Literary Recommendations From A Boorish Lout

In my previous post, I admitted that my dreams of writing the next great novel have vanished like a mist at break of day which fights with the sun then fades away.

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 read 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.

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, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest a dozen times. 

However, when it comes to some of the classics, I wish I had Googled years ago, "most difficult novels to read". I could have spared myself countless hours of struggling to get through something that I would eventually just give up on.

The books I've started but never finished include:

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
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. 

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 Snore In Peace. It will take its place alongside the various holistic remedies for those who do not wish to take an antihistamine.

Doctor Zhivago - Boris Pasternak
You may also find this book at the drug store as a Snore In Peace competitor, under the brand name Doctor Zzzzzhivago. 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.

Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
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 Great Expectorations.

Canterbury Tales - Geoffrey Chaucer
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 Can't-Be-Hurried Tales. In its original Middle English, it might just as well be the Cantonese Tales.

Moby Dick - Herman Melville
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."

Don Quixote - Miguel de Cervantes
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 The Impossible Dream from Man of La Mancha. Just stare at the picture while listening to the song. You're welcome.

Don Quixote by Pablo Picasso

and

The Impossible Dream performed by Richard Kiley

I have somehow finished two works by Fyodor Dostoevsky; The Brothers Karamazov and Crime and Punishment.

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 War and Peace 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 rascal in the other escapes me.

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 Cuckoo's Nest. Often I will read a sentence or passage and think, "Geez, I wish I had written that." The opening lines to Clive Barker's Weaveworld, or, (believe it or not) the first few paragraphs from Hopalong Cassidy by Clarence E. Mulford, are a couple of examples.

On the other hand, we have this from To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf:

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!

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; Contained therein 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.

Similarly, we have this winner of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest for bad writing in 2021:

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.

I honestly prefer that to the cited howlings from Virginia Woolf.

Here is another good one from the Bulwer-Lytton contest:

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.

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 Paul Clifford .

Bulwer-Lytton is also noted for coining the phrase "the pen is mightier than the sword."

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.

Finally I will leave you with this; the winner of the 1986 Bulwer-Lytton Contest:

The bone-chilling scream split the warm summer night in two, the first half being before the scream when it was fairly balmy and calm and pleasant, the second half still balmy and quite pleasant for those who hadn't heard the scream at all, but not calm or balmy or even very nice for those who did hear the scream, discounting the little period of time during the actual scream itself when your ears might have been hearing it but your brain wasn't reacting yet to let you know.

That's what I call good bad writing; suitable for a boorish lout like me.

When Is Easter? It's A Moveable Feast, Sir

 ♫ "In your Easter bonnet... "♪

“Oh, yeah? Well, the same to you Mac!”

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 ancient Roman data processing machine. To illustrate how confusing this all is, the third day before Easter has been called Monday Thursday.

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.

Hot cross buns! Hot cross buns!
One a penny two a penny - hot cross buns
If you have no daughters, give them to your sons
One a penny two a penny - hot cross buns

Luckily, I never had any sisters.

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 lagomorph 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).

If you need proof, check out these images of little tykes having their photo taken with the Easter Bunny:

Yipes!

Easter bunnies from the mind of Stephen King!

"Here comes Peter Cottontail!!!"

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 movie about this annual March/April march.

From a Wikipedia article about the Easter Parade and the fine apparel associated with it:

“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.

At Easter let your clothes be new,

Or else be sure you will it rue.”

At Easter let your clothes be new, Or else be sure you will it rue??? 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:

At Easter time new clothes do get,
Or you damn sure will it regret.

That's much better. 

I recall as a kid in school we sang:

♪ On the Avenue, Fifth Avenue,
The photographers will snap us
And you'll find that you're in the rotogravure.♫ 

When it came to that last word, we may just as well have been asked to sing pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. 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 rotogravure means.

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.

♫ Oh, I could write a sonnet about your Easter bonnet…♪

 But I won't. I'll just wish you a Happy Easter; whenever that is.

Eh? Account? Absolutely Not!

A is for Absolutely Not!

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. 

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.

But, because I'm amiable and it would be appropriate, I will start with A.

A is for Account.

Has anyone else ever wondered why we have to create an account for virtually every site that we visit on the Internet? 

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.

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 Merriam-Webster Dictionary of Passwords. 

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 brontobyte 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.  

In light of the popularity (forget about usefulness) of accounts and their necessary passwords, the management here at Snow Shoveling In Canada 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.

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 Merriam-Webster Dictionary.  

Also, your password must contain an image or pictograph. As well, at least one Chinese character and one Egyptian hieroglyph are required. 

For example:

yUnL%@VDJpx 4#!5 龙 &Wh ^%O𓃥olPL39?🌋

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 bot. 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. 

Select all images with a bus. Better not make a mistake!

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).

Just do your best. We don't really care. Getting you as frustrated as possible is our only concern.

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. 

On further thought and in typical magnanimous fashion, we've decided to simplify our password requirements somewhat. Here are our new proposed requirements:

• 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.
• Your second secret character must be lower case and be the next letter in the alphabet immediately after your first chosen letter.
• 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.
• The fourth through sixth "special to me" characters need to be a numerical sequence of numbers greater than 122 but not more than 124. 
• Finally, an exclusive special character must be used other than @#$%^&*()+?{}|\][~`></'";: or ,..

That simplifies things, doesn't it? If you should somehow forget your password, just copy and paste the following:  Abc123! 

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? 

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. 

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 (tra la).

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.

Also, as a token of our appreciation, premium members will receive a coffee mug, sweatshirt and badge.

Gifts of Great Account

And keep an eye peeled for the all new Snow Shoveling In Canada app; available wherever appetizers are sold.

OK. That's enough of that nonsense. Seriously, does anybody really need another account? Absolutely not! 

But there truly must be a need for some reliable Certified Password Accountants.

Our Wild Minikin

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:

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. 

A closeup view shows what looks to be an eyeball straining to see through the fabric:

I suppose a distorted view is better than no view. But perhaps not, as we will discuss shortly.

Does anyone remember a TV documentary series years ago called Wild America? 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.   

Bearded and outdoorsy, but very sweet

My wife and I — savage beasts that we are — really enjoyed watching Wild America and getting an up close look at all those feral, and often dangerous critters from the comfort of our living room and creature comforts. 

Little did we suspect that there are real perils lurking about just outside the door! Case in point: recently in a Facebook group for a nearby town, 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! 

I'm no zoologist, despite evidence to the contrary, 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.

Once in a blue moon, someone might see a black bear. 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 beach coyotes!

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. 

Standard Southwestern Ontario Mountain Lion

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. 

Not a bald eagle, but a ptypical pterosaur. "Look out below!"

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.

Not fearsome? Try telling that to a grasshopper or a cricket!

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 "honk"? They must have been so cute!

A Face Only A Mother Could Love

Momma or Poppa on the other hand:

Hey There Handsome!

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.

A woman became panic-stricken 

Her heartbeat had started to quicken

Through badly smudged specs

She saw a T-Rex

But with clean lenses saw just a chicken

 

Anyone have a recipe for coq au vin?

The Record-Setting Diet Plan

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.

Well I've got news for you; if you want to rack up the views, just mention a diet plan 

My most viewed post here at Snow Shoveling In Canada by far (record-setting in a way) is The Purg-Odan Weight Loss Plan, an entry wherein I chronicle my preparation for a colonoscopy.

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." 

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 real weight loss plan. This is a satire blog and people should not lend credence to many of the words published here.

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.

As an example, I present an actual comment submitted by one Songlung Makye.

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 !!!"

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.

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 Stümbborn (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. 

From the civic anthem of Stümbborn:

♫ Schnitzel and strudel and rich food from Stümbborn

Can't put on pants without using a shoehorn

Noshing at Arby's and then Burger King

These are a few of our favorite things

Pound cake with frosting and pie with molasses

Pounds that will stay on our hips and our asses

Gorging ourselves till we break a bedspring

these are a few of our favorite things

When the doc cites

All those mean things — 

Unappealing stats

We eat two grams less of our favorite things

And then we don't feel so fat. ♪

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? Oscar Ham-and-stein?

Just a snack for a well-known Stümbborn lyricist

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 Sara Lee?" My brother seemed a little dazed. My dad on the other hand had a hearty laugh. 

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.

Here is a food-related "news" item from UPI:

"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.

Alan Falle and Scott Welsh earned the Guinness World Record for fastest marathon dressed as a sweet food (male) when they crossed the finish line together after 3 hours, 48 minutes and 12 seconds."

There's a load of malarkey, and just in time for Saint Patrick's Day! I mean seriously, what kind of record is that?

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)?' 

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.

But why should Guinness have a monopoly on listing dubious world records? 

I present to you some snippets from my forthcoming publication, "The Snow Shoveling In Canada Book of World Records" (readers should imagine some world record setting fanfare here).

• A runner from Greece, Spyridon Louis, 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!
• 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.
• Adam Sandler holds the record for starring in more bad movies than anyone in Hollywood history (a verifiable fact if ever there was one).
• "The Purg-Odan Weight Loss Plan" is the world's most ineffective diet.
• 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 very successful business.
• 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.

I did say, "caveat lector" did I not? 

Perhaps Guinness should too.

Therein Go Dog, Swearin' Go Pa, Erin Go Bragh

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).

But spring is on its way. 

Ah, spring! — hearts sweetened by flowers;

chill ousted by warmth

and more daylight hours

And the emergence of long buried dog poop.

Dah, dah, dog owner,

Have you any poop?

Yes sir, yes sir

Three bags scooped.

Two for the garbage,

One for a gag;

Place it on the neighbors porch -

Set fire to the bag.

Editor's Note:
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; 

"But I read it on that most trustworthy of blogs. You know, Snow Shoveling in Canada!"

"Go to your room." replies the strict but reasonable adult.

"For the poop bag trick?"  cries the youngster.

"No. For reading Snow Shoveling In Canada."

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!

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!

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. 

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 Saint Patrick's Day riot of 2012 in nearby Antler River. 

But back to those days long ago. As I was about to say, me and me muckers 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. 

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 Snag Breacs. Meanwhile, my brother Greg asked our father - seated at the table with us - "What does "Erin Go Bragh" mean?" Ol' Da leaned into him and said in a low voice, "It means 'go **** yourself'."

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 pretty darned good singer, and many there were happy to see him finally getting up for a song or two. 

Before he got into his first song, he had a few words for the crowd. "Erin Go Bragh everybody! Erin Go Bragh! Right Greg? Erin Go Bragh!" he boomed into the mic. Needless to say, my brother was doubled over with laughter. 

While we're talking St. Patrick's Days of yore, I must tell you a story of mine from my early school days. 

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.

"Clover!" came the first guess.
"No," replied teacher.

A quick succession of guesses came next, all followed with a "no" reply.

"Four leaf clover."
"Three leaf clover."
"Green clover."
"Clover leaf," and so on.

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. 

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."

I stood tall and proud and exclaimed, "Ramshock!"

The teacher just said "no" and went to the next student as if I had just blurted out the standard "clover" answer.

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 clover. And don't you think Ramshock would be a great name for a heavy metal band?

Attention grade two students:

Left to right - Shamrock, Ramshock

Returning now to current Saint Patrick's Days; another way I celebrate is to make some Irish Stew.

Here's the recipe:

Ingredients:
1 batch of any beef stew (a can of Dinty Moore will do)

2 or 3 beers

1 bottle Irish whiskey

Directions:

Warm up stew

Pour 1/4 cup of beer into stew

Add 1 tablespoon Irish whiskey

Drink remaining beer and whiskey

Pass out

On awakening, put stew in refrigerator

Eat a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal (if you can, that is. They're magically delicious, don't ya know?)

Editor's Note:

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.

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 Bloody Caesars.

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.

 

Finally, to all the kids out there; if your parents should send you to bed for reading Snow Shoveling In Canada, just say to them with a smile and a wink, "Erin Go Bragh!"

A River Doesn't Run Through It

Unexpectedly and forgoing fanfare,

I loom up from the fog of quietude,

Emerging like a reverse shipwreck

On the Blogger Sea

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.

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.

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. 

My home is located within a 2 minute walk to the shore of Lake Huron. The closest notable town is Grand Bend, which is technically a community within the municipality of Lambton Shores. 

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. Parkhill Creek it is.

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!

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.

Many of these websites have not responded which leads me to believe one of three things:
One, they don’t care what the dammed (in Parkhill) waterway is called;
Two, they stubbornly and defiantly hang on to the belief it’s still the Ausable despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary;
Three, and most likely, these are old sites which no longer have a working or caring web administrator.

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).

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.

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.

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).

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 Arkona — 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.

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. 

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.

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? "Show me." 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. 

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."

References

Government of Canada: Ecosystem Ausable River: action plan

HistoricBridges.org: River Road Bridge

Ausable Bayfield Conservation Authority

Southcott Pines Park Association

Wikipedia: Grand Bend

Friends of the Old Ausable Channel

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. 

Chutes And Scoots

My 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.

UNTIL I came down with a bad case of traveler's diarrhea.

This wretched affliction is know as Montezuma's Revenge to those who have contracted it in Mexico.

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 Halls of Montezuma.

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?

JUST FILL WITH IMODIUM AND YOU'RE GOOD TO GO

 (OR NOT GO)

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 Damajagua Cascades or 27 Waterfalls.

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.

That was one tough climb!!! I believe our guides were some sort of Dominican Sherpas. I should have known we were in for a grueling ascent when I learned the name of our lead guide — Edmundo Hillario.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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, "Geronimoooooooo!!!" Instead, I found myself emitting this surprising uncontrollable guttural cry "Aaarrrgggguuuugggghhhhaugggggg!!!"

SPALOOSH!  

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!

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.

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 The Santa Claus.

"WHERE'S THAT PEZ DISPENSER?"

I eventually "gave birth" to all that was in me, but it took an excruciating week and a half to get back to normal.

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 poutine for an entire week.

We'll call the consequences of that "Champlain's Vengeance".

O, To Go Togo

Prior 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."

For reasons which will become apparent, I have now learned a little about Togo and its people.

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.

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.

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.

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 billionaire ($15,800,000 $USD multiplied by $CAD exchange rate and then converted to the metric system).

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".

Therefore, I would like to use this blog post to publicly give my positive prompt feedback and kindly quick revertance:

Dear Mr. Scota,

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.

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.

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.

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!

Sincerely,
G. Thomas Boston, Esq.

AND, as I was composing THAT letter, ANOTHER email from Togo arrived! It reads:

With Due respect,
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 (sic) execution of this transaction. For more information please contact me. Thanks. 
Sincerely.
Mr.Richardson Lewis

So, let me respond to THAT:

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 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. 

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 Snow Shoveling In Canada. 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.  
Thanks a lot!!!

G. Thomas Boston 

P.S.

Togo! Togo! Togo!

Moose And Squirrel: Animals In The News

Editor's Note:
When I started writing this blog post, I had no intention whatsoever to write about Rocky and Bullwinkle. It is merely coincidence that two of the animals mentioned in these news stories just happen to be a moose and a squirrel.


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.

We first found out about this "news" item from the CBC. Here are some excerpts:

Did that prairie dog just call you fat? Quite possibly.

...biologist Con Slobodchikoff described how he learned to understand what prairie dogs are saying to one another and discovered how eloquent they can be...

"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.

Also remarkable was the amount of information crammed into a single chirp lasting a 10th of a second.

"In one 10th of a second, they say 'Tall thin human wearing blue shirt walking slowly across the colony.'"

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.

"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.'"

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."

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:

•     A prairie dog can recite the entire Gettysburg address in just two and one-half chirps.

•     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.

•     A man in Brandon, Manitoba 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.

•     A pot bellied pig from Hartland, New Brunswick has pointed out several flaws in the theories contained in Isaac Newton's Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica.

Alright, enough of that nonsense. On now to a serious news item concerning another member of the family sciuridae.

Again, we first learned of this story from the CBC. Excerpts from it are in italics. We've editorialized where we deemed it necessary.

A Winnipeg woman had to act fast after finding a furry home invader taking a bath in her toilet earlier this week.

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.

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.”

Not such an unusual sound, unless of course — as was the case here — there was nobody in the bathroom.

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.

A prudent practice whenever your find your toilet is making enough noise to wake up your dogs.

When she finally summoned the courage, she flipped the lid to find a small, drenched squirrel grasping the sides of her toilet bowl.

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.

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.

“It was just filthy. I didn’t know how it could breathe because it stunk so bad,” said Campbell.

We here at SSIC do not wish to speculate on this particular element of the story.

So she gave it a quick bath before she tried to release it.

Sometimes I need a little inspiration for my "poetry". I call this piece Zest That Pest:

A Winnipeg woman was stressed
When she found in her toilet, a pest;
A squirrel that stunk
As bad as a skunk.
So she bathed it with water and Zest.

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.

So the squirrel ended up in her toilet by way of a reverse flush?

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.

I hope that woman has insurance. Those water engineer squirrels are a litigious bunch.

Finally, we move on to this story about a much more advanced member of the animal kingdom — the mighty Canadian Moose!

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.

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.

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.

This story also illustrates another way in which other mammals can be just like humans. When it comes to sex, they behave like animals.

However, Red IS Canada's National Colour

The ever-vigilant CBC has provided us with an important story regarding a boy who was has been bullied for being Canadian.

From the article:

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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 Tories are a bunch of pinko reactionaries. When you throw in the Liberals, the Bloc Québécois, and the NDP, Canada would seem to be virtually FULL of communists.

It is just a coincidence our intrepid RCMP have red uniforms, and that our flag is half red, and that one of Canada's national emblems, the beaver, is a notoriously social animal.

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 Bolshevist ideology. That'll serve 'em right. BAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH!!!

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 hammer the hell out of each other with sickle-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.

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.

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.

ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE FOR A TYPICAL CANADIAN 

(IN HIS FAVORITE FAVOURITE RED SHIRT)

CANADA'S FEDERAL POLICE FORCE COMING AT YOU IN A SEA OF RED

 ADMITTEDLY, OUR HORSES WILL SOMETIMES WEAR RED

ONE OF OUR NATIONAL EMBLEMS ADORNED IN A POPULAR CANADIAN COLOR COLOUR

WE CANNOT SAY WITH ANY CERTAINTY THAT THERE ARE ABSOLUTELY NO COMMUNISTS IN CANADA

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?