handle "Banana Peeler" (although it hardly ever "peeled out"). Ultimately, I just referred to it as "The Lemon".</p><p>My fortunes didn't improve much with my next vehicle; a truck actually. It was a Chevy Blazer. Its original color was a standard red. I had it painted after about a year to a deep red. It thus became "Carmine" (after <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carmine_(color)" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">the color</span></a>) or sometimes it was the "Duke of Burgundy". Changing the hue didn't boost its performance. I ended up putting a new engine in it. Also, it developed the loudest, shrillest squealing noise imaginable. Fire engines and ambulances would pull over when I was on the road with that beast. No mechanic, and I mean NO mechanic could figure out where the squeal was coming from. Several tried. I went back to calling this awful off-roader by its original nickname, "Red Dog".</p><p>Among other nicknames were:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>A new blue Chevy Chevette - good ol' "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cesar_Chavez" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Cesar Chevette</span></a>".</li><li>A lightly used Dodge Caravan. A surprisingly peppy van that I dubbed "Vincent", as in "Vincent Van Go." </li><li>A new, deep red PT Cruiser (made in Mexico) - "Pablo T Cruiser", or just "Pablo." (Anyone remember the band, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pablo_Cruise" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Pablo Cruise</span></a>?)</li><li>A new Honda CRV. Not a big vehicle by any means, but a lot bigger than the Honda Civic (Jane Honda) we had just prior to this purchase. The license plate ID started with BMFH, which I took to mean Big MotherF****** Honda. The nickname thus was a cleaned-up "Big Mamma".</li><li>Our current vehicle is a Chevrolet Equinox - "Verna", short for "Verna L. Equinox".</li></ul>You'll notice that four of the last five cars we've owned have been new purchases. After dealing with the "Black <i>Stall</i>ion", "The Lemon", and "Red Dog", I think I've learned my lesson.<div><br /></div><div>Finally, does anyone have any information on what one can do to reinvigorate a rusty old Maverick?<br /><p></p><p> </p></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-63218689110371522792023-06-09T09:34:00.003-04:002023-08-19T10:57:17.682-04:00Clothing Removal Advice<p>Near our house are a couple of used clothing donation bins. Here's a photo of one of them:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioFI43TGEU9fsLYEg05rD7dDAdyDQpm3re-sV-xDJdJfQ0c6-yBd0_NOJ6j_RxNfUIJl7vLU8ZS7IxNN63IkfRZL7GwXhdqy0c6pDJdAG8aIryN7Wd5jQKuBvXT2mg_r0FTuDc8xV39sBpgrv2_0lcpnJXffDy8KOOkxX2ym1xCm1pRO5DM9SIGr8z/s2711/20230529_162042b.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1305" data-original-width="2711" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioFI43TGEU9fsLYEg05rD7dDAdyDQpm3re-sV-xDJdJfQ0c6-yBd0_NOJ6j_RxNfUIJl7vLU8ZS7IxNN63IkfRZL7GwXhdqy0c6pDJdAG8aIryN7Wd5jQKuBvXT2mg_r0FTuDc8xV39sBpgrv2_0lcpnJXffDy8KOOkxX2ym1xCm1pRO5DM9SIGr8z/w430-h206/20230529_162042b.jpg" width="430" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had seen these many times, but I only recently noticed the sticker warning people to not enter the donation bin. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sometimes you just have to shake your head and wonder what the heck people are doing out there to necessitate this kind of notification. Has anyone actually climbed into one of these, getting in via some sort of reverse Houdini act? If so, what for? Let's hope they weren't wishing to donate their bodies for science. They would have been wholly rejected on the brains part alone. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_DKNT_yF__hkJbzIJFPyVd87gO13W18EQNl3Sw-kg4h5ATXUtluDsZBpA2PCwstNSe5Q_gPrCplasu3SPpLc5O3jC4gSfcWOub8e0SJSjJwUNqFD8lqEzsEMT5YAnVoczqI2GpEFl-JOgHJ6fwspr2_B3dD_oVPUQT__mTT7cJ3F3zrJ4k4BBG0d2/s186/E4p9FtHWUAMYySm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="165" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_DKNT_yF__hkJbzIJFPyVd87gO13W18EQNl3Sw-kg4h5ATXUtluDsZBpA2PCwstNSe5Q_gPrCplasu3SPpLc5O3jC4gSfcWOub8e0SJSjJwUNqFD8lqEzsEMT5YAnVoczqI2GpEFl-JOgHJ6fwspr2_B3dD_oVPUQT__mTT7cJ3F3zrJ4k4BBG0d2/w212-h239/E4p9FtHWUAMYySm.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Warning: If you're foolish enough to try this, then we don't want any part of you.</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Maybe someone accidentally threw a brand new Armani suit in there and said, "Holy crap! I've got to crawl in there and get that back." Or it may be that they didn't realize you must first take your clothes off before donating them. Perhaps someone was walking by on a cold winter day after having taken a picture of themselves for photo ID, and decided they had better get in there to find some warm clothing to wear.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That latter supposition may not make sense to you right now, but read on.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here's an odd news item from UPI:</div><p><i>The Georgia Department of Driver Services issued an unusual reminder for residents taking advantage of the state's new digital driver's licenses and IDs: "Please take pictures with your clothes on."</i></p><p><i>The department said in a Facebook post that residents are being asked to ensure they are "keeping things classy" when snapping selfies for their digital licenses and IDs, which allow Apple Wallet users to leave their physical copies in their wallet when passing through TSA checkpoints.</i></p><p><i>"Attention, lovely people of the digital era," the post reads. "Please take pictures with your clothes on when submitting them for your Digital Driver's License and IDs."</i></p><p><i>It was unclear whether the reminder was prompted by some residents failing to follow the advice.</i></p><p><i>"Let's raise our virtual glasses and toast to the future," DDS officials wrote. "Cheers to technology and keeping things classy!"</i></p><p>Instead of raising your glasses, just raise your glances — to the face, that is. But is that even necessary?</p><p>Why would anyone submit a picture of anything but their head and face for ID purposes? Never have I had a photo ID that included any other part of my body. That's not to say I don't have some unique identifying birthmarks in areas that usually don't see the sun, as I'm sure we all do. Thankfully I'm generally recognized and identified by my face, and not by some blemish on my tushie. </p><p>Even if some Georgianite, uh Georgianian, I mean Georgianer, that is to say a resident of Georgia were to submit a photo of themself completely unclad from head to toe, wouldn't the good folks from the Department of Driver Services just flat out reject it anyway? All they could possibly want or need is a pic of your noggin. (Just to be clear, "noggin" is slang for "head" and not any other body part that I'm aware of.)</p><p>However, I'm all for freedom, and anyone should feel free to strip down to their birthday suits in order to take a picture of themselves for submission to any government agency. As long as they first crop the photo and restrict it to the face alone, then it shouldn't be an issue. Of course, the size of the grin in the face-only photo would be directly proportional to the lack of clothing worn by the applicant. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEN0B56fSiX5Rg0RBy8L_xQju5z0K5MEiIFahh9RcAuc2Q3SXKux4emSOlT8rP6VKlu_T47VhDypCpWCCG7HInFcyoMolAvJZV-ygeYZzXd7ACmy4PGn-uiyDWx_tu6QuHoOFeWScJaSqMsaZ-fnWXZ96vznUfab2EYXufg-kaB1XfOSqAGFADhIv/s1202/bgnp.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="725" data-original-width="1202" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEN0B56fSiX5Rg0RBy8L_xQju5z0K5MEiIFahh9RcAuc2Q3SXKux4emSOlT8rP6VKlu_T47VhDypCpWCCG7HInFcyoMolAvJZV-ygeYZzXd7ACmy4PGn-uiyDWx_tu6QuHoOFeWScJaSqMsaZ-fnWXZ96vznUfab2EYXufg-kaB1XfOSqAGFADhIv/w395-h238/bgnp.jpg" width="395" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>In which photo would you imagine </i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>that I'm not wearing any pants?</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>(And please don't imagine it)</i></b></div></b><p style="text-align: left;">It seems apparent that some people just get off on exposing themselves to a camera and sending images of their naughty bawdy bodies to whomever. If they're sending them to government agencies, I can't imagine who else they're sending them to. And just an alert to those folks; if you send some nude or seminude photos of yourselves to us here at <i>Snow Shoveling In Canada,</i> we won't accept them either. Although in a few cases, some intense scrutiny may be employed before they are ultimately discarded.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Keep in mind that if you feel a great need to disrobe, then please do so when and where appropriate. For example, it is highly recommended to peel off all your garments when you take a bath or shower. Showering or bathing in your clothes is a terribly soggy, unsatisfying experience. </p><p style="text-align: left;">When changing into your pajamas at night, you should shed a few layers first and refrain from putting your PJs on over your clothes, for your own comfort. And take your shoes off too.</p><p style="text-align: left;">When shopping for new pants, go into that private little change room and take your trousers right off. If you don't, you'll have to try and find a pair that will fit over what you're wearing. And if you buy those, you will always have to wear them over the old ones, or else you'll find you've just bought yourself a pair of dreadfully baggy britches. Be sure to put your pants back on before exiting the change room. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Remember as well to always to remove any clothes that you wish to donate to charity.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Anyone who suffers badly from<i> </i>what we shall call <i>Georgia Driver's License ID Exhibitionist Syndrome, </i>who feels an uncontrollable urge to be naked, can easily adopt my attitude that I've discussed in a <a href="https://canshovel.blogspot.com/2012/02/nude-stewed-and-pursued.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">previous post</span></a>. Just remind yourself that you're always nude under your clothes. Such a liberating thought!</p><p style="text-align: left;">By the way, I was wearing pants in both photos. I swear I was. At least I'm pretty sure I was. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Or was one of those taken on that day I made a clothing donation?</p><p><br /></p>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-49621137639552078372023-06-02T09:59:00.024-04:002023-06-04T12:07:36.333-04:00Sixties Brutal Playtime <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here's something I didn't expect to see while cooking my eggs:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocV6_YzmMRR7i6unmWpuy_E3BgHbKTcvMCSaX1MExihbUs7_dE2NeVt0L_mPVJ4DolPRkJEI2AAaetaNmYTOqKaTNZYn8k4QuTVYygEw_qiXDv71AHG3sDwb_bzGQH1wIH1yknH7gmtOP4DcYky0GfbQrdRVlQ4d_z9mvlbyruyyrNq7_usPbW0Gy/s960/10801490_1017467181612104_4653451527352629656_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocV6_YzmMRR7i6unmWpuy_E3BgHbKTcvMCSaX1MExihbUs7_dE2NeVt0L_mPVJ4DolPRkJEI2AAaetaNmYTOqKaTNZYn8k4QuTVYygEw_qiXDv71AHG3sDwb_bzGQH1wIH1yknH7gmtOP4DcYky0GfbQrdRVlQ4d_z9mvlbyruyyrNq7_usPbW0Gy/s320/10801490_1017467181612104_4653451527352629656_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <b><i>You've heard of Mr. Potato Head? <br />Introducing Mr. Fried Egg Face</i></b>.</div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><div><br /></div></div></div><div>I admit it was difficult having to dip my toast into his eyes. <br /><br /></div><div><i>Now cracks a noble shell.</i></div><div><i>Goodbye, sweet anthropomorphic food; </i></div><div><i>And bites of egg will bring thee to digest.</i> (<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/11672-now-cracks-a-noble-heart-good-night-sweet-prince-and-flights" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Hamlet</span></a> and eggs?)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I may have had a Mr. Potato Head toy as a kid, but I'm not sure. If I did, I grew weary of it in short order, as I did with most of my toys. </div><div><br /></div><div>The box the toys came in on the other hand, provided days of entertainment. I could do whatever the heck I liked with them and have no worries whether or not they would break. I could turn them into a fort or a funhouse or crawl into one and use it as a ride to slide down the stairs. The stairs had a sharp turn near the bottom, so crashing into the wall at full child-laden-box-on-a-staircase speed was inevitable, yet still loads of fun. I'm a little surprised that Mattel didn't have the foresight to market the <i>Box in a Box</i> ® (and sell it at an exorbitant price, of course).</div><div><br /></div><div>Knives, swords, guns, rifles, machine guns, bazookas, grenades and missiles; I had them all as a kid. All toys mind you, but they and more like them were integral parts of this typical Canadian's wholesome upbringing. </div><div><br /></div><div>The <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johnny_Seven_OMA#" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Johnny Seven O.M.A. (One Man Army</span></a><span style="color: #2b00fe;">) </span></i>almost covered that entire list in one savage toy. My brother had this one, and no one in the neighborhood dared mess with him. There very well may have been a few countries back then that would have thought twice about a conflict with some kid armed with the <i>Johnny Seven</i>. We felt we were well equipped to fight off any communist aggression. "Back off Kruschev, or Kruschoff, or however they say your name. That goes for you too Fidel and any of your comrades." Woe betide the pinko who didn't heed that warning!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSu6kW95KOo-Xa40as9zDh6KDmpsu5kefhL9fiZvfyQFhCMaUHb3wVVFrmgya73aDPcD3vqaWskgXVn-OCfHOga1fXeWINY6IT3UV_VQ_mZvYx6n_Vy6KmR13nbYNYRLKsk3Y5pGETZOcPAEqTrf-sINkD0XHOPzF_vxAnwcElTfZ514BViDI42Nc6/s475/johnnysevencatalog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="475" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSu6kW95KOo-Xa40as9zDh6KDmpsu5kefhL9fiZvfyQFhCMaUHb3wVVFrmgya73aDPcD3vqaWskgXVn-OCfHOga1fXeWINY6IT3UV_VQ_mZvYx6n_Vy6KmR13nbYNYRLKsk3Y5pGETZOcPAEqTrf-sINkD0XHOPzF_vxAnwcElTfZ514BViDI42Nc6/w401-h284/johnnysevencatalog.jpg" width="401" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>The Johnny Seven</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Only a hyperactive war hawk with ten times the legal limit of caffeine in their system </i></b><b><i>could have designed this thing. No batteries needed; just a certain degree of bloodlust.</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><a href="https://toytales.ca/air-blaster-from-whamo-1963/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><i>Wham-O</i> air blasters</span></a>, bows and arrows, firecrackers, Bowie knives, pea shooters, BB guns; those were the days. The days that thankfully have come and gone without serious injury, for me at least.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure they're still around today, but even the board games we played were violent to a degree. <i><a href="https://shop.hasbro.com/en-us/product/clue-game-2013-edition/9BCB9C5E-5056-9047-F505-6D1166C5961E" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Clue</span></a></i> was about murder, while <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Risk_(game)" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Risk</span></a></i> was about world military conquest. Actual conflict arose from that fun pastime; "What are you attacking me for? There's a much bigger threat on your eastern front! Are you on Kruschev's side or what? I'll get you for this."</div><div>"Oooh, what are you gonna do? Call an emergency session of the United Nations?"</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Even <i>Monopoly</i> got tempers flared with all the deals and back-stabbing. A Wikipedia entry about the game has this quote from <i>Computer Gaming World</i>; "Virtually no one plays the game with the rules as written."</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Ain't that the truth; "If you don't make a deal with me now, just wait till you land on my Boardwalk. The rent will cost you three zillion dollars. No, make that three <i>ka</i>zillion dollars. Told you I'd get you for that game of <i>Risk, </i>you communist sympathizer." </div><div><br /></div><div>Of course we were just kids and likely used the term "big doofus" instead of "communist sympathizer". As JFK similarly said to the Soviet leader in October of 1962, "I just want to say-uh Mr. Kruschev that-uh you are a-uh big doofus."</div><div><br /></div><div>I was fascinated by the U.S. Civil War. Way back when I was a little tyke, I thought the war was a mammoth tussle between North America and South America. That would have been a humdinger. But when I found out that it was restricted to the U.S., it didn't diminish my fascination. As I put it to my parents once, "It's my favorite war!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I had a collection of these <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civil_War_News" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Civil War trading cards</span></a> when I was a kid. They were made by a company called Topps, who are well known for selling trading cards with bubble gum. The cards had images which were incredible graphic and gory. They made the <i>Texas Chainsaw Massacre</i> look like <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rebecca_of_Sunnybrook_Farm_(1938_film)" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm</span></a></i>. They sure as heck wouldn't fly today.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I'm not a violent man, nor do I like to see graphic violence on film or TV, but when I was a little shaver of about eight or nine years old, I could look at these illustrations of butchery, bloodshed, and slaughter and think they were the coolest thing ever. </div><div><br /></div>Our mouths half-filled with bubble gum, my buddy and I would be chawin' away while looking at all these images of carnage and destruction. One of us would say, "Wow, stuck clean through with a bayonet! These are great!" or "Oh, man! Look at this one! The guy's gettin' his head crushed by a wagon wheel. Cool!"<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xrJHtiZFbGN9VOb30riv-IBiClWVa7isCeO-o8ARFzXzTZK5u6PVzozG6Yp6Eto4uCvJEgcQrykI01Ikmx2S_T_MIxk3om9ghxfHBBucYW5vaHkYZfsRqvn_3SsT0Gqe3EphXizpxGlwTfvhL1j3TjmWqwGb4SWosn1pJ4Gd0f7y3B_xCgHLA79o/s381/cwg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="381" data-original-width="258" height="349" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xrJHtiZFbGN9VOb30riv-IBiClWVa7isCeO-o8ARFzXzTZK5u6PVzozG6Yp6Eto4uCvJEgcQrykI01Ikmx2S_T_MIxk3om9ghxfHBBucYW5vaHkYZfsRqvn_3SsT0Gqe3EphXizpxGlwTfvhL1j3TjmWqwGb4SWosn1pJ4Gd0f7y3B_xCgHLA79o/w237-h349/cwg.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Bubble Gum, Confederate Money, and War? </i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>All For Just 5 Cents?</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">What More Could A Kid Ask For?</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The packaging of that product is a little puzzling. Are they saying that this is surplus bubble gum from the days of the Civil War? You'd break a molar on that for sure. Or are they implying that bubble gum was a big deal for Confederate and Yankee soldiers? If that's the case, then it's hard to believe the belligerents would have been engaged in mortal combat while chewing gum and blowing bubbles. I suppose the fellow in the illustration could have a mouthful of that chewy confection.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Come to think of it, that might be a good strategy to curb all military aggression. Just give the soldiers on both sides an ample amount of bubble gum. Who wants to fight while you're chewing sweet pink gum and using it to make big sticky bubbles?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmXJEVF93sOCyloinP7AHf9l5uoom1L8wEvibri9Pxho1YZ4_xOllf33rhw_LhlZzqFODvbLezpNAQptsJL7hjRQ7BkGu1lJHOblBqKxV5wKRHAKIIxnzeorou-3mDlc1w0SxDADwARuE1dUohSYh-BZnDi5gT4AH3EG1Z5Tjz3Be2URIgJSSK1mx/s326/cwg3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="128" data-original-width="326" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmXJEVF93sOCyloinP7AHf9l5uoom1L8wEvibri9Pxho1YZ4_xOllf33rhw_LhlZzqFODvbLezpNAQptsJL7hjRQ7BkGu1lJHOblBqKxV5wKRHAKIIxnzeorou-3mDlc1w0SxDADwARuE1dUohSYh-BZnDi5gT4AH3EG1Z5Tjz3Be2URIgJSSK1mx/w396-h156/cwg3.jpg" width="396" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Do6XYqb7JthHd-jHkgVgEiOrrVhO4H_eGFUwvkZH34TjpsCVJTDAvOMQ2YjrHVnSzfkZJYpACtpviqYEjBcyDrEs_7gKSsU9zYSj5oLnQfBAMyMfIiNX0HukEC7-xh_4LxPqdOBeVJC9saVxNpiPaAnwjQ8R43Ry4GVvAZIVaMnim2LwjaOuyMG0/s1936/20230526_154436%5B1%5Dba.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1936" data-original-width="1422" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Do6XYqb7JthHd-jHkgVgEiOrrVhO4H_eGFUwvkZH34TjpsCVJTDAvOMQ2YjrHVnSzfkZJYpACtpviqYEjBcyDrEs_7gKSsU9zYSj5oLnQfBAMyMfIiNX0HukEC7-xh_4LxPqdOBeVJC9saVxNpiPaAnwjQ8R43Ry4GVvAZIVaMnim2LwjaOuyMG0/w289-h394/20230526_154436%5B1%5Dba.jpg" width="289" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b>A Canadian lad in his Yankee forage cap WAY back when.</b></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I can't believe that's me in that photo (not all that long after the Civil War, relatively speaking). Today I look more like a grizzled old Civil War general, or more like the father of a grizzled old Civil War general.</div><div><br /><p>So that pretty well sums up my violent childhood playtime; discounting the roughhouse of playground games like football, Red Rover, snowball fights, and dodgeball. Fortunately, I somehow turned out to be a relatively well-adjusted adult. In retrospect, I probably should have had more toys like Mr. Potato Head.</p><p>Wait a second, I've just had an idea! Mr. <i>Mashed</i> Potato Head! <br />That would have been so cool!</p><p><br /></p></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-28165148925180834382023-05-26T09:08:00.005-04:002023-08-19T10:58:39.097-04:00Educated Animals; Well, Smart At Least<p>What is going on with the educational system in the U.S.? I'm not talking about lack of government funding, or lawmakers' efforts to introduce questionable curricula, or holier-than-thou parents trying to ban certain books. I'm referring to the unruly behavior of animals in classrooms all across America.</p><p>The following "news" items from UPI illustrate a growing concern in a number of institutes of intermediate learning:</p><p><i>Pierre, South Dakota - A pair of cows escaped from a South Dakota high school and went wandering across highways and through yards before being corralled at a softball field, police said.</i></p><p><i>The Pierre Police Department said in a Facebook post the the yearling cows were accused of "skipping school" when they wandered off while taking part in an exhibit at Riggs High School.</i></p><p><i>"Their adventure took them across roads and highways, through yards and eventually to the Pierre Softball Complex," the post said.</i></p><p><i>Police, animal control officers and Hughes County sheriff's deputies met the cows at the field and were able to usher them into a fenced-in area.</i></p><p><i>"City parks crews assisted and before long recess was over and the yearlings returned to class," police wrote.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7OVtFQ4_NSfcCDTB3UTOuCwdMs3qznMbUyEXMCaMxWmPUHFLqXHwfaXXrhL_cx91EkMD2CHmpRkLAC3et8cV4d9Dkb7lG3RiqB09OerrLYGyCQVJRrviAX1frL9sECb3JJKVCIX8Bq27Dga8-i1rFn7hA_Wen4RIGdrNUiDlW5zciR_4sn2dUCnZ/s926/downloadb.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="606" data-original-width="926" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7OVtFQ4_NSfcCDTB3UTOuCwdMs3qznMbUyEXMCaMxWmPUHFLqXHwfaXXrhL_cx91EkMD2CHmpRkLAC3et8cV4d9Dkb7lG3RiqB09OerrLYGyCQVJRrviAX1frL9sECb3JJKVCIX8Bq27Dga8-i1rFn7hA_Wen4RIGdrNUiDlW5zciR_4sn2dUCnZ/w384-h251/downloadb.jpg" width="384" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Delinquent Cows Caught Skipping Class</i></b></div><p></p><p>One might think that these cows were just brought in as part of an exhibit for students of animal husbandry or something. However, the article states that the cows were "taking part in an exhibit"; nothing about <i>being </i>the exhibit. Also, in the accompanying video to the news item, the news anchor states that the cows were, "attending an exhibit."</p><p>And to those who think cows are just dumb animals, keep in mind that the story states that these two were "yearlings" - just one year old! I know that I was fourteen before I was smart enough for high school.</p><p>Moving on.</p><p><i>Austin, Texas</i> - <i>Students and teachers at a Texas high school said they have had to repeatedly evict an unusual category of unwanted guests -- raccoons.</i></p><p><i>The recent raccoon sightings at McCallum High School in Austin began with a dead raccoon found in a wall March 10, and the incident was followed by a raccoon being caught in a live trap in a science classroom April 10 and a trio of raccoons being spotted running through a hallway April 26.</i></p><p>It does seem odd that a raccoon was caught in a live trap in a science classroom. Are they sure that it - unlike the cows in the previous story - wasn't there as part of an exhibit? Even if it was half as smart as those cows, it could have been conducting an experiment; perhaps working on the trap when it inadvertently became ensnared.</p><p>As far as the trio of the masked bandits running through the halls, that must have been when classes were in session. I remember from my high school days, with all the commotion and chaos at recess and between classes, no one would have noticed three small furry mammals amongst the rest of us wild creatures pinballing through the corridors.</p><p>Next story:</p><p><i>Summersville, West Virginia</i> - <i>A school principal in West Virginia received a scare Monday morning when he unlocked a dumpster outside of the building and came face to face with a bear.</i></p><p><i>A video posted to Facebook by the Nicholas County Board of Education shows Zela Elementary School Principal James Marsh removing the latch from a dumpster outside the school Monday morning.</i></p><p><i>The footage shows Marsh removing the latch when the lid to the trash receptacle abruptly swings open and a bear appears from inside.</i></p><p><i>Marsh, and another employee exiting a door just as the bear appears, are seen running for safety as the bear emerges and runs in the opposite direction.</i></p><p><i>"Who says principals don't deserve hazard pay?" the Facebook post said.</i></p><p>This story did not say that the bear was necessarily in the school, but it's possible the poor thing actually had been attending classes and went looking for some tastier nutrition after having sampled the school cafeteria fare at lunchtime. If that's the case, then the principal apparently didn't recognize one of his own students.</p><p>Finally, we have this item which does not involve animals in school, but does involve an activity where humans should, but usually do not expect to have an encounter with wild critters.</p><p><i>Midland, Michigan</i> - <i>A Michigan woman walking her dog on a trail said a pair of emus appeared from the woods and chased her for about half a mile.</i></p><p><i>Kate Buning said she and her dog, a pug mix, were walking on the Pere Marquette Rail Trail in North Bradley, northwest of Midland when a pair of emus suddenly appeared nearby.</i></p><p><i>Buning snapped a photo of the flightless Australian birds before they started walking toward her.</i></p><p><i>"I was terrified," Buning told MLive.</i></p><p><i>She said the emus followed as she retreated and became more aggressive, chasing her for about a half a mile. Buning said the emus gave up their pursuit when she arrived at a road access point...</i></p><p><i>The emus' origins were unknown Tuesday.</i></p><p>The article states that they are flightless birds, but if they're from Australia, then I have no idea how they got to Michigan other than by flying — via airplane or otherwise. Since their origins were unknown, they may be just as clever as the other beasts mentioned here and with passports in hand, mixed in with the human populace and got tickets on a commercial airliner. </p><p>Although not specifically noted, it could be that the large birds were just on their way to school. Their aggressive behavior could be attributed to the fact that they needed to bring something to class for "show and tell" and wanted the little pug for that purpose. </p><p>One last animal story, but not a "news" item. Years ago my brother told me that he was watching a bull riding competition on a televised rodeo. He said one particular bull was "the meanest I've ever seen." According to my brother, when the gate was opened, this animal calmly walked out of the chute, knelt down, and just rolled over the poor cowboy, leaving him looking like a cartoon character that had just had an encounter with a bulldozer. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8RCFHRB_EM0ePtr-RtQjm6ydAWUOCbxGUgK9NOEePauruSZHlokMnvPjmIQK_1S4VhD4Ju91f5ZqotmJTiRSBk1SGh8TdwHc3QftXsQ5LEi0WeN9w_PTe7Pv7R4gdKxfLFt_hWXhy7ympElqkro7s2hfZXko1dOu_ZWD-AjkMw8BKjUP0fBn0ZIW5/s240/mqdefault.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8RCFHRB_EM0ePtr-RtQjm6ydAWUOCbxGUgK9NOEePauruSZHlokMnvPjmIQK_1S4VhD4Ju91f5ZqotmJTiRSBk1SGh8TdwHc3QftXsQ5LEi0WeN9w_PTe7Pv7R4gdKxfLFt_hWXhy7ympElqkro7s2hfZXko1dOu_ZWD-AjkMw8BKjUP0fBn0ZIW5/w367-h266/mqdefault.jpg" width="367" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Was that a bull or a bulldozer?</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I agree that bull was one mean animal, and although probably uneducated, is likely the smartest one mentioned here.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-12378577195719207372023-05-19T10:26:00.004-04:002023-05-19T12:17:39.564-04:00Beagle Call Rag<p>As a Canadian, it's a good thing that I don't suffer from chionophobia or frigophobia. Respectively, those are fears of snow and cold. Then again, a fear of something might spur on your instinct to get rid of it. A fear of snow would lead to a healthy instinct to shovel it away.</p><p>There are a number of phobias, but the phobia to end all phobias is phobophobia - a fear of being afraid. As FDR said, "...the only phobia we should have is phobophobia" or something like that.</p><p>Our beagle, Sandy, suffers terribly from astraphobia, also known as brontophobia or tonitrophobia - the<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>fear of thunder.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpKgqJ0mG8Rnto0xc9mRXrlMRgaeRZEvRc1NQUBToxJCl9-l6-mwtoP2RPblGBvBpCHjZzLvQ2GXtka88jt4jxpy48as5LATd8lJU0jhDo5ZEhL7-dpWjUwc6hhiTgSW4IygJnSX_XZ1nuTvdnut4w8SvQhBKBZhww3TeCBmm7X0Hkb3M7LpkPyKhR/s884/THUNDER.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="706" data-original-width="884" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpKgqJ0mG8Rnto0xc9mRXrlMRgaeRZEvRc1NQUBToxJCl9-l6-mwtoP2RPblGBvBpCHjZzLvQ2GXtka88jt4jxpy48as5LATd8lJU0jhDo5ZEhL7-dpWjUwc6hhiTgSW4IygJnSX_XZ1nuTvdnut4w8SvQhBKBZhww3TeCBmm7X0Hkb3M7LpkPyKhR/w400-h320/THUNDER.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>I don't even dare show this photo to our dog</i></b></div><p>We've tried several strategies to relieve Sandy (a boy by the way, like Little Orphan Annie's dog) from his dreadful fear. I'll bet we've tried every idea found on an internet search. </p><p>One suggestion is to put on some classical music. Veterinary behaviorists say it works magic on scared pets. I tried that with <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=md9ImEkV2_c&t=33s" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture</span></a>. It didn't work. In fact, it seemed to make things worse.</p><p>Another strategy is to try a thunder shirt. That didn't work either. Even a kid's size was way too big and baggy. Besides, my dog didn't want to be seen in it. His favorite basketball team is the Minnesota Timberwolves.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuJnFlcZg1bPGH6OXjN1cfWEeRaA2LhFFvadAzuLdAKCXpeq-rgvfMZt4tn7dVN4NYleAY58LteVcLPT29aHKmaZUBRAr8YTnBYjckoLuQSDXXn2uaTQEXLq0csMnuQC6QV93_cgaVhLN_ZfMkPLUrqQPTWiTgsWh89ScFeIkXcAwLKRhNYXMvIo-d/s990/Screenshot%20(219).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="990" data-original-width="742" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuJnFlcZg1bPGH6OXjN1cfWEeRaA2LhFFvadAzuLdAKCXpeq-rgvfMZt4tn7dVN4NYleAY58LteVcLPT29aHKmaZUBRAr8YTnBYjckoLuQSDXXn2uaTQEXLq0csMnuQC6QV93_cgaVhLN_ZfMkPLUrqQPTWiTgsWh89ScFeIkXcAwLKRhNYXMvIo-d/w295-h393/Screenshot%20(219).jpg" width="295" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>I'm sorry, but this shirt does nothing for astraphobic dogs or canine basketball fans</i></b></div><p style="text-align: left;">One website states that "dogs are den animals and feel safer in a more enclosed environment" which explains why our furry friends try to hide under a bed during storms or fireworks displays.</p><p style="text-align: left;">To be honest, I kind of like it when our little guy shivers and quivers while cowering under the bed. He gets the whole bed a-shakin'. It's just like one of those <a href=" https://magicfingers.us" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Magic Fingers</span></i></a> devices found at cheap hotels in the 1970's. I get a free massage! The boom of thunder is as welcome as the clink of a quarter into the <i>Magic Fingers</i> coin slot. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGbJ1OjGGlwOLApojtV9ebOUeH0CZxVT3Z-VGmYzeBf-m0P_MnlpHSic9J0x4POSm_e_feNIvUpydyyyegEkwB0LwPn9ctht24rEQoSNS6eOivjTg12im7cWlM3-B8VKPhSJ8wgGdP5l5My4TJIqifTVP5yfrN4KJqo6ebMzmyulq1WLC8xSVyFnbN/s606/magic-fingers-hotela.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="491" data-original-width="606" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGbJ1OjGGlwOLApojtV9ebOUeH0CZxVT3Z-VGmYzeBf-m0P_MnlpHSic9J0x4POSm_e_feNIvUpydyyyegEkwB0LwPn9ctht24rEQoSNS6eOivjTg12im7cWlM3-B8VKPhSJ8wgGdP5l5My4TJIqifTVP5yfrN4KJqo6ebMzmyulq1WLC8xSVyFnbN/w392-h317/magic-fingers-hotela.jpg" width="392" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The cost is only 25 cents or 1 terribly frightened pooch</i></b></div><p style="text-align: left;">Another bonus of these situations is that Sandy remains relatively quiet. The only sound is his panting. The sound ain't much, but the odor of his breath - HOO BOY! - a potent blend of dog food, fear, and liver treats.</p><p style="text-align: left;">On the other hand, during nice weather, this crazy cur can drive us cuckoo. Vociferous doesn't describe him. Daily, our neighbors gather together to perform a rain dance in hope that a thunderstorm will shut him up and send him back under the bed. He will bark at any scent or movement within a five mile radius of his domain.</p><p style="text-align: left;">God forbid a chipmunk should tiptoe through the yard sometime during any 72 hour period lest Sandy start baying like he was hot on the trail of Cool Hand Luke. This is what I really worry about late at night when Sandy rings the <a href="https://onlyanocean.net/welcome-poochie-people/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><span face="arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;"><i>PoochieBells </i></span></span><span face="arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">®</span></i></span></span></a> to go out. If he goes bonkers on a scent at 3 in the morning, then the neighbors couldn't be more upset if I were out there waking them up with a bugle instead of a beagle.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Keep in mind, if you want to have a dog as part of your household, then you need to be committed. The barking and the shivering notwithstanding, it can be very entertaining to be a dog owner. </p><p>I hesitate to relate the following story for fear that readers should think my wife and I are unfit owners, but here it is:</p><p>My wife bought a jar of coconut oil at a local flea market. Coconut oil is allegedly useful for everything from skin care, to cooking, to overall health, to... I don't know, probably home renovations. </p><p>Anyway, my wife had left the jar unopened on the nightstand in the bedroom. I don't know how long it had been there like that, but I happened upon it and noticed that the jar was empty - completely empty, as if it had been licked clean. </p><p>Immediately after letting my wife know about this, there was Sandy dancing the beagle boogie at the door in an effort to let us know that he <i>really </i>needed to go. He dashed out into the yard and got no further than two feet into the grassy area and -WHOOOSH!- a movement that would have made the makers of <a href="https://canshovel.blogspot.com/2013/05/the-purg-odan-weight-loss-plan.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><i>Purg-Odan</i></span></a> envious. I guess you can add "dog laxative" to the other uses for coconut oil.</p><p>Sandy must have gotten to the jar from the bed, otherwise I'm not sure how he got at it since the night table is a good thirty-two inches high. </p><p>Believe it or not, while researching for this blog post, I was reading a website's list of the benefits of coconut oil, and for hydrating dry hands it states, "Coconut oil can work wonders on dry, itchy skin. 'I keep a jar of organic extra virgin coconut oil by the kitchen sink and put a little on after washing my hands to keep them soft and moist,' says Dr. Low Dog." </p><p><i>Dr. Low Dog? While I'm writing about our short-assed beagle somehow getting at a jar of coconut oil on the nightstand?</i> You just can't make this stuff up.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhntpbTPLTRR3VN2c85JdfQlAKQ1Qzf06TmukgX0UlVA_iBTRunLiYS6WGHCwpT28X8UUollwf_ZMqWfHOc3LAYTffRFu7wE6sMPLBz4_p07TBVYHtbBFRuxucaqfZbKP_xfL6WzoY85Q8Z-K5xbWX7tZ0D2PVHknmNKLPJqlpZklMrSfsIHM6Phpgj/s1081/P2250003.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="818" data-original-width="1081" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhntpbTPLTRR3VN2c85JdfQlAKQ1Qzf06TmukgX0UlVA_iBTRunLiYS6WGHCwpT28X8UUollwf_ZMqWfHOc3LAYTffRFu7wE6sMPLBz4_p07TBVYHtbBFRuxucaqfZbKP_xfL6WzoY85Q8Z-K5xbWX7tZ0D2PVHknmNKLPJqlpZklMrSfsIHM6Phpgj/w390-h295/P2250003.jpg" width="390" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Sandy likes to stay warm in bed while the humans are out shoveling snow</i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ZvW3OR07c2CyI-ngRzo7Qs97HIuVTDTuQS6Lw92yhdVa1_mHUVAoRoFPw2qesM0Rrmwa8axEidOCS9J_5W2CtIsyasdN1ARAcs7FuoBosN2XYLszIID7dtBnUP1WVsUhvtfdYnQMHpODnpP8Fjb6VwqVTMTjFcBaoSE-jr7KBpuTNsdNSOYcCozg/s960/11800198_10205128905282119_3188354793834144610_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8ZvW3OR07c2CyI-ngRzo7Qs97HIuVTDTuQS6Lw92yhdVa1_mHUVAoRoFPw2qesM0Rrmwa8axEidOCS9J_5W2CtIsyasdN1ARAcs7FuoBosN2XYLszIID7dtBnUP1WVsUhvtfdYnQMHpODnpP8Fjb6VwqVTMTjFcBaoSE-jr7KBpuTNsdNSOYcCozg/w394-h262/11800198_10205128905282119_3188354793834144610_n.jpg" width="394" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><i>Betcha can't eat just one</i></b></div><div style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;">However, anyone who has been in our house can attest to the fact that we love our beagle:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd6XiGvq7ArEa_jz-4tsAt33DO28JYpF6nrJU7-PCBLYs_vhB-zuDEKM4NKeV7ZqeFQVGs1m_A-PpXUIxJEFEO2HPYdt-vgh361B2V1c27R9lxemdB2nNKHr63DjypkbGJRaYVXJvSED0Ex1S_eJwl04BhiulOCGFKOUxBjBl0U9lBHOYVimUSkfAE/s4321/beagle%20art.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1891" data-original-width="4321" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd6XiGvq7ArEa_jz-4tsAt33DO28JYpF6nrJU7-PCBLYs_vhB-zuDEKM4NKeV7ZqeFQVGs1m_A-PpXUIxJEFEO2HPYdt-vgh361B2V1c27R9lxemdB2nNKHr63DjypkbGJRaYVXJvSED0Ex1S_eJwl04BhiulOCGFKOUxBjBl0U9lBHOYVimUSkfAE/w423-h185/beagle%20art.jpg" width="423" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>I think it's pretty obvious.<br /><p>Finally, just as I was about to publish this post, I saw that my wife had written "Sears" on the calendar for this coming Sunday. </p><p>Not being much of a shopper, I didn't realize until now that Sears hasn't been around in Canada since 2018. So I said, "Honey, Sears isn't open on Sunday." <br />She replied, "I was afraid you were going to read it that way. I'm giving Sandy his ear drops on Sunday."</p>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-85060917080612147352023-05-12T09:27:00.002-04:002023-05-12T15:31:09.769-04:00Mnemonic Mnonsense<p>Remember this when attempting to spell <strike>rinhoserous</strike>, <strike>rhinoserus</strike>, <strike>rinocerous</strike>, that R animal with the big horn on his shnoz (sung to the tune of the children's <i>ABCDEFG</i> song):</p><p><i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;"></span></i></p><p><i>♫ R then I or H is Next,<br />O this word Sure has me vexed. ♪</i></p><p>Well, at least it gives you five or six of the letters, I think.</p><p>What we have above is an example (albeit a lousy one) of a mnemonic; a device used to help memorize something. The word <i>mnemonic</i> comes from <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mnemosyne" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Mnemosyne</span></a>, the Greek goddess of memory, which is ironic since no one will be able to remember that little tidbit of info.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiefjDOFh3XK7EweOHZvBBAugteNS-5hRjo5p8e36zncshHsPfxjTldmX1fsP6Klx7rAUxp4_zovKN0dNADEfgCqXFkGmwmoddgc2swRwOAUy6YFopCN6i7qKpVeQfRjBSHGizYvwLmcIwN3Mp1JTW22FG0kk3fbQKYecF8QTxFh2JNqBX3CLEMO-C_/s1024/Mosa%C3%AFque_murale_Mn%C3%A9mosyne.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1003" data-original-width="1024" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiefjDOFh3XK7EweOHZvBBAugteNS-5hRjo5p8e36zncshHsPfxjTldmX1fsP6Klx7rAUxp4_zovKN0dNADEfgCqXFkGmwmoddgc2swRwOAUy6YFopCN6i7qKpVeQfRjBSHGizYvwLmcIwN3Mp1JTW22FG0kk3fbQKYecF8QTxFh2JNqBX3CLEMO-C_/w363-h355/Mosa%C3%AFque_murale_Mn%C3%A9mosyne.jpg" width="363" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Mnemosyne, The Forgettable Goddess Of Memory</i></b></div><p>A famous mnemonic for remembering the number of days each month is,</p><p><i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">Thirty days has September,<br /></span></i><i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">April, June, and November,<br /></span></i><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">All the rest have thirty-one,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #202122;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">Save February at twenty-eight,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #202122;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">But leap year, coming once in four,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #202122;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">February then has one day more.</span></i></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #202122; font-family: inherit;">But does this really work? September, November, and December all rhyme. You could get them mixed up and have your whole schedule in </span><span style="color: #202122;">disarray</span><span style="color: #202122; font-family: inherit;">. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #202122;"><span style="background-color: white;">With that in mind, here is an improvement on that tired old mnemonic:</span></span></p><p><i>Thirty days has the S month,<br />April June and the N month.<br />The effin' F month has twenty-eight,<br />Except for leap years; add one date.</i></p><p><i>Remember as well that centenary years not divisible by four-hundred are not leap years. For example, the year 1900 is not divisible by four-hundred. therefore it is not a leap year and would have twenty-eight days that February and not twenty-nine as you might expect since it was four years after the previous leap year and you always thought leap years were every four years no matter what and also because, if you'll remember, the year 2000 (which is divisible by four-hundred) did have that extra day in February and so it strengthened the common belief that leap year is every four years. Then again, anyone born in 1900 wouldn't be around today and the next non-divisible-by-four-hundred centenary year would be 2100, and at the rate this planet is going, no one will be around to give a flying leap about what is or what is not a leap year. </i></p><p>The mnemonic kind of loses its catchiness and memorability at the end there, but it is important that you learn it if you and the planet are still around in 2100. Keep in mind that there are people who can recite <a href="https://genius.com/William-shakespeare-queen-mab-speech-annotated" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Mercutio's Queen Mab speech</span></a>. </p><p>In grade 12 chemistry class, we were required to know the first twenty elements on the <a href="https://pubchem.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/periodic-table/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">periodic table</span></a>. Wikipedia has a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_mnemonics" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">list of mnemonics</span></a> which includes this one for remembering those twenty:</p><p><i>Harry, he likes beer by cupfuls, not over frothy, never nasty mugs allowed. Since past six closing, are kegs cancelled?</i></p><p>Seriously? Wouldn't it be just as easy to remember the elements themselves? Well, I've got that moronic mnemonic beat. To this day, I can name all twenty in order. Here is what I came up with back in high school. Just remember:</p><p>LiBeBCNOFNe and NaMgAlSiPSClAr</p><p>I can hear the readers at home now, "What kind of mnemonic is that? You just listed the symbols of the elements in order. How does that help? Besides, you have only sixteen of them there!"</p><p>Yes, I knew you would say that. All you need to do is remember <b>H</b>ydrogen and <b>He</b>lium as the first two elements. That should be easy enough - the two lightest elements and both beginning with an <i>H</i>.</p><p>Now, phonetically sound out the first of those two words as, "libby-bic-nof-nee". The second one is pronounced, "nam-gal-sip-sclar". </p><p>With elements 19 and 20, well, you'll just have to remember them. Maybe the first three letters of <i><a href="https://www.heykcsb.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>KC</b> <b>a</b>nd the Sunshine Band</span></a></i>?</p><p>From this day forward, your friends and acquaintances will think of you as some sort of chemistry professor.<br /><br />Similarly, I remember the colors of the spectrum (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet) with the word <i>ROYGBIV</i> (pronounced roygbiv).</p><p>Apparently, there is an alternate strategy using the strange phrase, <i>Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain</i>. You're supposed to somehow remember that odd expression. You might try to recall it and think, <i>Henry Of Lancaster Did Scuffle For Naught</i>, and come up with a spectrum of hazel, orange, lavender, dandelion, salmon, fuchsia, and navy. You'd be right on "orange", but strike out with the rest, giving you a score of one out of seven. Better to go with <i>ROYGBIV</i> instead. It's never failed me.</p><p>Some mnemonics are just downright dumb. </p><p>Here are three of the most bizarre and unmemorable ones for naming the planets in our solar system (Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus Neptune, Pluto):</p><p><i>Most Vegetables Eat More Juice So Usually Never Pee <br />Many Vicious Elephants Met Just Slightly Under New Pineapples<br />Mark's Very Extravagant Mother Just Sent Us Ninety Parakeets</i></p><p>Those absolutely stink! What do they even mean? Vegetables eat juice and pee? And if they eat (as opposed to drink) more juice, wouldn't they be <i>more</i> likely to pee? Vicious elephants meet "just slightly" under new pineapples? Do docile elephants meet very substantially under old pineapples? Who is Mark and why is his mom sending us a flock of birds? And if she's so extravagant, why didn't she choose the much more expensive parrot? How is anyone supposed to remember those? They're so arbitrary and nonsensical that one would need a mnemonic to remember them. </p><p>A better idea is to remember the Sun, then <i>My Very Easy Method, Jack</i>, then <i>SUN</i> again. Forget Pluto. It's been downgraded to a minor planet and doesn't count anymore.</p><p>For all my American readers out there, I thought I would come up with a mnemonic to remember all of the Canadian provinces in case one of those annoying Canadian geography questions come up in <i>Jeopardy</i>, or if you somehow find yourself at a Canadian embassy soiree in Washington D.C. From west to east the provinces are British Columbia, Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Ontario, Quebec, New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland and Labrador (Newfoundland and Labrador may be more than a mouthful, but it is just one province). Then we have the territories, Yukon, Northwest Territories, and Nunavut. As you can see, three of the ten provinces begin with <i>N</i> as do two of the three territories, which we shall address.</p><p>Using a goofy mnemonic like the planet ones previously discussed, I could give you:</p><p><i>Bring Along Spider Monkeys Or Question Not Perfectly Normal Nougats, You Ninja Nurses.</i></p><p>I dare say we'd be better off with my word creation method and have:</p><p><i>BASMO QuNePNoNe</i><br />Pronounced bas-mo que-nep-no-nee. Sounds like a name. Basmo Quenepnone - the Greek god of Canadian Geography.</p><p>As far as the territories go, just think of YNN pronounced "youninny", as in "why can't you remember those names, you ninny!" <br />Or as in the following conversation;<br />"What's that province mnemonic again?" <br />"Basmo QuNePNoNe, you ninny!"<br />"Thank you. Very good of you to include the territories as well."</p><p>And to help with the <i>N</i> dilemma, just memorize this "poem":<br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Rememb'ring those N names is easy my son;</i></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Just say, "New B, Nova, New L, North, and Nun."</i></div></i><br />Rolls right off the tongue.<div><br /></div><div>Finally, here is a mnemonic (also sung to the tune of the children's <i>ABCDEFG</i> song) to help remember how to spell <i>mnemonic</i> and other tough words:<p><i>♪ Silent m before the n,<br />e-m-o-n-i-c then.</i> <br /><i>P then n to spell pneumatic;<br />Sometimes words are problematic.<br />Then again it ain't no fuss<br />To spell the word "<strike>rino</strike> <strike>rinho rhinos</strike>...</i>" <i>♫ </i></p><p>I'll never remember how to spell that big dumb animal.</p></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-23165088115943155252023-05-04T07:00:00.010-04:002023-05-16T08:16:14.594-04:00Shrunken Sweaters And Gorilla Backpacks: More SSIC Q and A<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Hooray! Hooray! The first of May! </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Outdoor "activities" start today.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>It’s certainly not my intent</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>To wrongly convey what I meant.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For if one thinks that I’d imply</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Improper acts, they must be high. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The euphemism “activities” </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Refers to passive pursuits like these: </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Contemplating nature and</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Lying in the sun and sand.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Hooray! Hooray! It’s May the first.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Of all my poems, this one’s the worst.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Ugh. Enough of that. Let's move on.</div><p>Once again, we at <i>Snow Shoveling In Canada</i> are here to answer some of the most pressing questions of our time. Think of us as the <a href="https://canshovel.blogspot.com/2023/04/i-wonder-how-many-seven-wonders-there.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Lighthouse of Alexandria</span></a> with its nearby library; a beacon of knowledge shining out of the misty fog of general dumbness.<br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Hooray! Hooray! The first of May! <br />Let's begin our Q and A. <br /><br /></i></div>Enough already! Besides, it's May 4th. Sheesh!<br /><p><b>Q</b>: <i>In what sport is double dribble a violation?<br /></i><b>A</b>: Recently in USA Today's <a href="https://games.usatoday.com/games/daily-true-trivia" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Daily True Trivia</span></a> game, players were asked if the statement "Double dribble is a violation in baseball" was true or false. Many of you out there might think that double dribble is an illegal move in basketball, and would choose false. However, the brainy quizmasters at USA Today beg to differ. They claim the statement is true. </p><p>Although the research team here at <i>Snow Shoveling In Canada</i> could not verify their assertion, we do know that a lot of tobacco is chewed during a baseball game. Many a time have we seen baccy juice dribble down a ball player's chin. If that happens twice in an inning, it could be considered a double dribble. But, other than the fact that it's rather disgusting, we're not sure why it is considered a violation.</p><p><b>Q</b>: <i>Are there any backpacks that sorta look like a gorilla?<br /></i><b>A</b>: Believe it or not -</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6CdMjUNb3GDppWM_lzQ4mV0jlcPeHJ4VL16-aueMTooXec_TBwhutMVh6fHywU7kcQxuJ1JA8RMGRpveMpfnYmkR5890EppEpyroVbIc2v0eIrhtVGJjV-VZjDvbc1wTIzJK4jMdsF2BGVb-v9F7OgvCBHhPWK5OWtpzy1WcDyPpq8hYJ6S8i4gSo/s1066/Dakine-Poacher-Snow-Safety.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="600" height="411" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6CdMjUNb3GDppWM_lzQ4mV0jlcPeHJ4VL16-aueMTooXec_TBwhutMVh6fHywU7kcQxuJ1JA8RMGRpveMpfnYmkR5890EppEpyroVbIc2v0eIrhtVGJjV-VZjDvbc1wTIzJK4jMdsF2BGVb-v9F7OgvCBHhPWK5OWtpzy1WcDyPpq8hYJ6S8i4gSo/w231-h411/Dakine-Poacher-Snow-Safety.jpg" width="231" /></a></div><div><br />A review of it can be found here, <a href="https://mtnweekly.com/reviews/dakine-poacher-removable-airbag-system-36l-backpack-review/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Dakine Poacher 36L Backpack</span></a>, but it says nothing about gorillas.</div><div><div><span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.5px;"><br /><b>Q</b>: <span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span><i>Are there any gorillas that sorta look like a backpack?</i></span></span></div><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0.5px;"><b>A</b>: Not really, but we found one that somewhat resembles the Dakine Poacher 36L:</span></div><div><span style="letter-spacing: 0.5px;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7eIRwan7lhu5rIg36WhpzRfcBsxVcVJeZwlOuWAZCem8RDEwHa0YvJbfcYtNg1rZ-XLKl-UBOT9ndl0iJrd43UdZDCMSzCat7bLu2Y84VPHOZegs8sSQHUZrWmoLJvkdpFMgEgp_Vux0F_e_divWEYrDoO2N_iBEEE3IxafoqgKSTE8mBNxgmWkmn/s386/fun-cartoon-gorilla-3d-model-animated-rigged-max.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="295" data-original-width="386" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7eIRwan7lhu5rIg36WhpzRfcBsxVcVJeZwlOuWAZCem8RDEwHa0YvJbfcYtNg1rZ-XLKl-UBOT9ndl0iJrd43UdZDCMSzCat7bLu2Y84VPHOZegs8sSQHUZrWmoLJvkdpFMgEgp_Vux0F_e_divWEYrDoO2N_iBEEE3IxafoqgKSTE8mBNxgmWkmn/w351-h269/fun-cartoon-gorilla-3d-model-animated-rigged-max.jpg" width="351" /></a></div><br /><div><b>Q</b>: <i>I accidentally put my wife's wool sweater in the dryer and it shrunk. What can I do?</i></div><div><b>A</b>: You could sell it on <a href="https://poshmark.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Poshmark</span></a>. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6XRCTun83JByB-n9IYMo5drZGM_rv49wDEFmQ_M1MlQoSoIO9rOyTiL3li9j8jQ9N7zAyhfJNH5LhewjhMlfUF0MAKIYdJ3DvvV5CqUqiDw4CT6H4cxyflk_opw00ZfCBCWYzzaHrLtnRW0pcE8gR2h2r4msVsJLJ9X_1SuGpUPojslJ1KsONDZ-B/s1086/Screenshot%20(202)b.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="734" data-original-width="1086" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6XRCTun83JByB-n9IYMo5drZGM_rv49wDEFmQ_M1MlQoSoIO9rOyTiL3li9j8jQ9N7zAyhfJNH5LhewjhMlfUF0MAKIYdJ3DvvV5CqUqiDw4CT6H4cxyflk_opw00ZfCBCWYzzaHrLtnRW0pcE8gR2h2r4msVsJLJ9X_1SuGpUPojslJ1KsONDZ-B/w456-h308/Screenshot%20(202)b.jpg" width="456" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The woman in the above photo from the TV ad gushes about all the fabulous fashion she finds at Poshmark. So you should have no problem peddling your teeny tiny top to Poshmark shoppers.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Q</b>: <i>Yes, that's good advice, but before I resort to that, I want to try and stretch it back into shape before my wife sees it. What should I do?</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>A</b>: Speaking from experience, I once also put my wife's wool sweater through the washer and dryer. I couldn't believe what came out was the same article of clothing I put in. I tried to stretch it out, but when I pulled on the sleeve, I ripped it right off. It looks as though the sweater on the woman in the above photo has also had its sleeve pulled on, as you can see where it's coming apart at her shoulder.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As long as you didn't shrink it too much, you could try doing what I did after I shrank another one of my wife's sweaters (you'd think I'd learned my lesson). With tremendous effort, I somehow squeezed my way into the sweater and did a few bodybuilder poses to stretch it out. It was still smaller than pre-laundered, but compared to the Poshmark girl's sweater, it was a veritable baggy oversized loose knit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Q</b>: <i>I hate doing laundry. How can I get my wife to handle all of the laundry duties?</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>A</b>: Just do what I did and shrink two of her favorite sweaters.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here are some actual questions from the "unanswered" section of <a href="http://Answers.com" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Answers.com</span></a>. We shall strive to shed light on these queries with our knowledgeable insightful enlightening perspicacity (thank you <a href="http://Thesaurus.com" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Thesaurus.com</span></a>):</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><b>Q</b>: <i>Crockpot recipe for pork chops, rice and mushrooms?</i></div><div><b>A</b>: Ingredients: pork chops, rice and mushrooms.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Directions: Cook in crockpot. Enjoy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div><b>Q</b>: <i>9logX-2logy=log X9/Y2?</i></div><div><b>A</b>: If you say so.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><b>Q</b>: <i>What would happen if a person fell on Jupiter?</i></div></div><div><b>A: </b>The planet or the god? In either case, the result would be disastrous. If you're talking planet, then stay sober and wear a helmet, elbow pads, and knee pads on your next visit to that giant orb. If you're talking god, then God help you.</div><div><br /></div><div><u>Answers.com</u> also has this question from one Hinda Faarax:<br />"4777712.hinda.faarax?" To which someone answered, "huh?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Now that's a pretty good answer to that particular question. However, we found that Hinda had answered someone else's question of "How do you write 170 million in number?" with the response, "4777712.hinda.faarax"</div><div><br /></div><div>So with that information in mind, we can revisit Hinda's original question and provide the correct response:<br /><br /><b>Q</b>: <i>4777712.hinda.faarax?<br /></i><b>A</b>: 170 million written in number.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p>Finally, here are a couple more questions and answers from a previous post that deserve another look:<br /><br /><b>Q: </b> <i>How do you spell rinocerus rhinoseros rhinosoros rihnocerous oh, the hell with it.<br /></i><b>A: </b> We believe the word you’re looking for is <i>rhinosaurus</i>; a great lizard of the sebaceous period. This fearsome giant is the ancestor to our modern day horned hippoplatypus.</p><p><b>Q: </b><i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iGSu3Cje5Q8" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Who stole the kishka</span></a>?</i><br /><b>A: </b>Since a Wikipedia article describes kishka in part as “a blood sausage made with pig's blood and buckwheat or barley, with pig's intestines used as a casing…” then we have no idea who in their right mind would think this an item worth pilfering. We suggest you consult your local constabulary. They may want to check some emergency rooms for any recent admits with gastrointestinal distress.</p><p>Any questions?</p></div></div></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-91821425270903911922023-04-27T12:15:00.010-04:002023-04-28T16:40:20.021-04:00Literary Recommendations From A Boorish Lout<div>In my previous post, I admitted that my dreams of writing the next great novel have <span style="text-align: center;">vanished like a mist at break of day </span><span style="text-align: center;">which </span><span style="text-align: center;">fights with the sun then fades away.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>It really should not come as a big surprise to me or anyone that I am no novelist. After all, I don't even particularly like to <i>read </i>novels. I'm more likely to pore over an encyclopedia, or a specialized dictionary, or a strange collection of facts, or some goofy blog like this one.</div><p>There are only a handful of novels that I've really enjoyed over the years. As such, I tend to just re-read those. I must have read my favorite novel, <i>One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest</i> a dozen times. </p><p>However, when it comes to some of the classics, I wish I had Googled years ago, <a href="https://dbrl.bibliocommons.com/list/share/1267394437/1302865007" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">"most difficult novels to read"</span></a>. I could have spared myself countless hours of struggling to get through something that I would eventually just give up on. <br /><br />The books I've started but never finished include:</p><p><i><u>War and Peace</u> </i>by Leo Tolstoy<br />At 1,225 pages, Tolstoy's classic novel makes a dandy heavy-duty doorstop. Even a bank vault door is no match for this mighty tome. However, if your thing is reading an English translation in which everything was apparently lost, then give this a try. I can personally tell you that "Whatsisnameov" "Whositsky" and "Somethingorotherova" all play a major part in the plot. </p><p>This book is well-known for its soporific qualities. It can send a reader to Snoresville in less than ten minutes. I understand that plans are underway to have it sold as a sleep aid at your local pharmacy, under the brand name <i>Snore In Peace</i>. It will take its place alongside the various holistic remedies for those who do not wish to take an antihistamine.</p><p><i><u>Doctor Zhivago</u> - </i>Boris Pasternak<br />You may also find this book at the drug store as a<i> Snore In Peace</i> competitor, under the brand name <i>Doctor Zzzzzhivago</i>. I slogged through the first third of this classic on three separate occasions. I'm going to count that as having read the whole thing since it adds up to the same amount of pages, and had I read it in its entirety, I would have remembered none of it anyway. If you're a fan of the film version, you'll wonder how they made such a great movie from this book. I suspect that screenwriter Robert Bolt couldn't remember any of the book either, and made up a completely different story for the film. His screenplay, by the way, is a very good read.</p><p><i><u>Great Expectations</u> - </i>Charles Dickens<br />If you read this one, you may wonder what in the dickens the author is trying to say. Naturally, I had great expectations for this novel. At least it was written in somewhat understandable English. I wonder how a Russian would feel about a translated version. It could very well be available as a sleep aid at Russian pharmacies. I wouldn't necessarily recommend it for that, but pronouncing the names of some of the characters (Pirrip, Gargery, Pumblechook, Havisham, Wemmick, Orlick, Skiffins), with volume and force, could help loosen your chest congestion. So you may someday find this book in the cold and sinus section of your neighborhood drug store under the brand name <i>Great Expectorations</i>.</p><p><i><u>Canterbury Tales</u></i> - Geoffrey Chaucer<br />The copy I have (still have it for some reason) is in modern English. Even so, it takes a while to get through even half of it. Think of it as the <i>Can't-Be-Hurried Tales.</i> In its original Middle English, it might just as well be the <i>Cantonese Tales</i>.<br /><br /><i><u>Moby Dick</u> -</i> Herman Melville<br />Early on, I found this novel to be somewhat entertaining and even funny. But the real mirth begins about a quarter of the way into the volume with the descriptions of whale anatomy and the many uses of whale products, and so on, and on, and on. I had seen the film long before reading the book. I wonder how the movie would have been received had it shown Richard Basehart as Ishmael, turning to the camera halfway through it and saying, "Now, for your viewing pleasure, we shall discuss whale anatomy for the next two and a half hours."</p><p><i><u>Don Quixote</u></i> - Miguel de Cervantes<br />To tilt at windmills may be an exercise in futility, but it is nothing compared to the efforts of the average reader who tries to labor through this voluminous tale. To spare yourself the time it takes to read this one (1,077 pages), I will provide as an alternative, a photo of Picasso's sketch of Quixote and Sancho Panza, along with a link to the original Broadway recording of <i>The Impossible Dream</i> from <i>Man of La Mancha</i>. Just stare at the picture while listening to the song. You're welcome.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBknbUuYm0ui3Lo8fnnlwyLTLm2dKa-6XpOhkE3vyuGZ91v4cNkBD3Kw_S_qvzFrVsnqeBD46OX6xscsBWoSPxzN5J1iWyWyVXlNKm1RVSscFBQu4p9EtDUvYYw0igKpR28huE0XHKv_I-8izUR3omNKyug53xcN9TAe1l3GHWXpeB-hOfc_RBXAf_/s601/don-quixote.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="507" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBknbUuYm0ui3Lo8fnnlwyLTLm2dKa-6XpOhkE3vyuGZ91v4cNkBD3Kw_S_qvzFrVsnqeBD46OX6xscsBWoSPxzN5J1iWyWyVXlNKm1RVSscFBQu4p9EtDUvYYw0igKpR28huE0XHKv_I-8izUR3omNKyug53xcN9TAe1l3GHWXpeB-hOfc_RBXAf_/w302-h358/don-quixote.jpg" width="302" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Don Quixote by Pablo Picasso</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">and</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxpMe_bF1Sc" target="_blank">The Impossible Dream performed by Richard Kiley</a></div><p>I have somehow finished two works by Fyodor Dostoevsky; <i><u>The Brothers Karamazov</u></i> and <i><u>Crime and Punishment</u></i>.</p><p>All in all, I didn't find these books to be all that bad. I just used what is an apparently well-know strategy. In both cases, I used the <i>War and Peace</i> approach. I didn't bother remembering the Russian names and just glided over them without regard to who they necessarily were or how their names were pronounced. As a result, I'm not sure who did what, but I'm pretty certain there were brothers named Karamazov in the first novel, but the name of the criminal <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rodion_Raskolnikov" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">rascal</span></a><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span>in the other escapes me.</p><p>Lest you get the idea that I am some sort of uncultured boorish lout, I should point out that I really do read a lot and that I enjoy great writing; like in the aforementioned <i>Cuckoo's Nest</i>. Often I will read a sentence or passage and think, "Geez, I wish I had written that." The <a href="https://books.google.ca/books?id=kgQhEAAAQBAJ&pg=PA7&lpg=PA7&dq=%22hidden+among+them+is+a+filigree+that+will+with+time+become+a+world.%22&source=bl&ots=9-GCHi5Z8T&sig=ACfU3U2vjQxve9qujkxWalc5bJr1vMXmyQ&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjkoaDwucX-AhXIkWoFHa7LDBw4ChDoAXoECBcQAw#v=onepage&q=%22hidden%20among%20them%20is%20a%20filigree%20that%20will%20with%20time%20become%20a%20world.%22&f=false" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">opening lines</span></a> to Clive Barker's <i>Weaveworld,</i> or, (believe it or not) the <a href="https://www.kobo.com/ie/en/ebook/hopalong-cassidy-2" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">first few paragraphs</span></a> from <i>Hopalong Cassidy</i> by Clarence E. Mulford, are a couple of examples.<br /><br />On the other hand, we have this from <i><u>To The Lighthouse</u></i> by Virginia Woolf:</p><p><i>She had known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!</i></p><p>Well Virginia, may I respond, "It is too much! It is too much!" Sheeesh! Talk about overkill! I can imagine her describing a bag of garbage; <i>It was a mélange of bittersweet orange rinds and earthy potato peels, attempting to blend harmoniously with once-desired red meat and yellowish-white egg shells. The aroma gently wafted in undulations toward unwilling yet receptive nostrils, like shimmering heat waves from ebony asphalt on an airless midsummer's afternoon.</i></p><p>Similarly, we have this winner of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest for bad writing in 2021:<br /><br /><i>A lecherous sunrise flaunted itself over a flatulent sea, ripping the obsidian bodice of night asunder with its rapacious fingers of gold, thus exposing her dusky bosom to the dawn’s ogling stare.<br /><br /></i>I honestly prefer that to the cited howlings from Virginia Woolf.</p><p>Here is another good one from the Bulwer-Lytton contest:</p><p><i>The horizon coughed up the morning sun much as if Atlas had lowered the world from his mighty shoulders and given it the Heimlich maneuver.</i></p><p>The contest is named after Edward Bulwer-Lytton, an English writer and politician who famously (or infamously) wrote the opening line “It was a dark and stormy night.” for his 1830 novel<i> Paul Clifford</i> .</p><p>Bulwer-Lytton is also noted for coining the phrase "<a href="http://canshovel.blogspot.com/2011/12/from-bach-to-bieber-more-from-ssic.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">the pen is mightier than the sword</span></a>."</p><p>Poor Mr. Bulwer-Lytton. He probably wasn't such a bad writer, but his name is now associated with a bad writing contest. I'm almost certain his writing was better than the majority of today's authors.</p><p>Finally I will leave you with this; the winner of the <span class="authorOrTitle" face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">1986 Bulwer-Lytton Contest:</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit;"><i>The bone-chilling scream split the warm summer night in two, the first </i></span><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit;">half being before the scream when it was fairly balmy and calm and </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit;">pleasant, the second half still balmy and quite pleasant for those who </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit;">hadn't heard the scream at all, but not calm or balmy or even very nice </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit;">for those who did hear the scream, discounting the little period of time </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit;">during the actual scream itself when your ears might have been hearing it </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit;">but your brain wasn't reacting yet to let you know.</span></i></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: inherit;">That's what I call good bad writing; suitable for a boorish lout like me.</span></p>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-52692217365576345542023-04-14T14:53:00.007-04:002023-08-19T11:01:17.956-04:00I Wonder How Many Seven Wonders There Are<div>A fellow blogger once asked me, "Why don't you have a book out yet?" I responded, "Actually, I do have a book out. The library has been hounding me for years to return it."</div><div><br /></div><div>I have had dreams of writing the next great classic novel — something so great in scope and ambition as to have the critics absolutely screaming for me to win the Nobel Prize in literature. </div><div><br /></div><div>The novel I had in mind was of a man on a journey to see all of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven_Wonders_of_the_Ancient_World" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><i>Seven Wonders of the World</i></span></a>. At each site, he would describe what he has seen and make different philosophical musings about how he was feeling, corresponding to a particular wonder; nature at the Temple of Artemis, mystery at the Pyramid, death at the Mausoleum, and so on.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>However, anyone who has lived as long as I have should finally come to terms with their limitations and abilities. No creator of great literature am I, but I are a pretty good blogger! And so with that in mind, I've decided to scale back my scope and ambition considerably; no prologue, no epilogue, and very little dialogue. Just blog, blog, blog.</div><div><br /></div><div>So here for you pleasurable perusal, rather than a book, is a blog post. Consider this as my pocket-sized rendering of the next great novel.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>You know, it always bugs me when someone lists the <i><span>Seven Wonder</span></i><span><i>s of the World </i></span>and feels the need to qualify them as the "Seven Wonders of the <i>Ancient</i> World". I understand however why they do so. It's because of the overabundance of those lousy lists. But it is those other lists that require qualifiers, not the original. </div><div><br /></div><div>There are so many so-called wonders, that it's no wonder someone has named something as mundane as a loaf of bread a "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wonder_Bread" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">wonder</span></a>". </div><div><br /></div><div><div>There are likely seven thousand so-called "seven wonders". Wikipedia lists a staggering number of them. They include:</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>USA Today's New Seven Wonders</i>.</div><div>One of theirs is the Internet. It truly is a wonder that something which provides perhaps more disinformation than useful info, would be considered a wonder by anyone. It could just as easily be worthy of consideration in a seven "blunders" list.</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Seven Wonders of the Underwater World</i>.</div><div>I wonder if there is a <i>Seven Wonders of the Underworld</i>. I wonder if "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cement_shoes" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">cement shoes</span></a>" should be on both of those lists.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Seven Wonders of the Industrial World</i> <br />Their list includes the London sewerage system. I wonder if some people think that this inclusion stinks.<i><br /></i>Also included is the ship the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SS_Great_Eastern" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">SS Great Eastern</span></a>. I wonder why they didn't go with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boaty_McBoatface#Naming" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Boaty McBoatface</span></a> instead. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Seven Wonders' Wonders of Romania. </i> <br />This one has thirteen entries. I wonder if they count differently in Romania. I wonder why Count Dracula isn't in there somewhere. I wonder what is meant by "Wonders' Wonders". </div><div><br /></div><div><i>CBC's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven_Wonders_of_Canada" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Seven Wonders of Canada</span></a>.</i><br />This list includes the canoe, the igloo, and the prairie sky. I wonder if the CBC is aware that other countries also have canoes, igloos, and skies.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Top seven as voted by Canada</i> (as opposed to Canadians?) <br />The Northern Lights is on this list. Again, I wonder if Canada thinks it has a monopoly on the Aurora Borealis.</div><div><br /></div><div>Canada's short list (I wonder why they call it that. It's actually pretty long) includes the Stanley Cup. I wonder if the listing of this "wonder" is temporarily shelved when an American team is the NHL champion. And if so, since no Canadian team has won the cup since 1993, I wonder if it will ever become a "wonder" again. Also on this list is the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vegreville_egg" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Vegreville egg</span></a>, which is apparently the second largest pysanka in the world. I wonder what the heck a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egg_decorating_in_Slavic_culture" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">pysanka</span></a> is. I wonder why this list didn't include the Wawa Goose or Sudbury's Big Nickel.</div></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBAU1KOK2t88IG_Fkd55zA-Hl5cLxI57Ng4i35minM0Kls-JJ63I9ed0cZGqAfUc0CS0Y0ClT6DWQgxDZcfDmK8zx3ptpgmpQ13RT1X0X73G1otG_4Ywrm-TcNpZF2Bma4N_z_MRgzMLptSHSgb9kviuuSnk88RWymPhkPEdIEF9KorFDL7YWHqRZ/s1259/no.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="461" data-original-width="1259" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBAU1KOK2t88IG_Fkd55zA-Hl5cLxI57Ng4i35minM0Kls-JJ63I9ed0cZGqAfUc0CS0Y0ClT6DWQgxDZcfDmK8zx3ptpgmpQ13RT1X0X73G1otG_4Ywrm-TcNpZF2Bma4N_z_MRgzMLptSHSgb9kviuuSnk88RWymPhkPEdIEF9KorFDL7YWHqRZ/w450-h164/no.jpg" width="450" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Two of the Seven Wonders of Northern Ontario?</i></b></div></b><div><br /></div><div>AND, during a break from working on this post, I had to bring my car in for repair. While in the waiting area, there on the table next to my chair, so help me, was this:</div><div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8Ia0WKNJp8e7aywz-8mV0A1StpNIl4Jj49GhyotJg9VndMCs4_HsLw937Nb2-mlWjly6oXLiaaLv5jRw_INOaP3GeX3KXRuQ0bmX_1PW4jIH4TFP-Jyt1ScVVvOuGxXG96mrgH8cFxiPttViVtpyc1wyQvm9H6vgi5BUM5SrVxhmvmPznqGYhOBG/s630/59468277._SR1200,630_.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="424" height="447" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv8Ia0WKNJp8e7aywz-8mV0A1StpNIl4Jj49GhyotJg9VndMCs4_HsLw937Nb2-mlWjly6oXLiaaLv5jRw_INOaP3GeX3KXRuQ0bmX_1PW4jIH4TFP-Jyt1ScVVvOuGxXG96mrgH8cFxiPttViVtpyc1wyQvm9H6vgi5BUM5SrVxhmvmPznqGYhOBG/w300-h447/59468277._SR1200,630_.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></b></div><div>Since it seems as if everyone has such a list, you may be wondering if there are seven wonders in our humble little village of Minikin.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>Well, wonder no more!</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Proudly presenting, <i>THE SEVEN WONDERS OF MINIKIN!!!</i> (<b><i>Colossal </i></b>fanfare here, please).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuetj2zwgkUi67HwlQaPpxUfIwGEa84Y_gItOHFuHKl3ju--tmvmbFkGqT5uij1TDpJPReIUcsxK5PbeZ6dfRv9PDWN-YXOvTXDuOC7Kx8giYsVKss1R5zLPmpzL3LPtY1IjiDX_Wjf---AhFGmGjaqrW13eE5vjzR2ct7Ql-RmOJiuvXhWcj5LTJU/s898/800px-Colosse_de_Rhodes_(Barclay).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="898" data-original-width="694" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuetj2zwgkUi67HwlQaPpxUfIwGEa84Y_gItOHFuHKl3ju--tmvmbFkGqT5uij1TDpJPReIUcsxK5PbeZ6dfRv9PDWN-YXOvTXDuOC7Kx8giYsVKss1R5zLPmpzL3LPtY1IjiDX_Wjf---AhFGmGjaqrW13eE5vjzR2ct7Ql-RmOJiuvXhWcj5LTJU/w365-h473/800px-Colosse_de_Rhodes_(Barclay).jpg" width="365" /></a><br /><b><i>The Colossus of Rhodes</i></b><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>(perhaps not so colossal in every respect)</i></b><b><i> </i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-style: italic;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colossus_of_Rhodes" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">The Colossus of Rhodes</span></a> </b>was a statue erected in the city of Rhodes, adjacent to an apparently very cold harbor, and was easily the most visible feature of the entire city (to be clear, we're talking about the whole statue here). </span><span><span style="font-style: italic;"><u>The </u></span><u style="font-style: italic;">"Lost Us" of Roads</u> </span>on the other hand - our first Minikin wonder - is quite likely the most obscure road in the entire world. It is<span> the unmarked western extension</span><span style="text-align: center;"> of </span>East Horse Manure Road - which itself is an extremely vague route. A dusty back road at its most recognizable, <i><u>The </u></i><i style="text-decoration-line: underline;">"Lost Us" of Roads </i><span style="font-style: italic;">- </span>as it is known by locals and anyone who has had the misfortune of traveling it — whittles down to not more than a confusing footpath before emerging from a cornfield and continuing on as more or less a recognizable vehicular route. If you somehow reach its end, you're likely to be met with stupefied stares from locals who wonder how you made it that far. Incidentally, in Minikin, someone lost or discombobulated in speech or thought is said to have "gone west on East Horse Manure Road." </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6N-MFl3bvM4UNn3ZBw-BLhBpwuLG2iHiZr2KcXf-shWVftIkOkgOuC2iuODQTGnYeplwN4NSmFyYNQdVeDeBa_utjlzx5RcCTmilivzX75iVTabUh9Ihey_TJUCnC3jXcX8P__KlS8n4R9LWsbkami0MUpbXNxzrh_lZdAwlihWdDKT1oygRyFJfL/s640/A_Very_Narrow_Road_-_geograph.org.uk_-_215950.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6N-MFl3bvM4UNn3ZBw-BLhBpwuLG2iHiZr2KcXf-shWVftIkOkgOuC2iuODQTGnYeplwN4NSmFyYNQdVeDeBa_utjlzx5RcCTmilivzX75iVTabUh9Ihey_TJUCnC3jXcX8P__KlS8n4R9LWsbkami0MUpbXNxzrh_lZdAwlihWdDKT1oygRyFJfL/w354-h237/A_Very_Narrow_Road_-_geograph.org.uk_-_215950.jpg" width="354" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The "Lost Us" of Roads, at its most passable<br /><br /></i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>The original <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Temple_of_Artemis" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Temple of Artemis</span></a></i> stood for nearly 200 years. By comparison, Minikin's <span><i><u><span>Tempo of Art Amos</span></u> </i>has been running in fine form since 1984. I doubt that this fabulous <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ford_Tempo" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Ford model</span></a> will last as long as the famous Temple, but who knows? It's a wonder it's been on the road this long.</span></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwVPuGCBq1JCMRTHgiWYkvxuTSAOIu0ITXjWUlZwEUYaH6jXyVYGl041qLEt7h7CDPIIP2XpMriP8DhRt3t_mYvi-fxsNaGEywTcNlArQuDpfyldkWCZduGixoKF0MJxPC0jUfIcbYb_kjBzNetF-gLn6mCH-bTJb4O-L7UoMewGQDtYQjTISWpL0c/s881/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="881" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwVPuGCBq1JCMRTHgiWYkvxuTSAOIu0ITXjWUlZwEUYaH6jXyVYGl041qLEt7h7CDPIIP2XpMriP8DhRt3t_mYvi-fxsNaGEywTcNlArQuDpfyldkWCZduGixoKF0MJxPC0jUfIcbYb_kjBzNetF-gLn6mCH-bTJb4O-L7UoMewGQDtYQjTISWpL0c/w469-h166/images.jpg" width="469" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The Tempo of Art Amos</i></b></div><br /><br /></div><div>The oldest of the Seven Wonders, and the only one still standing is <u><i><span style="color: #2b00fe;">The </span></i></u><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Pyramid_of_Giza" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Great Pyramid of Giza</span></i></a> . It may leave sightseers awestruck, but Minikin's <i><span><u>Great Beer Amid the Geezers</u></span></i> has locals wondering how it is possible that this small group of old guys can chug down so much brew every day. It's not unusual to see a gargantuan pile of empties and a great many yet unopened libations at the feet of Cowboy, Wilson, Big Tom, and the Admiral.</div><div><i> </i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdzw9qB-v6jd_tBWhY2Y4lhsdg4AQ8NM8TQu_8zoC70zjHvQZXGxmTNwpUewG0lKm_BH0DaBnC-S1ICrUIrSNoT7lE2TEbuvundE-YPW_XYJwu07OCAFOI5L9-v28H_0R4vsXa7V041BgPq144K5XK9D-rVD7s24QRZFK41Z0XNqfUy1R9lB17YMw5/s1699/Clipboard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="1699" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdzw9qB-v6jd_tBWhY2Y4lhsdg4AQ8NM8TQu_8zoC70zjHvQZXGxmTNwpUewG0lKm_BH0DaBnC-S1ICrUIrSNoT7lE2TEbuvundE-YPW_XYJwu07OCAFOI5L9-v28H_0R4vsXa7V041BgPq144K5XK9D-rVD7s24QRZFK41Z0XNqfUy1R9lB17YMw5/w456-h238/Clipboard.jpg" width="456" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The Great Beer Amid The Geezers: before and after</i></b></div></b><i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></i></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mausoleum_at_Halicarnassus" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Mausoleum at Halicarnassus</span></a></span> built between 353 and 350 BC was an impressive elevated tomb. Almost as impressive is the <span><u style="font-style: italic;">Moss on Liam and Holly Carr's Backhouse</u><span>. An amazing amount of this dense, flowerless vegetation</span> sits atop the Carr's rickety, clapboard privy. Some have speculated that there isn't any substance to the roof other than the moss itself. </span>Have a seat, but don't get too relaxed lest the roof collapses and you're caught with your pants down. It's a wonder that hasn't happened to anyone yet.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngf4moM_66z_UmMyqV0lW6AqrH0DfqR0Ac4TkTpkDgO3Ctecy2uZySAXvi-tBw9KFge-wdKZ3f4MoPyABCDVrglIHoA7SFXAMXLqY3fdFlS3_Znexrms_e96SkXjfw2aat-5w8--FiBeByA_D4549oEKC0p-lCyYJ2pKpD2rNvm0Lj4vgp0DkUifQ/s586/outhouse-shed-building-toilet-woods-moss-moss-covered.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="529" height="383" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngf4moM_66z_UmMyqV0lW6AqrH0DfqR0Ac4TkTpkDgO3Ctecy2uZySAXvi-tBw9KFge-wdKZ3f4MoPyABCDVrglIHoA7SFXAMXLqY3fdFlS3_Znexrms_e96SkXjfw2aat-5w8--FiBeByA_D4549oEKC0p-lCyYJ2pKpD2rNvm0Lj4vgp0DkUifQ/w346-h383/outhouse-shed-building-toilet-woods-moss-moss-covered.jpg" width="346" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-weight: bold;"><i>The Moss on Liam and Holly Carr's Backhouse</i></b><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span>The<i> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanging_Gardens_of_Babylon" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Hanging Gardens of Babylon</span></a> </i>comprised a number of tiered gardens adorning a palace in ancient Babylon (present day Iraq). Having no archeological evidence or documentation, the historic authenticity of the gardens is in question. The <i><span><u>Hanging Gardens of Bob Allen</u></span></i> on the other hand are Minikin's simplified yet bona fide version. Eight separate "gardens" sprout from large plastic buckets hanging from from a log frame. It's a wonder why Bob didn't go with some decorative baskets rather than the industrial-look containers. Even so, they're an improvement over the clay pots Bob once used. During high winds, they would frequently crash against each other leaving a pile of flower petals, dirt, stems, leaves </span>and terracotta. They were known at that time as the <i>Clanging Gardens of Bob Allen</i>.</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div></div></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhIXemvpp3cIBqfedRp8kdJqAdcIOx2cYkCfgF_YUEPyBD4QCBNijwiiOVsQ2sX7u6Iy_kE8VLGFg8ac4fFl70DysK7E8q_6SU0HPVjteHBxfS5za0oaYhn8ytUWJL0IuY1O8BnOifMb-IIblR-yqZfEQuXvowCcCpQJyCVMax26QuDkYtOi_HV8L/s571/elevated-hanging-garden-of-wooden-beams-and-buckets.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="550" height="401" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhIXemvpp3cIBqfedRp8kdJqAdcIOx2cYkCfgF_YUEPyBD4QCBNijwiiOVsQ2sX7u6Iy_kE8VLGFg8ac4fFl70DysK7E8q_6SU0HPVjteHBxfS5za0oaYhn8ytUWJL0IuY1O8BnOifMb-IIblR-yqZfEQuXvowCcCpQJyCVMax26QuDkYtOi_HV8L/w386-h401/elevated-hanging-garden-of-wooden-beams-and-buckets.jpg" width="386" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The Hanging Gardens of Bob Allen</i></b></div></div><div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div>The<i> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lighthouse_of_Alexandria" target="_blank"><span>Lighthouse of Alexandria</span></a>,</i> constructed between 284 & 246 BC., was over 100 meters tall and was the tallest structure in the world at the time. The <u><span><i>Light at the House of Alex and Andrea</i></span> </u>is not nearly as tall, but here is a local wonder that likely surpasses the original in at least one regard; it almost certainly is brighter than any lighthouse ever constructed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Demonstrating the wisdom of a kumquat, the counselors for the municipality of which Minikin composes a small part, decided to replace the lamp of the hamlet's only streetlight with one of those new LED lights that make the midday July sun look like an energy-efficient nightlight. The lamp is located directly beside the house of long-time residents Alex and Andrea. Every night at bedtime, they and their neighbors toss and turn in their beds until the light shuts off at sunup. Then, and only then, are they able to get some shuteye. As Alex put it, "It's brighter than the sun on equatorial Mercury. Glancing at it for a millisecond could damage your retina."<br /><br />Just an aside; many years ago when we were just kids, a friend of mine was trying to think of the word "retina". He asked, "What part of the eye is it that can get burned from looking at the sun? The uterus?" </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0eiWZgJn18xDqyBjEKo1Cv827ZhiAZwQ4ROIL7aLHvDHMUa7Cru7gLIo1jAwCB2-91eosgOgeJwTw4W-QlvuUEt0bKmBhUlWr9pJTIYnpkaBLj8BErNIgcNrQ5qBplYaKJUVtg0xf8gxPBk1yYnMzFw0iYZ1pg-cnB6RSTCNdOPv0OYsl8yKHQqh/s1441/Screenshot%20(195)a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="870" data-original-width="1441" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0eiWZgJn18xDqyBjEKo1Cv827ZhiAZwQ4ROIL7aLHvDHMUa7Cru7gLIo1jAwCB2-91eosgOgeJwTw4W-QlvuUEt0bKmBhUlWr9pJTIYnpkaBLj8BErNIgcNrQ5qBplYaKJUVtg0xf8gxPBk1yYnMzFw0iYZ1pg-cnB6RSTCNdOPv0OYsl8yKHQqh/w465-h281/Screenshot%20(195)a.jpg" width="465" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The Light at the House of Alex and Andrea<br />Warning: Staring at this picture for any length of time could damage your uterus.</i></b></div></b><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>Created by the famous sculptor Phideas, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Statue_of_Zeus_at_Olympia" target="_blank"><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-style: italic;">Statue of Zeus</span></span></a> was a 41 foot tall statue at the sanctuary of Olympia Greece erected in the Temple of Zeus. The<i> <u>Statue of Bruce</u> </i>is a 21 inch tall statue in my backyard. I don't know who "sculpted" it, but I wonder if it just wasn't from a mold in some Chinese garden statue factory. Regardless, it's a wonder that it is included on this list. Well, maybe not so much considering its six "wondrous" companions, and the fact that seven were needed to complete the series.</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioiy80-pC_ovNQ3d1B5SioD4SSO6WH7KiSXmwBqtAufglQxXb9X13LclXn57XMndQEYBV4s_dFwGaZKvjntRSXF6YHfAp-hVU1bm_YJXZTAHlZllgRd-sWDvZzKmrCt9pYoU_-k6f1iW1LmIvUYVR0tfTy8GOls9LwSYX3nNoJcjBSYDhbDWhIIx7q/s2312/20230404_130600.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2312" data-original-width="1079" height="518" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioiy80-pC_ovNQ3d1B5SioD4SSO6WH7KiSXmwBqtAufglQxXb9X13LclXn57XMndQEYBV4s_dFwGaZKvjntRSXF6YHfAp-hVU1bm_YJXZTAHlZllgRd-sWDvZzKmrCt9pYoU_-k6f1iW1LmIvUYVR0tfTy8GOls9LwSYX3nNoJcjBSYDhbDWhIIx7q/w241-h518/20230404_130600.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>The wondrous Statue of Bruce</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>There it is; the whole ball of wax. No need to wonder if you've seen everything worth seeing in this world (unless someone should create a gigantic ball of wax worthy of mention in some seven "wonders" list)<br /><br /></div><div>From the pinnacle of the Pyramid to the pedestal of the Statue of Bruce, we've pretty much covered it all, right here at good ol' <i>Snow Shoveling In Canada</i>. I wonder how many times the word "wonder" appears in this blog post.</div><div><br /></div><div>Could there be a <i>Seven Wonders of the Blogging World</i>? Could this blog be included in that list?</div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder.</div><div><br /></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-41758722223045915132023-04-06T08:15:00.006-04:002023-04-09T11:27:48.454-04:00When Is Easter? It's A Moveable Feast, Sir<p> ♫ "In your Easter bonnet... "♪</p>“Oh, yeah? Well, the same to you Mac!”<br /><br />Easter is coming soon — I think. No one really knows when Easter will take place each year since it is a moveable feast and its date is supposedly set by some mind-dizzying formula that was named after an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Computus&redirect=no">ancient Roman data processing machine</a>. To illustrate how confusing this all is, the third day before Easter has been called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maundy_Thursday">Monday Thursday</a>.<br /><br />All that really matters is that this is the time of year that pretty well marks the end of the snow shoveling season in Southern Ontario. It is also the weekend of chocolate bunnies, multi-colored hard-boiled eggs, and hot cross buns.<br /><br /><i>Hot cross buns! Hot cross buns!<br />One a penny two a penny - hot cross buns<br />If you have no daughters, give them to your sons</i><br /><i>One a penny two a penny - hot cross buns</i><br /><br />Luckily, I never had any sisters.<div><br /></div><div>I recently read an article on how Easter has never evolved into a popular secular holiday like Christmas. Perhaps one reason is that no kids want to have their picture taken while sitting on the lap of a giant rodent-like creature. A furry, flea-ridden, buck-toothed <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lagomorpha" target="_blank">lagomorph</a> doesn't quite compare to the merry, rosy-cheeked, kindly old image of Santa Claus (even so, ol' Kris Kringle has elicited his own share of scares).</div><div><br /></div><div>If you need proof, check out these images of little tykes having their photo taken with the Easter Bunny:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFao0wcQhYSTUBD0qhCX6c48eNme9d65nJGwcBKqnj9TZe-DqecmDGLuAkKL72Pm8qQ1nKjgKC_6M-oq-Zw8lFhQy65QQ2sW9t4fUWYXDKcljUscTG4s80o8OBheDL26tmTVWXe09GkfvTpNUOQ1FOI7MlYEe-IxpjkK1XFmlCQN509voJ2BeaJJyN/s1189/Clipboardg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1189" data-original-width="869" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFao0wcQhYSTUBD0qhCX6c48eNme9d65nJGwcBKqnj9TZe-DqecmDGLuAkKL72Pm8qQ1nKjgKC_6M-oq-Zw8lFhQy65QQ2sW9t4fUWYXDKcljUscTG4s80o8OBheDL26tmTVWXe09GkfvTpNUOQ1FOI7MlYEe-IxpjkK1XFmlCQN509voJ2BeaJJyN/w317-h434/Clipboardg.jpg" width="317" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27dfK6rdP_atEk_HJB8AY2lSIuUgiyMs49vsr7wfV7E45dhdlQm9TLm51vLS8DjnB1aUgCwGPlZDIcXStlU8HVNeKKxXT2XCoC-ASosCx947BGt6EZEEGZv05cwyLT29ygMJEOyZgDdgudDqBmD48pOFVr4KJN6eu-Dv9SBeirQgpFQiFZJrXvQDC/s1564/Clipboardh.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1564" data-original-width="953" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27dfK6rdP_atEk_HJB8AY2lSIuUgiyMs49vsr7wfV7E45dhdlQm9TLm51vLS8DjnB1aUgCwGPlZDIcXStlU8HVNeKKxXT2XCoC-ASosCx947BGt6EZEEGZv05cwyLT29ygMJEOyZgDdgudDqBmD48pOFVr4KJN6eu-Dv9SBeirQgpFQiFZJrXvQDC/w302-h496/Clipboardh.jpg" width="302" /></a></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Yipes!</div><div style="text-align: left;">Easter bunnies from the mind of Stephen King!</div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_4mZKdcv3vk3HjEk2Y10QmQ-GppAdkuobAq4bH4uy-hGWdfPAYjZDLvRbVtK4Y2knXeYX_fgqZQK8-wgBbRlsRd1puGcWHqPZlD1HRY1xQ4D5uDqHvHQ8-5OjxTSzczLNnXzLoNEtMPhhiWULG44z5CfViusl5FLc8DcilHiwZMz5S0gZ23bmdg2C/s300/300px-Here's_Johnny_2a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="300" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_4mZKdcv3vk3HjEk2Y10QmQ-GppAdkuobAq4bH4uy-hGWdfPAYjZDLvRbVtK4Y2knXeYX_fgqZQK8-wgBbRlsRd1puGcWHqPZlD1HRY1xQ4D5uDqHvHQ8-5OjxTSzczLNnXzLoNEtMPhhiWULG44z5CfViusl5FLc8DcilHiwZMz5S0gZ23bmdg2C/s1600/300px-Here's_Johnny_2a.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><i>"Here comes Peter Cottontail!!!"</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>An event that allegedly takes place on Easter is the Easter Parade. But in all my years I’ve never witnessed a parade on Easter anywhere I've lived. Nor have I come across any parades while flipping through the television channels on that particular day; although, someone did make a <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0040308/">movie</a> about this annual March/April march.<br /><br />From a Wikipedia article about the Easter Parade and the fine apparel associated with it:<br /><br /><div align="justify">“<span style="font-family: inherit;">An old Irish adage stated "For Christmas, food and drink; for Easter, new clothes," and a 15th-century proverb from Poor Robin's Almanack states that if on Easter Sunday some part of one's outfit is not new, one will not enjoy good luck during the year.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At Easter let your clothes be new,</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Or else be sure you will it rue.</span>”</div><br /><i>At Easter let your clothes be new, Or else be sure you will it rue</i>??? What kind of a terrible, strained rhyme is that? I'm sure someone could come up with a better verse than that. I'll have a crack at it (ha ha. get it? crack... eggs... you know... Easter eggs... forget it). Let's see if I can make an improvement on that addled adage:<br /><br /><i>At Easter time new clothes do get,</i><br /><i>Or you damn sure will it regret.</i><br /><br />That's much better.<i> </i><br /><br />I recall as a kid in school we sang:<br /><br />♪ <i>On the Avenue, Fifth Avenue,<br />The photographers will snap us<br />And you'll find that you're in the rotogravure.</i>♫ <br /><br />When it came to that last word, we may just as well have been asked to sing <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis</span></a></i>. It was hilarious the way we stumbled over it. There may have even been a few curses uttered in lieu of the word, but the teacher never noticed. To this day I still don’t know what <i>rotogravure</i> means.<br /><br />But I am thinking of starting the Easter Parade tradition here in our little village of Minikin. My wife and I will dress up in our Easter best, put a decorative collar on our pooch, and take a walk around the cul-de-sac. I can just see us strolling elegantly about the neighborhood. I'll be a veritable fashion plate in my new jacket, snazzy pants, spiffy hat, shiny shoes, and doggy poop bag.<br /><br />♫ <i>Oh, I could write a sonnet about your Easter bonnet…</i>♪<br /><br /><i> </i>But I won't. I'll just wish you a Happy Easter; whenever that is.<div><br /></div></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-60936121620513353402023-04-01T08:34:00.001-04:002023-08-19T11:02:21.228-04:00Eh? Account? Absolutely Not!<p>A is for Absolutely Not!</p><p>The annual A to Z blogging challenge has started. I will NOT be participating again. I've done so only once. That was back in 2012 and I swear it blogged me out. Yes, I've posted a few times since, but I've really had to rack my brain to come up with anything blogworthy. </p><p>I can still hardly believe that I posted twenty-six entries that April; almost a post each day. Well, I'm not falling for it this year. In fact I've decided to scale back my blogging to roughly one post per week. Here are the rules for my personal April blogging challenge: I might (no pressure here) post only four entries, and I can choose topics beginning with any damn letter I like.</p><p>But, because I'm <b>a</b>miable and it would be <b>a</b>ppropriate, I will start with <b>A</b>.</p><p><br />A is for <i>Account</i>.</p><p>Has anyone else ever wondered why we have to create an account for virtually every site that we visit on the Internet? </p><p>You want news? Sports? Weather? Create an account. How about financial info? Create an account. How do I care for my pet? Create an account. Where can I find a good accountant? Create an account. Are we all headed toward a world war and planetary annihilation? Create an account. How can you become more accountable? Take a wild guess.</p><p>It's crazy! For all my various accounts, my "password book" has such a plethora of passwords listed in it that it now has more pages than your average pocket dictionary. I can just see it now, the<i> Merriam-Webster Dictionary of Passwords</i>. </p><p>It seems that I'm a little too close to the truth with that last wisecrack. Doing a Google search for "dictionary of passwords" comes up with 27,200 hits. That number almost equals a count of total accounts and passwords I currently have in use. Soon enough, I'll need a dedicated server with a <a href="https://www.pcmag.com/encyclopedia/term/brontobyte" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">brontobyte</span></a> of storage. Yeah, that sounds right. Something the size of a brontosaurus. Of course I'll have to create a blasted account and remember my accursed password to access it. </p><p>In light of the popularity (forget about usefulness) of accounts and their necessary passwords, the management here at <i>Snow Shoveling In Canada</i> has decided that it is high time — considering the staggering number of celebrated and big-money viewers who frequent this blog — that we require visitors to log in to a proper account. Needless to say, a password is a must.</p><p>Our security team has proposed that each password be thirty-one characters in length, using at least nine capital letters and four numbers. As well, eleven characters should be special (neither alphabetic nor numeric). You cannot use anything that resembles your name, spouse's name, email, social security number, address, or any combination of letters remotely resembling any word in the standard <i>Merriam-Webster Dictionary</i>. </p><p>Also, your password must contain an image or pictograph. As well, at least one Chinese character and one Egyptian hieroglyph are required. </p><p>For example:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>yUnL%@VDJpx 4#!5</b><b> 龙 &Wh ^%O</b><span style="text-align: left;"><b><i><span style="color: #800180;">𓃥</span></i></b></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">olPL39?🌋</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Whatever passwords you come up with, we'll likely reject your first seven or eight attempts just for the heck of it. In addition, once you've entered your password, you must figure out an annoying CAPTCHA to make sure you aren't a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spambot" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">bot</span></a>. Worse still, it will be one of those CAPTCHAs with pictures, such as "select all images with a bus." Of course, you'll think, "Do I click on that square that has a seemingly insignificant portion of a bus tire?" Robots, even with their AI, apparently can't figure those out. I thought they were supposed be smart. Then again, we humans can't figure them out either. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7FOa-o4tnvfaBWuTYB-eJ3Oyz70qOs1TLKv3GliGuC9ccUqi0rHqZ2lOZdFU07xUb2XAGVshOcXEXj1vsZ0w7bUcSA3aisdaLvJLCdfDxTI0AsXTaUvPWh87iS2zioFDIskfxCI-Og-Uta7wuIFUOwafO6SAWV37LG_UR4CQcy81BgJyx3Eoz9s3/s1324/Screenshot%20(193)a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="881" data-original-width="1324" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr7FOa-o4tnvfaBWuTYB-eJ3Oyz70qOs1TLKv3GliGuC9ccUqi0rHqZ2lOZdFU07xUb2XAGVshOcXEXj1vsZ0w7bUcSA3aisdaLvJLCdfDxTI0AsXTaUvPWh87iS2zioFDIskfxCI-Og-Uta7wuIFUOwafO6SAWV37LG_UR4CQcy81BgJyx3Eoz9s3/w430-h286/Screenshot%20(193)a.jpg" width="430" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><i>Select all images with a bus.</i></b> </span><b><i>Better not make a mistake!<br /><br /></i></b></div><div>Once you guess the right images, and only then, will we let you know if you've entered a wrong password. If you make a mistake (and we trust you will), you'll have to go through the whole process again. But not to worry. You'll only have to do it three times before we lock you out of your account. Be prepared to spend a good week as persona non grata before you are allowed to read your favorite blog again. More likely than not, you will need to create a new account (and obviously, a new password). As well, you will be required to send us an explanation along with a notarized letter from a reliable CPA (Certified Password Accountant).</div><div><br /></div><div>Just do your best. We don't really care. Getting you as frustrated as possible is our only concern.</div><div><br /></div><div>Please do not get too upset when, once you're account is approved, we send you a gazillion promotions and specials with regard to this invaluable website. We're interested in you, not us. If you receive what you believe to be too many emails, just click on the "unsubscribe" button (we'll try to make that difficult as well) and we (the great and amazing people we are) just might, after a time, consider removing you (whoever the blazes you are) from our mailing list. </div><div><br /></div><div>On further thought and in typical magnanimous fashion, we've decided to simplify our password requirements somewhat. Here are our new proposed requirements:</div></div></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>The first character of your very personal password needs to be a capitalized letter; any letter of the alphabet except letters between and including b and z.</li><li>Your second secret character must be lower case and be the next letter in the alphabet immediately after your first chosen letter.</li><li>Your third unique character, also lower case, must be any letter from a to c but it cannot be any of your previously used letters.</li><li>The fourth through sixth "special to me" characters need to be a numerical sequence of numbers greater than 122 but not more than 124. </li><li>Finally, an exclusive special character must be used other than @<b>#</b>$%^&*()+?{}|\][~`></'";: or ,..</li></ul><p></p><p>That simplifies things, doesn't it? If you should somehow forget your password, just copy and paste the following: Abc123! </p><p>Don't worry, there are no unscrupulous S.O.B.s in this world and no one will use your particular password. HA HA HA!!! Oh, wouldn't it be nice to live in a world where there were no unscrupulous S.O.B.s and passwords were not needed? </p><p>Creating an account with us has nothing to do with our considerable desire for monetary gain, but more to do with your own security and what seems to be a necessary evil in the spirit of today's online experience. </p><p>To be honest, the more subscribers we have, the better the chance that we can attract sponsors, and in turn, big time moolah. Undoubtedly you will be seeing pop-up ads in the middle of the screen - as welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring (<a href="https://genius.com/Gilbert-and-sullivan-the-flowers-that-bloom-in-the-spring-tra-la-lyrics" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">tra la</span></a>).</p><p>For those who don't like pop-up ads (c'mon, who doesn't like 'em?), we are also considering a member upgrade to a premium account at a small cost (by our greedy standards) to allow for an ad free experience.</p><p>Also, as a token of our appreciation, premium members will receive a coffee mug, sweatshirt and badge.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizK0JRMyoXmOF8Df1O8gUBiMfkZkM07LPOIB1H9Qef7nbTb-hg-e21OtshNMrzRU5Al0KCqcZZkWsvjq1PKLcIFMXxmzKwnAgspTDzHtpp7oCHV6bQxUiTZ5D4x8OjXCSHr0iwe1DdS5m5nGXuFizE5vbzYi3ZtHH7sWTr-ufVGHsjLe4KGrWdOdro/s7023/Clipboarda.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2095" data-original-width="7023" height="105" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizK0JRMyoXmOF8Df1O8gUBiMfkZkM07LPOIB1H9Qef7nbTb-hg-e21OtshNMrzRU5Al0KCqcZZkWsvjq1PKLcIFMXxmzKwnAgspTDzHtpp7oCHV6bQxUiTZ5D4x8OjXCSHr0iwe1DdS5m5nGXuFizE5vbzYi3ZtHH7sWTr-ufVGHsjLe4KGrWdOdro/w353-h105/Clipboarda.jpg" width="353" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Gifts of Great Account</i></b></div></b><p>And keep an eye peeled for the all new<i> Snow Shoveling In Canada</i> app; available wherever appetizers are sold.<br /><br />OK. That's enough of that nonsense. Seriously, does anybody really need another account? Absolutely not! </p><p>But there truly must be a need for some reliable Certified Password Accountants.<br /></p><br />Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-12796074486640751712023-03-24T12:11:00.016-04:002023-08-19T11:02:59.111-04:00Our Wild Minikin<p>Before I get into the topic for this post, did anyone else happen to see the crowd at the recent Academy Awards show? One woman was wearing what must be the most inconsiderate outfit in the history of audiences:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxsaW76ge0qem4WHpjKeS1yk8B5vOVZBwdXjxP3PFrZ-L6iy9QDnL4eyAVBIbSeyEY_jsOkkpz5K5WK3L83TCiuHweAaeWtOG4YpP2M5KmihZA4IHy8vLrMe7t-69gT_qM8wtS357IaHVtk7P79rxiv2hLuyde85IhEEMY9b68O9RrHivU8g7Fr5Pf/s4624/20230312_200643.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2084" data-original-width="4624" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxsaW76ge0qem4WHpjKeS1yk8B5vOVZBwdXjxP3PFrZ-L6iy9QDnL4eyAVBIbSeyEY_jsOkkpz5K5WK3L83TCiuHweAaeWtOG4YpP2M5KmihZA4IHy8vLrMe7t-69gT_qM8wtS357IaHVtk7P79rxiv2hLuyde85IhEEMY9b68O9RrHivU8g7Fr5Pf/w561-h253/20230312_200643.jpg" width="561" /></a></div><p>Look at the guy to her left! He's leaning way over to get a view of the stage. By the end of the evening, his neck must have been as sore as Michelangelo's after he'd painted the Sistine Chapel. Can you imagine sitting behind this bizarrely adorned woman? Someone must have yelled out, "Who the HELL are you wearing?" If they didn't, they should have. </p><p>A closeup view shows what looks to be an eyeball straining to see through the fabric:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xonE2VSrOvV5RNYYzN8gsKecsZoF7Q4NB39bU4X7R4ayErOKRVqwG9QtmydkdKkXvus9TgiRl4A2lId8a5VTyySLjsOJSPEmWE2VC2laT7U0-pXfCck-mtRkZl6u-tLx8swvs5b1JWSH2nlNB_VFTSMcOGGQyERDDgZv6Rwypz-LAEa0bOPPE2-0/s648/20230312_200643a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="623" data-original-width="648" height="377" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9xonE2VSrOvV5RNYYzN8gsKecsZoF7Q4NB39bU4X7R4ayErOKRVqwG9QtmydkdKkXvus9TgiRl4A2lId8a5VTyySLjsOJSPEmWE2VC2laT7U0-pXfCck-mtRkZl6u-tLx8swvs5b1JWSH2nlNB_VFTSMcOGGQyERDDgZv6Rwypz-LAEa0bOPPE2-0/w392-h377/20230312_200643a.jpg" width="392" /></a></div><p>I suppose a distorted view is better than no view. But perhaps not, as we will discuss shortly.</p><p><br /></p><p>Does anyone remember a TV documentary series years ago called <i>Wild America</i>? It was a terrific show about North American wildlife (rather than out-of-control inner city punks), hosted by the bearded, outdoorsy looking Marty Stouffer. He and Grizzly Adams should have squared off in a bearded, outdoorsy-look contest. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_TfPnrlmlbVY17gFU05UOigNWQudQBFyu7pHeNiXL8MxUFY7aLzm2kHXMB0wCe-6kTbkFUMEhDBZB8GU3F0EioWXMIB_3H6k9fhh4I_RnXlSgQeMzpeeP9UJgjQ8j5wW0JNztWUJXxFMb8E6dlQc52GRy1vVLzBVUr2yn5QponLpUXSkBnUHO7Vm/s2340/Clipboard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="940" data-original-width="2340" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_TfPnrlmlbVY17gFU05UOigNWQudQBFyu7pHeNiXL8MxUFY7aLzm2kHXMB0wCe-6kTbkFUMEhDBZB8GU3F0EioWXMIB_3H6k9fhh4I_RnXlSgQeMzpeeP9UJgjQ8j5wW0JNztWUJXxFMb8E6dlQc52GRy1vVLzBVUr2yn5QponLpUXSkBnUHO7Vm/w461-h186/Clipboard.jpg" width="461" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Bearded and outdoorsy, but very sweet</i></b></div></b><p>My wife and I — savage beasts that we are — really enjoyed watching <i>Wild America</i> and getting an up close look at all those feral, and often dangerous critters from the comfort of our living room and creature comforts. </p><p>Little did we suspect that there are real perils lurking about <i>just outside the door!</i> Case in point: recently in a Facebook group for a <a href="https://www.grandbend.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">nearby town</span></a>, I saw a post from a woman who was wondering if anyone else had seen a cougar wandering about in the vicinity. A black cougar! </p><p>I'm no zoologist, <a href="http://canshovel.blogspot.com/2012/04/zoo-is-that-with-zee-or-zed.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">despite evidence to the contrary</span></a>, but I'm pretty sure that a black cat of that size would be a black panther. There are absolutely no panthers in Ontario, and even a cougar in the southwestern area of the province would be unlikely in the extreme. Just as rare would be sightings of bobcats or lynxes. These cats are simply not indigenous to this area.</p><p>Once in a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_moon" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">blue moon</span></a>, someone might see a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_black_bear" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;"><b>black bear</b></span></a>. Even this is very rare in the greater Minikin area, but there have been one or two confirmed sightings. You will find foxes, coyotes, and other critters for sure; even <a href="http://canshovel.blogspot.com/search/label/beach%20coyotes" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">beach coyotes</span></a>!</p><p>Often enough, when someone believes they've observed a cougar in this area, they have likely seen (through somehow somewhat distorted vision) a dog, a coyote, or a ginormous domestic cat. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJQpW2q8xruYMkoWEadtKfqUngjhtY4itGkVKDIrdvAa1QChF-HwudQ2O-pHTgMDg5bOR4cdrUvRhMwSIG_uR9XVp4LGfiKWwRVOJVK-FSXNldOtWzgpjh1KTle9oz0cGNU9CP7UaLY8aiMdJOb-CjHanZW_SNodPfL_tsLm16TIBrK47QuezxTh5/s1786/Scan10120.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1183" data-original-width="1786" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJQpW2q8xruYMkoWEadtKfqUngjhtY4itGkVKDIrdvAa1QChF-HwudQ2O-pHTgMDg5bOR4cdrUvRhMwSIG_uR9XVp4LGfiKWwRVOJVK-FSXNldOtWzgpjh1KTle9oz0cGNU9CP7UaLY8aiMdJOb-CjHanZW_SNodPfL_tsLm16TIBrK47QuezxTh5/w407-h269/Scan10120.JPG" width="407" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Standard Southwestern Ontario Mountain Lion</i></b></div><p>Now I don't want to cast aspersions on those who claim to see cougars, bobcats, lynxes, panthers, or even lions and tigers in the area. But if one of these folks saw a chickadee, they would likely report it as a bald eagle sighting. If they saw a bald eagle, they would claim they saw a pterodactyl. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsyzmeiZ8xt645KSitpXRFPFeqgCIeRtW_9EP9xAOGMbNtSZJhJG8xNEomqvW0u7z7NdY37hrV15Vp9XX1CEiKCK-RAOD-aTCRINYWdrHZCCbD-i-I3eX4HU8vHGMCdeP4WxOOWonezfd-jh-WwAzuIMulbc8pfk1WVZyAonimzrtfMHe0oq1-2AE/s770/Screenshot%20(179).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="665" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsyzmeiZ8xt645KSitpXRFPFeqgCIeRtW_9EP9xAOGMbNtSZJhJG8xNEomqvW0u7z7NdY37hrV15Vp9XX1CEiKCK-RAOD-aTCRINYWdrHZCCbD-i-I3eX4HU8vHGMCdeP4WxOOWonezfd-jh-WwAzuIMulbc8pfk1WVZyAonimzrtfMHe0oq1-2AE/w345-h400/Screenshot%20(179).jpg" width="345" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Not a bald eagle, but a ptypical pterosaur. "Look out below!"</i></b></div></b><p>Speaking of dinosaurs, I read somewhere that the closest living relative to the monstrous Tyrannosaurus Rex is your modern day, garden variety chicken; the fearsome Tyrannosaurus Pecks.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZRcc5MHVR7ttzI4aPt5fZR9hfx8y9e6I6FcfPIgW2lYajWjzaaP0abjbQMnepU7oK0HCH8bsLbLpKr0RF9HOmI2TRu_NRKiTenUww2-StwLvTBiss8z4UEE5dXL0KhDSkQRR_6g4T_Wxux_8e5mkekGVRk9MbTBAJVtx3WtuxKnGhOnrRCjVSIBw/s825/jc.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="825" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZRcc5MHVR7ttzI4aPt5fZR9hfx8y9e6I6FcfPIgW2lYajWjzaaP0abjbQMnepU7oK0HCH8bsLbLpKr0RF9HOmI2TRu_NRKiTenUww2-StwLvTBiss8z4UEE5dXL0KhDSkQRR_6g4T_Wxux_8e5mkekGVRk9MbTBAJVtx3WtuxKnGhOnrRCjVSIBw/w438-h291/jc.jpg" width="438" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Not fearsome? Try telling that to a grasshopper or a cricket!</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">In fact, I read elsewhere that the giant lizards of yore may have been covered in feathers! At least there is speculation that a young T-Rex may have had a downy covering. As well, it has been suggested that they did not likely roar, but probably honked! Can you just imagine a baby Tyrannosaurus Rex with his feathery coat, letting out a tiny little "<span style="font-size: x-small;">honk</span>"? They must have been so cute!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVRsREwqt_LXW3lmFU0hkFiTKwp3NRPbqnysYeZqTPQ2jq3RH4QzvKuEY92g4nj054Zxa94YOoyeWEmNTHQmPV0LpBpo_h-bSjFCZeoY2rTJxUJbStRwwiss3wH2Y57TOIfah8EKvsipG8HFf_sUjckv0XLnRT8aeDB2BlJZ1wyjI64UEWupvtqwp/s768/Screenshot%20(181).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="768" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVRsREwqt_LXW3lmFU0hkFiTKwp3NRPbqnysYeZqTPQ2jq3RH4QzvKuEY92g4nj054Zxa94YOoyeWEmNTHQmPV0LpBpo_h-bSjFCZeoY2rTJxUJbStRwwiss3wH2Y57TOIfah8EKvsipG8HFf_sUjckv0XLnRT8aeDB2BlJZ1wyjI64UEWupvtqwp/w372-h298/Screenshot%20(181).jpg" width="372" /></a></div><b><i>A Face Only A Mother Could Love</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b><div style="text-align: left;">Momma or Poppa on the other hand:<br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFa0NXQnNtAj-QVQTc3PpQBMiopawCl0uatRn6w0fmqJQq5nDhsq_79ciA4_kEsnauqyFrDWzx8jnF8PIfiuGYGM1oScnznUxD5thyXiyxMUG8ovuExKZ-4iYKnjNtWKle7xGUAT2OSbBdDeSzHGVNt_me0XrbNXM4FJMBCwpeayXekGe6lCGkcwR/s540/Screenshot%20(180).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="448" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFa0NXQnNtAj-QVQTc3PpQBMiopawCl0uatRn6w0fmqJQq5nDhsq_79ciA4_kEsnauqyFrDWzx8jnF8PIfiuGYGM1oScnznUxD5thyXiyxMUG8ovuExKZ-4iYKnjNtWKle7xGUAT2OSbBdDeSzHGVNt_me0XrbNXM4FJMBCwpeayXekGe6lCGkcwR/w316-h382/Screenshot%20(180).jpg" width="316" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Hey There Handsome!<br /><br /></b></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">Fortunately, there are no more dinosaurs roaming the Earth. However, if that woman from the Facebook group should assert that she's seen a T-Rex, I'll chase it down for her and take care of the situation.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A wom</i><i>an became panic-stricken</i><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Her heartbeat had started to quicken</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;">Through badly smudged specs</div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i>She saw a T-Rex</i></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i>But with clean lenses saw just a chicken</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: center;"> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Anyone have a recipe for coq au vin?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><i></i></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-89683575822453434342023-03-17T10:00:00.010-04:002023-08-19T11:03:56.595-04:00The Record-Setting Diet Plan<div style="text-align: left;">It once was my belief that it you mentioned sex and/or nudity in your blog, you would gain readership. Perhaps not the type of audience you're aiming to build, but readers nonetheless.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Well I've got news for you; if you want to rack up the views, just mention a diet plan </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">
My most viewed post here at <i>Snow Shoveling In Canada</i> by far (record-setting in a way) is <a href="http://canshovel.blogspot.ca/2013/05/the-purg-odan-weight-loss-plan.html" target="_blank">The Purg-Odan Weight Loss Plan</a>, an entry wherein I chronicle my preparation for a colonoscopy.<br />
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However, if you carefully peruse my blog, you will see on the sidebar of any page — under the heading "What The Heck Is This Blog About?" — that there is the Latin phrase "caveat lector", which means "let the reader beware." <br />
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It seems, in light of the inexplicable popularity of that particular post, that a number of folks are not heeding that warning and are assuming that I was writing about a <i>real </i>weight loss plan. This is a satire blog and people should not lend credence to many of the words published here.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I realize, of course, that most of the views and submitted comments for that post are from spammers and bots. Regardless, whoever they are, they're obviously unaware of the overall intention of this blog.<br />
<br />As an example, I present an actual comment submitted by one Songlung Makye.<br />
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Songlung states, "I agree with you; this is one of the best weight management resources I have seen in your blog. By the way A Foolproof, Scinence(sic)-Based Diet that's 100% Guranteed to Melt Away 12 t0(sic) 23 Pounds of Stumbborn(sic???) Body Fat in Just 21- Days !!!"<br />
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Well Songlung, let me say that I am glad you commented on my blog — in spite of your erroneous belief as to what this particular post is about.<br />
<br />
Although I should address your declaration about losing 12 to 23 pounds of fat. I do believe you left out the umlaut in your spelling of the type of body fat that you claim can be shed. It is <i>Stümbborn</i> (pronounced SHTOOM-born), a city in central Germany known for its rather stout citizens. Stümbborn fat is notoriously difficult to shed mainly due to its cause from crisp apple strudels and schnitzel with noodles. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">From the civic anthem of Stümbborn:<br />
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: left;"><i>♫ </i></span><i>Schnitzel and strudel </i><i>and rich food from Stümbborn</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Can't put on pants w</i><i>ithout using a shoehorn</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div><span style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: center;">Noshing at Arby's and then Burger King</i></span></div><div><span style="text-align: left;"><i>These are a few </i></span><i style="text-align: left;">of our favorite things</i></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Pound cake with frosting and pie with molasses</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Pounds that will stay on our hips and our asses</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Gorging ourselves </i></span><i style="text-align: left;">till we break a bedspring</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>these are a few of our favorite things</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>When the doc cites</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;">All those mean things </i><span style="text-align: left;">—</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Unappealing stats</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;">We eat two grams less of our favorite things</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>And then we don't feel so fat. ♪</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>I must remind myself to stay away from of any civic events - or at least the ceremonial preamble thereof - if I ever visit Stümbborn, otherwise I might have to listen once more to that drivel. Who the heck wrote that table scrap anyway? <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Hammerstein_II" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Oscar Ham-and-stein</span></a>?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxZl0XS-2isSqBYntAU783pIU3wYP5bzOsWKQbJeB1hJ7LDRlDAYeR64yz8Mr4AdpF-biHFJ1yTU2yr3Hf8HV8VZMVDurCRUjeLCiqnZ05xlhSAcmdaiR5ZBBsEN2_yzD5PH-8sO1SV9d4xBsuiS2599oObOOZHYfEe-Dq-5RU2p31tKuoE2IfkCM_/s275/download.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxZl0XS-2isSqBYntAU783pIU3wYP5bzOsWKQbJeB1hJ7LDRlDAYeR64yz8Mr4AdpF-biHFJ1yTU2yr3Hf8HV8VZMVDurCRUjeLCiqnZ05xlhSAcmdaiR5ZBBsEN2_yzD5PH-8sO1SV9d4xBsuiS2599oObOOZHYfEe-Dq-5RU2p31tKuoE2IfkCM_/w384-h255/download.jpg" width="384" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Just a snack for a well-known <span style="text-align: left;">Stümbborn lyricist</span></i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I wonder how Stümbbornites, I mean Stümbborners, uh Stümbbornians, that is to say the citizens of Stümbborn would react to a question posed by my grandmother years ago at family dinner. She was serving dessert and asked my older brother, "Eric, would you like a piece of <a href="https://saraleedesserts.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Sara Lee</span></a>?" My brother seemed a little dazed. My dad on the other hand had a hearty laugh. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And at another dinner, it was my mother who was dishing out cake or pie for dessert. She asked my grandmother — a widow for many years — if she would like a little piece. My dad, without skipping a beat, said, "Irene hasn't had a little piece since Bill passed away." This time it was granny's turn for the guffaws.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Here is a food-related "news" item from UPI:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>"<i>A pair of British friends donned ice cream costumes and crossed the finish line of the Jersey Marathon at the same time, becoming co-holders of a Guinness World Record.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Alan Falle and Scott Welsh earned the Guinness World Record for <b>fastest marathon dressed as a sweet food (male)</b> when they crossed the finish line together after 3 hours, 48 minutes and 12 seconds.</i>"</div><div><br /></div><div>There's a load of malarkey, and just in time for Saint Patrick's Day! I mean seriously, what kind of record is that?</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember when the Guinness Book of World Records had entries such as "world's longest mustache", or "tallest building" or "heaviest cat", or "coldest city", or "fastest train". But, "fastest marathon dressed as a sweet food (male)?' </div><div><br /></div><div>If this is the kind of thing they want, then I must call Guinness and make them aware that I just broke the record for the "longest stretch between posts for a humor blog about snow shoveling in Canada". That, dear readers, was 6 years and 357 days, shattering my own record of 1 year and 353 days.</div><div><br /></div><div>But why should Guinness have a monopoly on listing dubious world records? </div><div><br /></div><div>I present to you some snippets from my forthcoming publication, "<i>The Snow Shoveling In Canada Book of World Records</i>" (readers should imagine some world record setting fanfare here).</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>A runner from Greece, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spyridon_Louis" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Spyridon Louis</span></a>, holds the record for fastest marathon by a runner from Greece named Spyridon Louis (male). He crossed the finish line at 2 hours, 58 minutes, 50 seconds. A record which remains unbroken since 1896!</li><li>Local rap "artist" Mini K, has sold more records (among other things offered up at his garage sale) than anyone in the history of Minikin, Ontario.</li><li>Adam Sandler holds the record for starring in more bad movies than anyone in Hollywood history (a verifiable fact if ever there was one).</li><li>"The Purg-Odan Weight Loss Plan" is the world's most ineffective diet.</li><li>Sir Charles Tupper had the shortest term of any Canadian Prime minister - 68 days. So woeful was his political career that he decided to go off in a different direction; manufacturing plastic food storage containers. This continues to be a <a href="https://www.tupperware.ca/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">very successful business</span></a>.</li><li>The German city of Stümbborn holds the record for using the least amount of Tupperware, per capita, of any community in the world. This is due to the fact that there are rarely any leftovers from a typical Stümbborn meal.</li></ul></div><div>I did say, "caveat lector" did I not? </div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps Guinness should too.</div><div><br /></div></div>
Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-65257220464062373432023-03-10T09:50:00.018-05:002023-04-21T13:37:12.266-04:00Therein Go Dog, Swearin' Go Pa, Erin Go Bragh<p>How, you may ask, has the snow shoveling been this season? Well, I'll tell ya, for most of January and February there was very little snow. The roads were as bare and dry as a Saharan stripper. March, so far, has been a different matter. It's a snow shoveler's delight (or hell, depending on your point of view).</p><div><div>But spring is on its way. </div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Ah, spring! — hearts sweetened by flowers;</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>chill ousted by warmth</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>and more daylight hours</i></div></div><div><br /></div><div>And the emergence of long buried dog poop.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Dah, dah, dog owner,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Have you any poop?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yes sir, yes sir</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Three bags scooped.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Two for the garbage,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>One for a gag;</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Place it on the neighbors porch -</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Set fire to the bag.</i></div><div><br /></div></div><div><i><u>Editor's Note:</u><br />Please do not attempt the "gag" described in the above "poem". The last thing I need is for some little tyke to get caught participating in such mischief and plead with their parents; </i></div><div><i>"But I read it on that most trustworthy of blogs. You know, Snow Shoveling in Canada!"</i></div><div><i>"Go to your room." replies the strict but reasonable adult.</i></div><div><i>"For the poop bag trick?" cries the youngster.</i></div><div><i>"No. For reading Snow Shoveling In Canada."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I wish our trusty beagle with his uncanny sniffing ability would assist us in finding those land mines. But he has no interest in locating his own. Rabbit turds are another matter. He loves those "milk duds" and could find them buried under a four foot snow drift. Eww!</div><div><br /></div><div>The annual spring clean-up will be a much easier task this year as we were able to stay on top of the problem due to the relative lack of snow. Sometimes however, I'd find my shoe on top of the problem. Eww again!</div><div><br /></div><div>Generally, this is not one of the things I look forward to in March, but I do happily anticipate Saint Patrick's day, if only for an excuse to have a beer or two. I'll put a couple of drops of green food coloring in my liquid refreshment to really get in a playful leprechaunish mood. </div><div><br /></div><div>Many, many, many years ago, in my relatively younger days, I might have headed out to a bar to partake in some Saint Patrick's Day revelry. In my case at least, things never got much out of hand. That hasn't always been the case for a number of shamrock-adorned merrymakers, as demonstrated by the <a href="https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/st-patrick-s-day-riot-in-london-ont-yields-more-charges-1.1280449" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Saint Patrick's Day riot of 2012</span></a> in nearby Antler River. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzzKQkZOIZRnY22FpHrVNcoLT1ElkrOjBEgMQwf0vXAgbcPKLDilJCsdpwiAuMeUSpl5NHbeYI81SfvrgGHMnfRfx6y8FqAn3p60X3cWpWtcPIzb2qPIK5XYRLwL2EuOS5crksndnHaxGxSJqnSyhOn9aTOesWCpObRIDTmEXmr9icQPW42W2dafK/s420/spd.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="420" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzzKQkZOIZRnY22FpHrVNcoLT1ElkrOjBEgMQwf0vXAgbcPKLDilJCsdpwiAuMeUSpl5NHbeYI81SfvrgGHMnfRfx6y8FqAn3p60X3cWpWtcPIzb2qPIK5XYRLwL2EuOS5crksndnHaxGxSJqnSyhOn9aTOesWCpObRIDTmEXmr9icQPW42W2dafK/w410-h287/spd.png" width="410" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>But back to those days long ago. As I was about to say, me and me <a href="https://blog.intostudy.com/into-centres/uk-centres/into-queens-university-belfast/irish-slang/#:~:text=Mucker,excited%20to%20see%20my%20mucker." target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">muckers</span></a> was having a pint or two at a local pub on Saint Paddy's Day. Faith and begorrah! 'Twas at a time before karaoke was a thing. Some of the taverns then had an open mic night and people would come up and sing a song or two to the accompaniment of an organ player. </div><div><br /></div><div>Finian's rainbow! There we were drinking, laughing, telling jokes and stories, and listening to some patrons squawk out a few discordant tunes like a flock of <a href="https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/snag_breac" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Snag Brea</span><span style="color: #2b00fe;">cs</span></a>. Meanwhile, my brother Greg asked our father - seated at the table with us - "What does "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erin_go_bragh" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Erin Go Bragh</span></a>" mean?" Ol' Da leaned into him and said in a low voice, "It means 'go **** yourself'."</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course Greg didn't believe him, and just accepted it as Dad having his usual fun and let it go at that. But now it was Dad's turn at the microphone. My father was a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7mEyjb4mrE" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">pretty darned good singer</span></a>, and many there were happy to see him finally getting up for a song or two. </div><div><br /></div><div>Before he got into his first song, he had a few words for the crowd. "<i>Erin Go Bragh </i>everybody!<i> Erin Go Bragh! </i>Right Greg?<i> Erin Go Bragh!</i>" he boomed into the mic. Needless to say, my brother was doubled over with laughter. </div><div><br />While we're talking St. Patrick's Days of yore, I must tell you a story of mine from my early school days. </div><div><p>Grade two it was, and our teacher had a picture of a shamrock on the board at the front of class. It wasn't labeled, so she was quizzing us as to what this particular leafy object was called.</p><p>"Clover!" came the first guess.<br />"No," replied teacher.</p><p>A quick succession of guesses came next, all followed with a "no" reply.</p><p>"Four leaf clover."<br />"Three leaf clover."<br />"Green clover."<br />"Clover leaf," and so on.</p><p>Now I had my little hand up the whole time, holding it as high as I could, waving it back and forth with furious frenzy. I knew the answer. "Pick me, oh pick me! OH, OH, OH!" my mind shouted. </p><p>Eventually, the teacher saw me and let me have my guess. "Finally," I thought, "now I'll give this class a much needed botany lesson."</p><p>I stood tall and proud and exclaimed, "Ramshock!"</p><p>The teacher just said "no" and went to the next student as if I had just blurted out the standard "clover" answer.</p><p>I've lived down the embarrassment since then. I mean, this was grade two after all. But at least I was a helluva lot closer than anyone else. Obviously, the teacher wasn't impressed much. Incidentally, a shamrock really is just a<span style="color: #38761d;"> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shamrock" target="_blank"><span style="color: #38761d;">clover</span></a></span>. And don't you think <i>Ramshock </i>would be a great name for a heavy metal band?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPeznx1JHO3s_aCuXEG6wid3ajXodD4yptlrLYM29rD_o6uQiuCJSWi7MzL9F6KMhFQ959Oph96gYYUoQQEdvcjhcnEILucIycAR2AUNrchPysSMADNoARg7Ki6nRhXg8Bwpot7RyTnELeeZCMrHprFzTTeu9nplXHpC0ZWsU4fNzESXQ7aRDIOU-r/s1251/Clipboard2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="1251" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPeznx1JHO3s_aCuXEG6wid3ajXodD4yptlrLYM29rD_o6uQiuCJSWi7MzL9F6KMhFQ959Oph96gYYUoQQEdvcjhcnEILucIycAR2AUNrchPysSMADNoARg7Ki6nRhXg8Bwpot7RyTnELeeZCMrHprFzTTeu9nplXHpC0ZWsU4fNzESXQ7aRDIOU-r/w453-h163/Clipboard2.jpg" width="453" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Attention grade two students:</i></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i>Left to right - Shamrock, Ramshock<br /><br /></i></b></div></div><div>Returning now to current Saint Patrick's Days; another way I celebrate is to make some Irish Stew.</div><div>Here's the recipe:<br /><br />Ingredients:<br />1 batch of any beef stew (a can of Dinty Moore will do)</div><div>2 or 3 beers</div><div>1 bottle Irish whiskey</div><div><br /></div><div>Directions:</div><div>Warm up stew</div><div>Pour 1/4 cup of beer into stew</div><div>Add 1 tablespoon Irish whiskey</div><div>Drink remaining beer and whiskey</div><div>Pass out</div><div>On awakening, put stew in refrigerator</div><div>Eat a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal (if you can, that is. They're magically delicious, don't ya know?)</div><div><br /></div><div><i><u>Editor's Note:</u></i></div><div><i>Please do not attempt the above recipe. It was just a joke. If you do attempt it, well you'll just have to go to your room - without your supper.<br /></i><br /></div><div>I should mention another noteworthy date that takes place two days before the annual shamrock shindig. That would be the Ides of March. The only thing it's known for is being the anniversary of the assassination of Julius Caesar. Not really a day for celebration, but I suppose you could host a toga party and serve <a href="https://www.liquor.com/recipes/bloody-caesar/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Bloody Caesars</span></a>.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>I generally think of March as a miserable month (and I’m sure Caesar could have lived without it). But with Saint Patrick's Day and the NCAA College Basketball Tournament, there's enough madness to keep me distracted until the warmer days of April.</div></div><div> </div><div>Finally, to all the kids out there; if your parents should send you to bed for reading <i>Snow Shoveling In Canada</i>, just say to them with a smile and a wink, "Erin Go Bragh!"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-30402959632245480272023-03-04T12:59:00.016-05:002023-08-19T11:05:07.450-04:00A River Doesn't Run Through It<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Unexpectedly and forgoing fanfare,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I loom up from the fog of quietude,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Emerging like a reverse shipwreck</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>On the Blogger Sea</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><p>It's true. I'm back after a seven year absence. Wow, talk about writer's block! That was more like writer's great barrier reef.</p><p>Those who are familiar with my blog will notice a slight difference in tone for this post. Yes, I'm the same old wacky smart-ass, but this entry will deal more with truths and setting the record straight, rather than my usual facetious and frivolous fare. At any rate, this particular issue has been bugging me to the max and I really needed to get this off my chest.</p><p>The subject matter may not, well, matter to most. After all, who knows or cares what goes on in the relatively unknown environs of a relatively unknown snow shoveler, right? It's not as if this blog will grab the attention of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (we might just see about that). On the other hand, who doesn't need a little geography lesson now and then? You never know if "Grand Bend Watershed" might come up as a "Jeopardy" category. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>My home is located within a 2 minute walk to the shore of Lake Huron. The closest notable town is <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/place/Grand+Bend,+ON/@43.3115432,-81.7556125,15z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m6!3m5!1s0x882f395b02c2aa1b:0x3a41ff15140aa36!8m2!3d43.3130397!4d-81.7562242!16zL20vMDNqcXRk" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Grand Bend</span></a>, which is technically a community within the municipality of Lambton Shores. </p><p>One of the picturesque features of Grand Bend is the lovely watercourse which meanders through the village before flowing into the harbor and finally emptying into Lake Huron. Surprisingly, a good many area residents do not know the name of the flow nor do they seek the name of the creek. <span>Parkhill Creek</span> it is.</p><p>However, if you do a Google search and query what river runs through Grand Bend, you will see a resulting snippet for the Ausable River. This should be startling news to anyone alive today. Why? Because the Ausable has not snaked its way into Grand Bend since 1875!</p><p>In fact, there are plenty of websites that still make the claim that Grand Bend is situated on the Ausable River. I’ve taken it upon myself to set the record straight, even if I have to surf the entire Internet for any site mentioning both Grand Bend and the Ausable River. Already I’ve convinced two or three to make corrections, including a Government of Ontario travel site. I’ve sent emails to another half dozen or so.</p><p>Many of these websites have not responded which leads me to believe one of three things:<br />One, they don’t care what the dammed (in Parkhill) waterway is called; <br />Two, they stubbornly and defiantly hang on to the belief it’s still the Ausable despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary; <br />Three, and most likely, these are old sites which no longer have a working or caring web administrator.</p><p>Another website I’ve called upon to make changes is one for a U.S. federal agency; the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. I’ll keep you posted as to how it turns out (and I’m not holding my oceanic or atmospheric breath on this one).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5BQLapcBcob9Y1KFY2hLvFP43APZK5DGfMsHNnlns4QNU8g5G7Yr7yqXWArEcr8_jqJ3x8I7sd9SDcW4aG9oZ4FRU2tvtrW33q1GvLMoopVf2xTg6NGODdILfktYKYAYT1X8d_8oJRGcQCTKRqJ6bYJazbM07e-SkDuwd6Q59zkW0kaBXGdYb6sq/s886/Screenshot%20(157)a.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="662" data-original-width="886" height="401" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5BQLapcBcob9Y1KFY2hLvFP43APZK5DGfMsHNnlns4QNU8g5G7Yr7yqXWArEcr8_jqJ3x8I7sd9SDcW4aG9oZ4FRU2tvtrW33q1GvLMoopVf2xTg6NGODdILfktYKYAYT1X8d_8oJRGcQCTKRqJ6bYJazbM07e-SkDuwd6Q59zkW0kaBXGdYb6sq/w538-h401/Screenshot%20(157)a.png" width="538" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>As seen above, they, NOAA, are apparently using a map (or portion of it, at least) that has to date back to a time before my grandpappy was born, and I’m no spring chicken! They confusingly show the Ausable emptying into Lake Huron at Port Franks (which it does), yet flowing also to Grand Bend and emptying into the lake there. Additionally, this mystifying map also shows the river flowing from Grand Bend to Port Franks (or is it Port Franks to Grand Bend?) just inside of the shoreline! That, I suppose, is the Old Ausable Channel. That’s quite the geographic anomaly.<p></p><p>Oddly enough, you can tell this map is from an American agency since the outline of that circuitous course looks suspiciously like a map of the contiguous U.S. states. It’s a sloppy cartographic effort to say the least.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJl6Xpwpc9vFYuqeZtCYeBXxGKWDVKLoOnq2jZ3fqXqwhvbu5FNDJLgTYWsDtGd9jlqTnpf3ohMsHsBtkUdqmXd89kJ8RJTicH2J49GZA0mQhR6UEbNkd0W4NLtI9pzgg9EoomQ7V0aH0OqfWTQG1KiCkAHPEU8Q9zccXgFt0ygBF3TAtC5hSZVX5z/s982/Screenshot%20(157)ab.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="982" data-original-width="832" height="477" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJl6Xpwpc9vFYuqeZtCYeBXxGKWDVKLoOnq2jZ3fqXqwhvbu5FNDJLgTYWsDtGd9jlqTnpf3ohMsHsBtkUdqmXd89kJ8RJTicH2J49GZA0mQhR6UEbNkd0W4NLtI9pzgg9EoomQ7V0aH0OqfWTQG1KiCkAHPEU8Q9zccXgFt0ygBF3TAtC5hSZVX5z/w404-h477/Screenshot%20(157)ab.png" width="404" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>However, there are many such maps to be found on the web (not like the one above. I sure as heck hope you wouldn't find too many like that! I'm referring to the one above that one). Are these remnants from the 18th or 19th century which were discovered by someone who dusted them off and decided to trust them as graphic gospel truth? Could they have been purchased from “Ye Olde Mappe Shoppe?" I’m half expecting to see an “X marks the spot” label on these charts to show where old pirate treasures are buried. I truly don’t know where they are digging these up (pun intended).</p><p>To the disbelievers and doubting Thomases who remain unconvinced that the mouth of the Ausable is at Port Franks and only at Port Franks, I urge them to take a virtual canoe trip via Google Maps. Start upriver at a point well-known for being home to the Ausable — say <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/place/Arkona,+ON/@43.0709125,-81.8285265,14z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m6!3m5!1s0x882f12fd291375e9:0x2f3d510f708fcec9!8m2!3d43.0740377!4d-81.8306334!16s%2Fm%2F026rrdm" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Arkona</span></a> — and follow the river down until you reach County Road 18 (Bog Line/Parkhill Drive). At this point, switch to satellite view and zoom in. Then continue on your "voyage" until you come to an old bridge spanning the river. That is the River Road Bridge.</p><p>This is the point where a channel was cut to allow the Ausable to outlet at Port Franks. From here it is a rather direct route to the harbor at Port Franks and then on to Lake Huron. </p><p>There is no way you can get to Grand Bend from the Ausable. Well, you conceivably could, but you would practically have to be Lewis or Clark to do so. First you would navigate down the Ausable to River Road Bridge. There you would pull your craft out of the water and then make an arduous five kilometer portage along the dried up old Ausable river bed until you reach a point known as Devil's Elbow; the point at which the Ausable River and Parkhill Creek used to meet (I remind you, that was before 1875). Then you would put your canoe into Parkhill Creek and continue on your journey, about fifteen kilometers downstream, until you and your aching bones finally float into Grand Bend. From here you can make your way into the town's charming harbor thanks to another channel which was cut in 1893 allowing Parkhill Creek to run into Lake Huron.</p><p>Now some people might ask me why I care so much. Let met put it to you this way: What if you told St. Louisters, uh St. Louisees, I mean St. Louisites, that is to say the good people of St. Louis that the river that runs by their city was the Rio Grande? You know what they would say? "<a href="https://www.sos.mo.gov/archives/history/slogan.asp" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Show me</span></a>." And, of course, you would not be able to show them as you would not find any evidence that the city's magnificent Gateway Arch overlooks any river other than the Mississippi. </p><p>Therefore, if there is anyone out there that still believes the Ausable River runs through Grand Bend, then we should adopt a little Missouri (state, not river) attitude and say to them, "Show me."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8PvncoaVJAAF5eLxfTZjFnQo9KEtdwcC8O5hNaamk_8cgZ9ELzRoJlWwksM63emJTIwDAF2NBg3eepwnWtdlND_2McLZK-eiHdjgSdLFCpQd5cuyqIsO-OL-KYpwyNFka6nyRH4gIM2NGkHWX_CJjRVeXkzQIdRXATPjz4Rjp47AZOE8oUDV5Qzm/s856/Screenshot%20(150)ab.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="856" height="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8PvncoaVJAAF5eLxfTZjFnQo9KEtdwcC8O5hNaamk_8cgZ9ELzRoJlWwksM63emJTIwDAF2NBg3eepwnWtdlND_2McLZK-eiHdjgSdLFCpQd5cuyqIsO-OL-KYpwyNFka6nyRH4gIM2NGkHWX_CJjRVeXkzQIdRXATPjz4Rjp47AZOE8oUDV5Qzm/w485-h367/Screenshot%20(150)ab.jpg" width="485" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><u>References</u></div><div><br /></div><div>Government of Canada: <a href="https://www.canada.ca/en/environment-climate-change/services/species-risk-public-registry/action-plans/action-plan-ecosystem-ausable-river.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Ecosystem Ausable River: action plan</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div>HistoricBridges.org: <a href="https://historicbridges.org/bridges/browser/?bridgebrowser=truss/river/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">River Road Bridge</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.abca.ca/index.php" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Ausable Bayfield Conservation Authority</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://southcottpines.net/about-us/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Southcott Pines Park Association</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Wikipedia:<span style="color: #2b00fe;"> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Bend#:~:text=3%20Present%20day-,History,Company%2C%20a%20land%20development%20firm" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Grand Bend</span></a></span></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://oldausablechannel.ca/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Friends of the Old Ausable Channel</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div>And there you have it; the truth, the whole truth, and nuttin' but. No funny business like my previous posts. Although I will admit there was some smart-assedness there. I just can't help myself. </div><div><br /></div>Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-82159502727715211632016-03-12T09:36:00.000-05:002016-03-16T21:55:55.917-04:00 Chutes And ScootsMy wife and I recently returned from a vacation in the Dominican Republic. We stayed in the Puerto Plata area. The weather and the resort were lovely. We had a great time.<br />
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UNTIL I came down with a bad case of traveler's diarrhea.<br />
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This wretched affliction is know as <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moctezuma_II" target="_blank">Montezuma</a>'s Revenge to those who have contracted it in Mexico.<br />
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Interestingly, there is a well-known case of en masse Montezuma's Revenge. This happened to the U.S. Marines during the Mexican-American War. After returning from the battle of Chapultepec, dozens and dozens of toilets at the Marine base were in constant use due to the grim aftereffects. These rows of latrines are mentioned in the Marine Hymn — the notorious <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Chapultepec" target="_blank">Halls of Montezuma</a>.<br />
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In my case, I was running around like a distressed Marine for ten days. I was taking so much Imodium that I was considering putting the caplets in a Pez dispenser. I wonder if they make one with a head of Montezuma II?<br />
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<b><i>JUST FILL WITH IMODIUM AND YOU'RE GOOD TO GO</i></b></div>
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<b><i> (OR NOT GO)</i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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At any rate, I was able to enjoy most of our vacation prior to dancing the Dominican Jitterbug. And although we did not take part in many excursions off the resort, we did try one adventure known as the <i>Damajagua Cascades</i> or <i>27 Waterfalls</i>.</div>
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Damajagua, I believe, is a Spanish bastardization of the English utterance, "Damn, this is hogwash." Those words were spoken by many a turista en route to the summit of the cascades.<br />
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That was one tough climb!!! I believe our guides were some sort of Dominican <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sherpa_people#/media/File:Pem_dorjee_sherpa_(2).JPG" target="_blank">Sherpas</a>. I should have known we were in for a grueling ascent when I learned the name of our lead guide — <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edmund_Hillary" target="_blank">Edmundo Hillario</a>.<br />
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Another tip-off for me should have been the fact that I was quite visibly the oldest participant in our group. This is not an undertaking for seniors. In fact, Edmundo took one look at me, gave a small nervous cough, and then expressed to the group that we were only going to tackle 12 waterfalls.<br />
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Now I did not count how many waterfalls and cascades we actually slid down and how many cliffs we jumped off of, but I will say that sliding on your keester over the American Falls at Niagara would only be slightly more dangerous.<br />
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I do tend to exaggerate. Actually, I only suffered a small boo-boo on my right forearm, but my wife's thighs were black and blue after smacking the water during a wicked landing from a twenty-foot precipice jump. Twenty feet might not seem all that daunting to you, dear reader; but consider the fact that we had to aim for an area about the size of a kiddie pool that was surrounded by very mean and menacing rocky rocks.<br />
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I suspect my better half was not concentrating on the task at hand. Perhaps she jumped while contemplating the Pythagorean theorem. This would account for her hitting the water at the angle of a hypotenuse.<br />
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In addition to her thigh bruises, my wife suffered a muscle injury to her chest which gave her pain for several days afterward. I've selflessly offered to massage her chest area.</div>
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For my part, I had previously jumped off a similar cliff in Mexico, but that was several years ago. This time, I was prepared to show everyone how a 62 year old can do it. I had every intention of yelling out on my way down in my best Spanish, "<i>Geronimoooooooo!!!</i>" Instead, I found myself emitting this surprising uncontrollable guttural cry "<i>Aaarrrgggguuuugggghhhhaugggggg</i>!!!"<br />
<br />
<i>SPALOOSH! </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Mercifully, I landed nicely and made it through the rest of the falls unscathed. My wife wasn't faring as well and we found ourselves lagging behind. Edmundo and the other guides had given up on us at this point and I had to give my wife the ol' hands-on-butt boost to get her over one rock barrier. I was ready and willing to help a few of the other women in our group in much the same fashion, but there were no behinds behind us. Drat!<br />
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By the way, I should point out that my beautiful spouse is in very good physical condition. Her biggest problem — and it would be a considerable one in the case of this kind of activity — is that she does not have the sure-footedness of a mountain goat. On the contrary. When traversing rough terrain, my wife looks more like a newborn giraffe on ice skates in an earthquake.<br />
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However, we both completed the task eventually and returned to our resort and the relative calm of Caribbean waves incessantly smashing the beach. That night we were going to enjoy a meal at the resort's Mexican restaurant with two other couples. My wife was too sore to attend. I was too stupid to realize I had gastrointestinal problems already and should have begged off. I ate and drank and suffered terribly. When I returned to our room, my wife's eyes just about popped out when she saw my distended breadbasket. She said I looked like Tim Allen in his early transition stage in the movie <i>The Santa Claus.</i><br />
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<b><i>"WHERE'S THAT PEZ DISPENSER?"</i></b></div>
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I eventually "gave birth" to all that was in me, but it took an excruciating week and a half to get back to normal.<br />
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And, if there's any justice, I may someday host a visitor from the Dominican or Mexico; preferably a descendant of Montezuma II. I will feed him or her a steady diet of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poutine" target="_blank">poutine</a> for an entire week.<br />
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We'll call the consequences of that "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_de_Champlain" target="_blank">Champlain</a>'s Vengeance".<br />
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<br />Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-43218013859295594822016-02-06T15:35:00.002-05:002023-06-08T11:54:02.255-04:00O, To Go TogoPrior to writing this particular blog post, had someone asked me "Where's Togo?", I would have responded — very Tarzan-like — "Toe go in sock, with other toes and rest of foot."<br />
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For reasons which will become apparent, I have now learned a little about Togo and its people.<br />
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Togo is a skinny strip of land in western Africa. It is bordered on the north by another west African country and on either side by yet more west African countries. The south is bordered by a west African body of water. Little else is known of its geography since it is in west Africa.<br />
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The people of Togo speak mainly French and the Gbe languages. A Gbe language is known for its tendency to drop vowels between consonant pairs that have no business being unvoweled. Incidentally, those who are proficient in Gbe are also very skilled at texting. Knw wht I mn? In contrast, the French use very few consonants and take an intolerably long time to text, I'm told.<br />
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I recently received an email from someone by the name of Jamie Scota. Mr. Scota claims to be an attorney from the Republic of Togo.<br />
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Mr. Scota wished to advise me that I am the beneficiary of an inheritance in the amount of fifteen million and eight-hundred thousand U.S. dollars. Now that's quite a sum for anyone; but if you were to convert that into Canadian dollars, that windfall would make me a virtual <i>billionaire </i>($15,800,000 $USD multiplied by $CAD exchange rate and then converted to the metric system).<br />
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He asked that if I were "capable of handling this inheritance claim deal" that I should "kindly revert quickly" with my "positive and prompt feedback".<br />
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Therefore, I would like to use this blog post to publicly give my positive prompt feedback and kindly quick revertance:<br />
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<i>Dear Mr. Scota,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Since I have no relatives or friends who are Togolinian, I mean Togorian, uh Togoin, that is to say citizens of Togo, I am surprised to learn that I have inherited such a large sum from someone in your fine country. I could, however, be mistaken and learn that gigantic inheritances in U.S. funds for Canadians are generally handled by lawyers from Togo.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Although I am pleased that someone has decided to bless me with such a fortune, I must decline since I am really not "capable of handling this inheritance claim deal", as you say.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Not that I don't like money, it's just that I do not wish to spoil my humble life of anonymity and modesty with such a prodigious quantity of jack.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And although I will not be venturing to Africa to pick up my inheritance, I would love to come visit you in your lovely country and maybe have a festive celebration. I've heard that those Togo parties are wild!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Sincerely,</i><br />
<i>G. Thomas Boston, Esq.</i><br />
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AND, as I was composing THAT letter, ANOTHER email from Togo arrived! It reads:<br />
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<i>With Due respect,</i><br />
<i>My name is Mr Richardson Lewis, I work with financial institution here in
Lome Togo. My late client by name Mr. Ruslan who bear the same last name
with you made a numbered time (fixed) deposit valued at (Five million five
hundred thousand US dollars) at my branch. I need your assistance to stand
in as his next of kin and claim this money.The process is simple. We will
apply with your name as his next of kin. I will use my position in the
bank to guarantee the successfull </i>(sic)<i> execution of this transaction. For more
information please contact me.
Thanks. </i><br />
<i>Sincerely.</i><br />
<i>Mr.Richardson Lewis</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So, let me respond to THAT:<br />
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<i>Thank you Mr. Lewis. It seems incredible that I would have TWO inheritances awaiting me in Togo, but as I stated earlier, not much is known of your country and perhaps EVERYONE in the Americas has a multi-million dollar inheritance or two awaiting them. Who knows? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I am slightly puzzled by you assertion that my last name is Ruslan. Perhaps in one of the Gbe languages it comes out that way, but I'm surprised that it doesn't translate as Rsln or Bstn. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Maybe I should rethink this. Perhaps you and Mr. Scota could advance me a few bucks so I can come and pick up my inheritance in style. Just send a cheque in care of <u><a href="https://canshovel.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Snow Shoveling In Canada</a></u>. Two million, no make that three million, ought to do it for now. After a few Togo parties — for appropriate celebration — are completed, I will let you know when I can visit y'all. </i><br />
<i>Thanks a lot!!!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>G. Thomas Boston </i><br />
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<i>P.S.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Togo! </i><i>Togo! </i><i>Togo!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<br />Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-46897878402410354292014-02-18T11:51:00.001-05:002014-02-20T10:35:45.433-05:00Mojito, Less Eat-oQ. What do you get when you cross a Canadian blogger with a Cuban resort?<br />
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A. A much overdue blog post.<br />
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Oh Cuba; land of swaying palm trees, warm sunshine, turquoise waters, and dyspeptic turistas.<br />
<br />
My wife and I just returned from a seven night stay at the Melia Cayo Santa Maria. Our choice for this hotel was based mainly on two factors; the mostly positive reviews on TripAdvisor, and the relatively low cost. Honestly, I believe the management at the Melia must read those good reviews and say, "What? Seriously?"<br />
I swear there are people on TripAdvisor who would give a positive review to the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0054215/" target="_blank">Bates Motel</a>.<br />
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<i><b>"THANK YOU TRIPADVISOR!" SAYS THIS SMILING GUEST OF THE BATES MOTEL</b></i></div>
<br />
Actually, the photo above just about illustrates what I might have looked like had I tried to survive more than a week on the food at the Melia Cayo Santa Maria. More about the food later.<br />
<br />
We flew into Cuba on CanJet, which is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enfield,_Nova_Scotia#Economy" target="_blank">my third favorite Enfield, Nova Scotia based airline</a>. CanJet — the airline that gets you there on time and then keeps your luggage nice and safe on the plane while you relax and have a seat on the edge of the baggage carousel for two hours.<br />
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<i><b>TAKING TIME TO SAVOR THE CANJET EXPERIENCE</b></i></div>
<br />
When we reached the resort, we were greeted with music and champagne (well, not champagne, just some sort of cross between <a href="http://www.bumwine.com/tbird.html" target="_blank">Thunderbird</a> and diluted Aqua Velva). My wife did not finish her drink. I drank most of mine and saved a splash or two as I was in dire need of a good shave.<br />
<br />
We arrived at our room. My heart sank, because, to be frank, it stank. It was dank and rank. Was this a prank? This was an alleged “junior suite” room with "elegance club" privileges. Our “view” was a wild, scrubby, brush area, that separates the hotel from the beach. I almost needed a machete just to sit on our veranda. After two days of enduring this room, we demanded to be moved elsewhere. <br />
<br />
We were relocated to a second floor room in the same building, overlooking the walkway but at least this room was less humid and considerably cleaner. However, the patio door did not lock and the room door only unlocked after several swipes of our room key card. As well, the toilet only flushed every 15 to 20 minutes due to the fact that the tank filled as slowly as someone trying to draw a bath with a squirt gun. Speaking of bathtubs, this was where the shower was. Not a big deal ordinarily, but the sides of the tub were quite high. You had to practically be an Olympic hurdler to get in and out of it. <br />
<br />
Oddly enough, we had no critters in our ground floor room, but we discovered a gecko and another (as yet unidentified and un-Googled) specimen. My wife commented that our original room was likely too creepy for the lizards.<br />
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<i><b> YOUR BASIC GOOGLED GECKO</b></i></div>
<br />
The beach was lovely; nice, wide, clean, and with soft sand. In fact, the sand is so soft and so white, it almost felt as if I were back on our snow-covered Lake Huron beach (but with a temperature differential akin to Mercury vs. Pluto). <br />
<br />
There are two large pools at the Melia. For two days though, we only had the use of one pool as first one, then the other was closed for maintenance. Word from management was that a flocking agent had been added to the pools to clarify the water. I've used flock in my own pool back in Antler River, and the particulate matter that sinks to the bottom is a greyish-white. The stuff at the bottom of these pools was suspiciously green. One worker vacuumed out the pools for what seemed to be 48 hours straight. He wanted to get the flock out of there. In fact, I believe most of us wanted to get the flock out of there. No signs were posted during the closures, so the pool guy had to constantly be on watch to shoo newcomers out of the pool. How dare they just jump in and frolic around in the water like they were on vacation or something?<br />
<br />
We found the drinks to be fine, but inconsistent. Sometimes strong, other times weak. They were served in thimble-sized plastic cups. However, we did enjoy the mojitos (moe-hee-toe). I was hoping the sugar, mint, and lime juice in those was enough to sustain me in lieu of nutritious food.<br />
<br />
<i>Food glorious food
<br />Hot sausage and mustard
<br />While we're in the mood,</i><br />
<i>cold jelly and custard
<br />Pease pudding and saveloys
<br />What next is the question?
<br />Rich gentlemen have it boys
<br />IN-DI-GESTION </i><br />
- from the musical Oliver!<br />
<br />
I do believe that if any of those Dickensian guttersnipes had spent a week at our resort, they would have returned to their gruel at the workhouse and felt like<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diamond_Jim_Brady" target="_blank"> Diamond Jim Brady</a> or Orson Welles sitting down to a meal at The Four Seasons Restaurant in New York.<br />
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<i><b>"Please, sir, I want some more. I just came back from the Melia Cayo Santa Maria and I am frightfully hungry."</b></i></div>
<br />
Lunch at the pool "snack" bar consisted mostly of banana chips and underdone burgers. There were no french fries (no potatoes at all, as we later learned), but listed on the menu was — I kid you not — fried starch. <i>FRIED STARCH!!!</i> After seeing that, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that some of the unidentifiable dishes at the main buffet were grilled lard and sautéed grease. <br />
<br />
The resort ran out of cheese and we were offered pizza without it. We declined. Crackers and ketchup would have been a superior option. And I once made a bad decision to order a hot dog. The meat was a choice blend of sodium-chloride and mystery mush. Mushrooms and potatoes were other items that we could not get at various times.<br />
<br />
"But fear not", I said to my griping grumbling gut! "The à la cartes are coming!"<br />
<br />
Our first à la carte dinner was at the Mediterranean restaurant. One of the main course selections was "fresh fish and shellfish on potatoes". OK. Sounds interesting. Let's give it a try. The waiter brought our dishes out with shining platter covers. Oh boy, this looks good! He waited for just the right moment, and with a flourish, uncovered both plates simultaneously. He did it with such panache, you would swear he was serving up a dish for the Sultan of Brunei. We knew there were no french fries at the pool snack bar, but we were fully expecting the menu-listed tubers for our main course. We were served the fish and seafood (mussels, calamari, shrimp) sans spuds, and in a bowl of broth. It looked exactly like the seafood soup I had just ordered and did not finish due to the fact that there was a particularly unappetizing shrimp, replete with little legs, eyes, and what seemed like foot-long antennae which stuck out of the bowl. Ugh! Strike one of the three à la cartes.<br />
<br />
Our second reservation was a late meal (8 PM) at the Japanese restaurant. This one I was really looking forward to. But after a few bites it started to get to us due to an overabundance of sauces. The chef, who I believe had a black belt in cooking utensils, splashed on soya, teriyaki, garlic, and (I think) <strike>Aqua Velva</strike> Cuban rum. There were many strange indeterminable flavors. We ate a little more than half of what was on our plates, but my stomach paid for it that night. I felt like I was suffering from Tokyo ptomaine toxicity. Strike two on the à la cartes.<br />
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Our final reservation was the Italian. I love Italian food and had worked up a good appetite for this meal. We started with a plate of oil and balsamic vinegar to dip our stale bread into. Then we were given our appetizers. My wife had some strange Gorgonzola salad with a few small items surrounding two wedges of cheese that tasted a lot like plain tofu. My appetizer was a standard bruschetta (which is excellent by the Melia standard). Next up was the minestrone <i>zuppa</i>. Strangest minestrone I’ve ever had. It consisted mainly of peas, carrots, and soggy croutons. I ate maybe half of it. Finally, the main course arrived. My wife ate most of her fish (a whitefish and salmon combo). I ordered the vegetable-stuffed cannelloni. One bite of this chewy, doughy, tasteless mess was enough for me. I had to retire to the buffet to get some pasta to satisfy my hunger. Strike three! À la cartes out!<br />
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By the way, the pasta cook at the buffet once gave me a disdainful look because I ordered rotini. In his opinion, it was fusilli. Believe me, it was rotini. And the stuff in the Italian restaurant was not cannelloni. It was crapolla.<br />
<br />
The buffet had many trays of weird concoctions, with plumes of steam emanating from them which added to the illusion that I was a starving man damned to wander about in some sort of smorgasbord hell. I ate virtually nothing but pasta since everything else I tried I just could not finish. For breakfast, I ate only omelets and fried eggs. I would not touch the scrambled eggs, which my wife described as "chunky yellow soup." We were served <a href="http://www.kraftcanada.com/brands/tangflavourcrystals" target="_blank">Tang</a>ish "orange" juice and inconsistent coffee. Sometimes it was good, while at other times it had the look and consistency of used motor oil. Fruit choices consisted mainly of guava ("Would you care for some guava with your lava java?"), honeydew, cantaloupe, and watermelon that contained as many seeds as molecules.<br />
<br />
On about the fourth or fifth day of these vile victuals, I was tempted to hunt down our room lizards and fry them up on the clothes iron for a nice hot reptile repast. <br />
<br />
After <a href="http://www.canshovel.blogspot.ca/2013/02/cut-rate-cuba.html" target="_blank">last year's experience in Cuba</a>, you would think that I had learned my lesson. Next year if I get the urge to escape the cold and snow, I'll buy a week's worth of food, crank the heat up to 25C, strip down to my shorts, and play my DVD of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0060371/?ref_=nv_sr_4" target="_blank">The Endless Summer</a> over and over.<br />
<br />
I might even post a glowing review of the whole experience on TripAdvisor.<br />
<br />Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-56768048930681192222013-07-05T11:48:00.000-04:002013-07-05T16:28:19.822-04:00Moose And Squirrel: Animals In The News<i>Editor's Note:</i><br />
<i>When I started writing this blog post, I had no intention whatsoever to write about <a href="http://bullwinkle.toonzone.net/characters-bullwinkle.htm" target="_blank">Rocky and Bullwinkle</a>. It is merely coincidence that two of the animals mentioned in these news stories just happen to be a moose and a squirrel.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Our first news item concerns the prairie dog, which is not a dog at all, but a rodent. They really should be called prairie rats but apparently their squeaky warning call sounded like a bark to the person who named them. Yeah right; the bark of a chihuahua with a lungful of helium.<br />
<br />
We first found out about <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/technology/story/2013/06/21/science-prairie-dog-language-decoded.html" target="_blank">this "news" item</a> from the CBC. Here are some excerpts:<br />
<br />
<i>Did that prairie dog just call you fat? Quite possibly.</i>
<i></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>...biologist Con Slobodchikoff described how he learned to understand what prairie dogs are saying to one another and discovered how eloquent they can be...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"They're able to describe the colour of clothes the humans are wearing, they're able to describe the size and shape of humans, even, amazingly, whether a human once appeared with a gun," Slobodchikoff said.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Also remarkable was the amount of information crammed into a single chirp lasting a 10th of a second.</i>
<i></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"In one 10th of a second, they say 'Tall thin human wearing blue shirt walking slowly across the colony.'"</i>
<i></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Slobodchikoff said he has been working with a computer scientist to develop a device that uses voice pattern recognition techniques and artificial intelligence to translate between human and animal speech.</i>
<i></i>
<i></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i></i>
<i>"We could potentially have something maybe the size of a cellphone in five to 10 years where a dog would say, 'Woof' and the device would say. 'I want to eat chicken tonight" or a cat could say, 'Meow,' and the device would say, 'My litterbox is filthy, please clean it.'"</i><br />
<br />
Or, much more likely, a dog's bark would be interpreted as, "If it would not terribly inconvenience you, kindly allow me go out. I want to roll in a rotting squirrel carcass." A cat's meow will most likely come out as, "Why are you getting your knickers tied in a knot over me sharpening my claws on your furniture, you self-absorbed biped? You can expect a nice wet hairball on your white rug tomorrow morning."<br />
<br />
I'm afraid further research by the team at SSIC will be required regarding these grandiose assertions of animal intelligence. However, if we discover that these claims are true, we may soon be seeing these items in the news:
<br />
<ul>
<li> A prairie dog can recite the entire Gettysburg address in just two and one-half chirps.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li> Wild horses have been know to stage operas — like La Traviata and Madame Butterfly — on the open plain. Some individual performances have been said to rival those of Luciano Pavarotti and Beverly Sills. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li> A man in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brandon,_Manitoba" target="_blank">Brandon, Manitoba</a> needed only one hour to teach his basset hound how to build a crystal radio. Within days, the dog was fixing every electronic item in the house and now works for the IT department at the local SPCA.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li> A pot bellied pig from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hartland,_New_Brunswick" target="_blank">Hartland, New Brunswick</a> has pointed out several flaws in the theories contained in Isaac Newton's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philosophi%C3%A6_Naturalis_Principia_Mathematica" target="_blank">Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica</a>.</li>
</ul>
Alright, enough of that nonsense. On now to a <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/manitoba/story/2013/06/13/mb-squirrel-visits-toilet-winnipeg.html" target="_blank">serious news item</a> concerning another member of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sciuridae" target="_blank">family sciuridae</a>.<br />
<br />
Again, we first learned of this story from the CBC. Excerpts from it are in italics. We've editorialized where we deemed it necessary.<br />
<br />
<i>A Winnipeg woman had to act fast after finding a furry home invader taking a bath in her toilet earlier this week.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Angela Campbell said she found a small squirrel floundering in her toilet early Wednesday morning after hearing a strange noise coming from the bathroom of her St. James-area home.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Campbell she was first woken up by her two dogs around 5 a.m. but couldn’t figure out what was bothering the pair until hours later when she heard “big splashing in the toilet.”</i><br />
<br />
Not such an unusual sound, unless of course — as was the case here — there was nobody in the bathroom.<br />
<br />
<i>Campbell didn't know what she would find when she opened the lid of her toilet, so she carefully knocked on the sides of the bowl before lifting the lid.</i><br />
<br />
A prudent practice whenever your find your toilet is making enough noise to wake up your dogs.<br />
<br />
<i>When she finally summoned the courage, she flipped the lid to find a small, drenched squirrel grasping the sides of her toilet bowl.</i><br />
<br />
<i>So Campbell did what any sensible Winnipegger would do — grabbed a pair of BBQ tongs from the kitchen and put the water-logged creature in her bathtub.</i><br />
<br />
Only in Winnipeg do they use this method. In other Canadian cities and towns we use peanuts to lure waterlogged rodents out of our commodes. Then we carry them outside using a spatula.<br />
<br />
<i>“It was just filthy. I didn’t know how it could breathe because it stunk so bad,” said Campbell.</i><br />
<br />
We here at SSIC do not wish to speculate on this particular element of the story.<br />
<br />
<i>So she gave it a quick bath before she tried to release it.</i><br />
<br />
Sometimes I need a little inspiration for my "poetry". I call this piece Zest That Pest:<br />
<br />
A Winnipeg woman was stressed<br />
When she found in her toilet, a pest; <br />
A squirrel that stunk<br />
As bad as a skunk.<br />
So she bathed it with water and Zest.<br />
<br />
<i>Campbell said she had no idea how the squirrel got in her toilet but said the city’s water and waste department was cleaning water mains on her street at the time.</i><br />
<br />
So the squirrel ended up in her toilet by way of a reverse flush?<br />
<br />
Or perhaps — if we are to believe the previous news item — this squirrel is an engineer working for the city's sewer and drainage department. He was likely inspecting the drainage system and was about to file his report when he was ignominiously snatched from his job by a pair of BBQ tongs.<br />
<br />
I hope that woman has insurance. Those water engineer squirrels are a litigious bunch.<br />
<br />
Finally, we move on to <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/nova-scotia/story/2013/06/25/ns-moose-sex-project.html" target="_blank">this story</a> about a much more advanced member of the animal kingdom — the mighty Canadian Moose! <br />
<br />
<i>The Nature Conservancy of Canada has received 316 hectares of private land from a former top diplomat to promote cross-border moose love along the Nova Scotia-New Brunswick boundary.</i><br />
<br />
<i>The land conservation organization has been attempting to assemble a corridor of land on the Chignecto Isthmus between the two provinces as part of its so-called Moose Sex Project.</i><br />
<br />
So if you ever find yourself wandering around in the Maritime Moose Sex Corridor, it would be a good idea to make yourself look as unmoose-like as possible.<br />
<br />
This story also illustrates another way in which other mammals can be just like humans. When it comes to sex, they behave like animals.<br />
<br />Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-76415406135547529392013-06-20T15:28:00.000-04:002013-06-22T12:51:21.893-04:00However, Red IS Canada's National Colour <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The ever-vigilant CBC has provided us with <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/world/story/2013/06/13/canadian-teen-new-york-school-teachers.html" target="_blank">an important story</a> regarding a boy who was has been bullied for being Canadian.<br />
<br />
From the article:<br />
<br />
<i>A 15-year-old boy in Upstate New York alleges that two of his teachers teased him so much about being Canadian that he became depressed, prompting his mother to pull him out of school.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“They’d say things like ‘Canada’s full of communists. They club baby seals. That my opinion doesn’t really matter because I’m a Canadian,’” Noah Kilpatrick said by phone from Watertown, N.Y.</i><br />
<br />
When I first skimmed this article (I'm on an intellectual diet so I only digest skimmed words), I thought the instigators were the boy's classmates. But it was the teachers who were the culprits. You would think adults would know better, but then you look at the state of the world and... Oh well.<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, we here at Snow Shoveling In Canada would like young Noah to know that we have his back. We are here to defend all Canadians from such insults, and to inform and educate others about our country.<br />
<br />
First of all, we are not a bunch of communists. The last time I checked, Stephen Harper and his Conservatives were still the governing federal party in Canada. But — in all fairness to the pubescent and post-pubescent persecutors from Watertown — compared to the U.S. Republicans, our <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tory" target="_blank">Tories</a></span> are a bunch of <span style="color: #ea9999;">pinko</span> reactionaries. When you throw in the <span style="color: #e06666;">Liberals</span>, the <span style="color: #cc0000;">Bloc <span style="font-family: inherit;">Québécois</span></span>, and the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Democratic_Party_%28Canada%29" target="_blank"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: red;">NDP</span></span></a>, Canada would seem to be virtually FULL of communists.<br />
<br />
It is just a coincidence our intrepid RCMP have red uniforms, and that our flag is half red, and that one of <a href="http://www.pch.gc.ca/pgm/ceem-cced/symbl/101/103-eng.cfm" target="_blank">Canada's national emblems</a>, the beaver, is a notoriously <span style="color: red;">social</span> animal. <br />
<br />
Nonetheless, if the Americans tease us enough, we are prepared to spread our socialist agenda like a red plague and contaminate the States with our <span style="color: #cc0000;">Bolshevist</span> ideology. That'll serve 'em right. BAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH!!!<br />
<br />
Now to this business of bashing little pinnipeds. Personally, I’ve never clubbed a baby seal. None of my friends or relatives have either, as far as I know. However, we have been known to quite frequently venture onto the ice and <span style="color: red;">hammer</span> the hell out of each other with <span style="color: red;">sickle</span>-like sticks. This practice is known as "Ice Hockey" and has been designated as Canada's official winter sport. Canada's official summer sport is Lacrosse, wherein we use an even heavier chunk of lumber to beat the maple syrup out of each other on the grass or concrete.<br />
<br />
Come to think of it, that tyke might have done well to advise his American teachers and classmates of the Canadian penchant for using wooden objects to clobber people. They might have thought twice about picking on him.<br />
<br />
Would-be bullies should also be aware that many Canadians like to wield smaller pieces of wood with chopping blades attached. These are the axes of the myriad of lumberjacks who populate our country. Attention Watertown educators and schoolchildren: Consider your next words to a Canadian carefully lest you receive a visit from a gang of angry Paul Bunyanesque loggers.<br />
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<i><b>ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE FOR A TYPICAL CANADIAN </b></i></div>
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<i><b>(IN HIS <strike>FAVORITE</strike> FAVOURITE RED SHIRT)</b></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ekInhc4ld0bJrpfDNmf35SE_fqr_XLY7FZMfauR7MJadDX1n9Tb6Re9_w2AxFkY8ExY5ZmJjmF-XGLVKA1E8tSZNH9b_CMlVhUaujLx-ikGjBMsatz4zqaviHbFkhieWpMWJfNOIXIw/s1600/RCMP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ekInhc4ld0bJrpfDNmf35SE_fqr_XLY7FZMfauR7MJadDX1n9Tb6Re9_w2AxFkY8ExY5ZmJjmF-XGLVKA1E8tSZNH9b_CMlVhUaujLx-ikGjBMsatz4zqaviHbFkhieWpMWJfNOIXIw/s400/RCMP.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b>CANADA'S FEDERAL POLICE FORCE COMING AT YOU IN A SEA OF RED</b></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj287iENVmHLdZieZlDtH7VDZUyJi8vXbN_yeRWUTlMga6sGgtIOUSTltbQeYaFtXdSYpmcpR8a5Te1wVoHMBjWjwxXIjBLH51LRhbv9hNAyJWNSfUPwkxr88m0kPOf02ajbsw5MVScBpk/s1600/DoRight.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj287iENVmHLdZieZlDtH7VDZUyJi8vXbN_yeRWUTlMga6sGgtIOUSTltbQeYaFtXdSYpmcpR8a5Te1wVoHMBjWjwxXIjBLH51LRhbv9hNAyJWNSfUPwkxr88m0kPOf02ajbsw5MVScBpk/s400/DoRight.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b> ADMITTEDLY, OUR HORSES WILL SOMETIMES WEAR RED</b></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxoPOugRF9cpJQeP_Ue_A2tkLSkHuGs8YzXnrdH-DGhImF0oNeBYXSLeTqA0siNheETAewzUU6Grr27CP6hGRgTBo1hgJAq6y0C8q306W1K4peRJiwcSTj-D42-aKv_t2M5OndVpwWv8/s1600/beaver_cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBxoPOugRF9cpJQeP_Ue_A2tkLSkHuGs8YzXnrdH-DGhImF0oNeBYXSLeTqA0siNheETAewzUU6Grr27CP6hGRgTBo1hgJAq6y0C8q306W1K4peRJiwcSTj-D42-aKv_t2M5OndVpwWv8/s400/beaver_cartoon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><b>ONE OF OUR NATIONAL EMBLEMS ADORNED IN A POPULAR CANADIAN <strike>COLOR</strike> COLOUR</b></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5rtVe6wb_RxwmA0HqY4i33cb_WWgOfmHDSR5fWM-Q7-y2xYlGI2jnRXPmHALiVFMhoHlIuVPjP4KK35Hbu2_HbnWvcJUAaCyvIAF98ZB6uq_co1rr87QURBiZopZ0-WWPNRBxtFYxdw/s1600/CommunistCanadian1aa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5rtVe6wb_RxwmA0HqY4i33cb_WWgOfmHDSR5fWM-Q7-y2xYlGI2jnRXPmHALiVFMhoHlIuVPjP4KK35Hbu2_HbnWvcJUAaCyvIAF98ZB6uq_co1rr87QURBiZopZ0-WWPNRBxtFYxdw/s400/CommunistCanadian1aa.jpg" width="310" /></a></div>
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<i><b>WE CANNOT SAY WITH ANY CERTAINTY THAT THERE ARE </b></i><b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">ABSOLUTELY NO</span></i> </span></b><i><b>COMMUNISTS IN CANADA</b></i></div>
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OK. Enough with the Canadian stereotypes. I must say goodbye for now. It's time to lock up the ol' igloo and head to work. Now where did I leave my axe?<br />
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<br />Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713060046547631469.post-38942143486146976242013-06-12T10:58:00.000-04:002015-10-02T11:05:48.195-04:00Mangled Mailboxes, Elevator Survival, and Schnauzers<br />
I'd like to begin this post with some advice that I recently gave to a Facebook friend.<br />
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She was bemoaning the fact that her mailbox was the target of baseball bat wielding thugs. She asked, "What did my mailbox ever do to them?"<br />
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I replied, "It’s not what the mailbox did. It’s what it represents. You see, the average mailbox — even an empty one or one consisting of just junk mail — contains more information than is stored in the average vandal’s brain. The envious mailbox smasher, being naturally devoid of reason, feels that he/she must resort to physical means to destroy that which is a very real threat to their intelligence".<br />
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I know there are some Minikinites who will undoubtedly be enlightened by that message. The mailboxes around here are so rusty, weather-beaten, battered, and bashed that we have the expression, "As mangled as a Minikin mailbox".<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuLI8UOFzO5TwEN8jB0v03oKSsp7A8ZQJhZVwMP9xqAmbRynuL9wbP9VXmc1H5YNkGp5CsBo2nWQvY2mCphTV2ARvULtPWYOWT4YgqjD05KlB5O3VcKF44BSociJi203j5Q-Aej1bl4I/s1600/mmailbox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuLI8UOFzO5TwEN8jB0v03oKSsp7A8ZQJhZVwMP9xqAmbRynuL9wbP9VXmc1H5YNkGp5CsBo2nWQvY2mCphTV2ARvULtPWYOWT4YgqjD05KlB5O3VcKF44BSociJi203j5Q-Aej1bl4I/s400/mmailbox.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<b><i>A STANDARD OLD MAILBOX JUST CANNOT HANDLE</i></b></div>
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<b><i>THE DESTRUCTIVE DEEDS OF A MINIKIN VANDAL</i></b></div>
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And now, the "news":<br />
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Here’s an interesting item:<br />
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<i>VIENNA - The Swedish manager of an Austrian hotel was trapped in a faulty elevator for four days before a bread delivery man heard his cries for help on Friday, police said.</i><br />
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<i>The 58-year-old was in good physical condition after his ordeal in the spa town of Bad Gastein near Salzburg, police in the mountainous Austrian province said.</i><br />
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<i>“He told police he had done a hunting course with survival training in the Swedish military, which stood him in good stead in this case,” a police statement said.</i><br />
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Before I get into the elevator survival business, I just want to mention the town that this allegedly took place in — Bad Gastein.<br />
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BAD GAStein??? In a spa town? I think it might be a good idea to change the town's name to Good Healthstein. Personally, I've always avoided spas when I have bad gas.<br />
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Anyway, after reading this article, I was puzzled because I wasn't sure how a hunting course with survival training would help someone stuck in an elevator. I've read a few survival guides and not once did I find a section on elevator emergencies.<br />
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How does one's knowledge of nutritious plants and roots come into play in such a situation? What difference does it make if you know how to build a lean-to when you are out of the elements and stuck in an enclosed 27 square foot room? Aside from Tarzan's tree <a href="http://www.straightdope.com/columns/read/2620/could-a-human-swing-through-the-jungle-on-vines" target="_blank">vine</a>, devices for up-and-down travel are rarely found in the woods or jungle.<br />
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It could all be an Internet hoax. Where would you find a hotel in Austria — or anywhere for that matter — that would be completely deserted for four days? This is supposedly a spa town full of tourists. But here we have no guests, no visitors, no maintenance workers, no vagrants or burglars; nothing except a solitary bread delivery man after four days! And why was the bread guy delivering his wares to an unoccupied or derelict building?<br />
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This all smells rather fishy. Could it be a publicity stunt pulled off by the “victim" in order to gain fame and fortune? He may be trying to sell a book.<br />
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Here are some examples of what that book — let’s call it <i>Bjorn Bjorkerson’s Guide To Elevator Survival — </i>might contain:<br />
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<i>"Firstly, we will assume that you are not a complete doofus and have already pressed the alarm button and tried the elevator phone. Secondly, we must assume that you are not a tech savvy person and that you do not carry a cell phone. Thirdly, we will assume that you've already created a ruckus by yelling and screaming and pounding on the doors..."</i><br />
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<i>"Go hunting for spiders hanging from webs in the corner of the elevator car. Track down fleas, ticks, and tiny microbes from your body..."</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>"If you know that your day will include some vertical traveling, wear <a href="http://www.delish.com/food-fun/food-fashion#slide-1" target="_blank">edible clothing</a>. Remember however that when help does arrive you may be naked — sated and in good health, but naked..."</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>"I learned in the Swedish military service that you MUST keep a Swiss Army Knife with you at all times, particularly if you plan to manage a multi-story hotel in Austria..."</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>"Use your Swiss Army Knife and unscrew that sign that says, “Maximum capacity not to exceed 16 persons”. Then, using the little saw blade, cut it into pieces to use as firewood (if you do not have a match or lighter, you will have to rub two pieces of the sign together to start your fire). Then, using the tiny screwdriver, unscrew or pry apart your watch. Now hold the watch back-plate with your knife's tweezers and heat over the flames. This makes a dandy little insect and spider frying pan..."</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>"Comb the floor for crumbs. The last passenger may have been eating a muffin, or a donut, or potato chips. Those brown stains you see down there could mean you’re stepping in some <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kladdkaka" target="_blank">Kladdkaka</a>. Lift your shoe and see what nourishing morsels you might uncover. Never underestimate the nutrition to be found on the floor of an elevator..."</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>"Sit very still and wait, wait, wait. Ommmmmm...."</i><br />
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<i>"Cry for help when the bread delivery man comes..."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Come to think of it, maybe there were people in the hotel. There may have been several operational elevators. No one would have noticed that one stuck lift contained a very calm, cool, Swede who might find a week’s stay in a broom closet to be a very agreeable experience.<br />
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Finally, here is a joke I thought some of you might enjoy. It’s a little racier than the usual wholesome fare found at SSIC, so I hope no one is offended.<br />
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<i>A woman noticed that her dog (a Schnauzer) could hardly hear, so she took it </i><i>to the veterinarian. The vet found that the problem was excessive hair in the dog's ears. </i><i>He trimmed and cleaned both ears, and the dog could then hear fine.</i><br />
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<i>The vet then proceeded to tell her that, if she wanted to keep this from </i><i>recurring, she should go to the store and get a hair removal product and rub </i><i>it in the dog's ears once a month.</i><br />
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<i>The woman went to the local drug store and bought some "Nair" hair remover. At the register, </i><i>the pharmacist told her, "If you're going to use this under your arms, don't use </i><i>deodorant for a few days."</i><br />
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<i>She replied, "I'm not using it under my arms."</i><br />
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<i>The pharmacist said, "If you're using it on your legs, don't use body lotion for </i><i>a couple of days."</i><br />
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<i>She then said, "I'm not using it on my legs either. If you must know, I'm </i><i>using it on my Schnauzer."</i><br />
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<i>The pharmacist answered, "Well, stay off your bicycle for about a week".</i><br />
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<u>Editor’s note:</u><br />
This was only a joke. We do NOT recommend the use of any depilatory on any dog — be it Beagle, Poodle, Great Dane, Dalmatian, Labrador Retriever, etc.<br />
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Nor do we recommend its use on Schnauzers. <br />
<br />Guy Thomashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12295921407631250992noreply@blogger.com6