January election, eh?

And Gilles Duceppe was overheard singing...
"Mon élection, ce n'est pas une élection, c'est l'hiver."

Christmas is coming, the GMO dog-goose is getting fat

Again, mes amis, another recycle. This one is adapted from a fave bit from my short-lived foray into amateur stand-up. I'd like to say it loses something when read as opposed to performed, but (and maybe this is why I don't do stand-up anymore) it doesn't. Jeers, H.

Just in time for Christmas, they’ve come out with this DNA Home Science Kit for kids, where children learn to extract actual DNA from plants.

Now, unless your kids are complete angels, this is not a smart gift idea. You let a bratty kid play with the building blocks of life, and before long the family cat is giving birth to kittens that look a wee bit too much like... the family dog.

Then come spring, you cut into some broccoli you just picked from the garden, only to find it’s filled with chocolate pudding.

This is wrong, and you'll want to do something about it. But some of you parents (and you know who you are) won’t be able to punish them. Why not?

Because they’ll know how to do their own paternity tests.

Little Johnny: “I don’t have to listen to you. You aren’t my Daddy!”

“The hair samples don’t lie… Bill.”

“And by the way, did you know you’re genetically predisposed to baldness?”

“No wonder mommy cheated on you!”

I take that back -- it does lose something. My self-respect. Was that ever funny?

Flashback: Let me cram that smile up your aisle

Y'all.... As this serious lack of fresh bloggage is starting to get me down, I've dug up a little commentary I spewed out in another forum it seems like eons ago, just to fill some space. Perhaps that's a real faux pas in the world of Blog.. but then again, I also pee sitting down -- your rules mean notihng to me!!! Jeers, H.

“As a Club Card member, you saved $3.18 today, Mr. – ” The impossibly fresh-faced cashier pauses when she sees my ten letter-long last name at the bottom of my receipt.

“So,” I think, “What’s it gonna be today? C’mon, girl, sound it out!”

Clearly not a graduate of Hooked on Phonics, she bails and opts for the ever-popular say-it-fast fake-out technique, rapidly firing off an incoherent string of apparently random vowels and consonants – several of which are not in my name.

“If the checkout girl career doesn’t pan out,” I say under my breath, “you’ve got a future singing scat.”

Not her fault, though. Clearly we’re dealing with an edict from on high declaring that, in order to make me feel all appreciated and small-town neighbourly, cashier gal must address me by my name – be it Russian, Inuit or common harbour porpoise. Not sure what your focus group told you, Mr. Safeway (there is a Mr. Safeway, right?), but a complete stranger bungling my name – from a computer printout, no less – doesn’t make me feel like I’m Pa Ingalls buying provisions at Olsen’s General Store.

Then I’m at Thrifty Foods, where “Smiles in the Aisles” is not just a catchy slogan – it’s a freakishly accurate mantra. Every last employee I see (and some I don’t, I’m sure) flashes me this Vaseline-toothed Miss Canada grin that seems to say not “Hello, welcome. I’m pleased to help you,” but more like, “Hello, I’m trapped in a cult. Please help.”

At the checkout, my smiling cashier – Marcie, according to the smiley-face nametag – is cheerily assisted by another smiling employee (also Marcie), who affixes a neon smiley-face sticker to my only purchase, a jug of milk.

“Enjoy your milk,” she chirps.

Enjoy my milk? Granted, that’s probably the designated one-item shopper farewell on page 1821 of Thrifty's (no doubt rainbow-adorned) customer service manual. But I wonder: what would she say if I my one item were a pack of condoms, a bottle of Imodium… or a jumbo tube of Preparation H?

Give me the basics in customer service – a polite hello, correct change and unsquished Wonderbread – and I’m a happy shopper. Anything more is nice (indeed, mildly flirtatious banter with a supermarket cashier is the most action I get some weeks), but only if it is unforced.

If I want fake smiles, I’ll poke a gassy baby in the belly. If I want to be called by name, I’ll wear the freaking nametag. And whether I enjoy my Prep H.. well, that's my business.

.

New Release: The Gomery Report Part 1

Ah yes, the definitive word is in on the Scandal of the Century.

Good thing the good Judge wrote it in "everyday language" -- otherwise its 1400 pages might be a tad daunting for average schmos like me. But if it's plainly written... well then, it should a breeze to just squeeze it in between War and Peace and the King James edition of the Bible. After all, now that the NHL has moved to hurry-up faceoffs, we've all got some extra time on our hands.

Listen, Judge G. If you really want to get this stuff down to a managable size and format for everyday Canadians, here's what you do.... Put it on the back of a rental DVD box.

Tell us what we need to know: the names of the main actors, the plot in 5o words or less and the number of instances of coarse language, violence and nudity. (Oh yeah, and about the nudity... for the love of God please specify whether it involves Sheila Fraser, 'cause you can't fit enough dirty money in an envelope to make me watch that.)

Then order that the empty cases be stocked on the shelves of video rental outlets across Canada. Maybe put a catchy title on the front. Something like Fried Green Mandarins under a Laurentian Sun for the gals, Liberal Coeds Gone Wild... with a Vengance for the guys.

Intrigued, John and Joan Canuck flip over the the box and read the back. 3.2 seconds later (4 seconds in Moosejaw) it's, "Ah, so that's what the sponsorship scandal is all about. Now I know. Thanks, Judge Gomery!"

And they walk away, better informed and free to get down to the real issues on the mind of the average Canadian -- Monster-in-law or Herbie Fully Loaded?