Lord tundering jesus, whazzat in me gandy, ma?

In the Wikipedia entry for "Pancake Day", one finds this little morsel of information:

In the Canadian province of Newfoundland, household objects are baked into the pancakes and served to family members. Rings, thimbles, thread, coins, and other objects all have meanings associated with them. The lucky one to find coins in their pancake will be rich, the finder of the ring will be the first married, and the finder of the thimble will be a seamstress or tailor. Children have great fun with the tradition, and often eat more than their fill of pancakes in search of a desired object.

Maybe I've been living under a rock when it comes to life on the Rock, but I have never, ever heard of this. Mummering, yes. Codfish kissing (sometimes with tongue), yes. But intentionally feeding your kids foreign objects? Go on witchya, b'y!

Could somebody please confirm this for me? (Surely there must be one Newfoundlander who reads this blog. It is a loverly seafoam green, after all... and smells strangely of fish heads. Anyone? Okay, somebody who knows a Newfoundlander. A guy with a dinghy?)

And if it's true, please tell me there are limits on what goes into the batter -- because otherwise, that could be a damn traumatic way for little Matthew Murphy to learn he's destined to become the town's next forensic pathologist.

Got de heaves, b'y?

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Ciao Olympica (or: Next Sunday, bran muffins)

Judging from my recent lack of regularity in posting, it would appear that my army of blogging monkeys has gotten into the cheddar again. Always blocks them up. But they've managed to squeeze out a few random Olympic thoughts. Call it a last shot of Olympic spirit: citius, altius, exlaxus (swifter, higher, more likely to produce in explosive bursts).

The Olympics are over. Well, I'm assuming those were the closing ceremonies on TV this morning. Otherwise, Andrea Bocelli and Avril Lavigne are touring together. And the steering on Sam Sullivan's wheelchair is seriously messed up.

(As an aside, did you see Sammy spin around with that flag? Christo, a couple of times I thought he was going to drive off the edge of the stage. That would have been awful. Unless he wasn't injured, and somebody held up a "6.0" card -- that would have been awfully hilarious, in an inappropriate and quite possibly insensitive sort of way.)

Speaking of almost big finishes, Canada finished third in the medal standings. Not bad. Not quite on top, but right below the guys below the guys on top. If the medal standings were a bunkbed, Canada would be sleeping on the floor under the bottom mattress, uncomfortably wedged against some lego and hoping that the US went pee before bedtime.

A best-ever 24 medals -- that's what a year's worth of our $110M five-year commitment to funding our elite young athletes has bought us so far. Let's see, at $22M a year (carry the two, solve for X, subtract the absolute value of pi)... that works out to about $916,666 per medal.

Some would call that a lot to pay for a few moments of superficial national pride and a glorified mantle ornament. (Or was that something for the DVD rack? Perhaps a re-release of The Cutting Edge, widely recognized as the 2nd worst movie ever made, just behind the critically panned independent film, My Life as a Booger.)

Anyway, $917k is a lot of coin to blow on, well, a coin -- especially when you think about the legacy those funds could have established for thousands of young Canadians in real need.

Consider the following: at that price, Pierre Lueders' silver in bobsleigh would put every one of Canada's estimated 18,336 tobogganless children in a brand new GT Free Flight Sno Racer (now only $49.99 at Canadian Tire). To paraphrase from the Bible: give a man a fish and you feed him for a day... give a child a hypersonic kiddie luge with a rigid plastic ski at the front, and you don't need to feed him much of anything anymore, what with the bowel ressection that will follow his inevitable 72 km/h gut-impalement at the bottom of Johnson's hill.

Consider further that, for the price of Team Gushue's gold in curling (often described as the geekiest winter sport) we could get every nerdy teenage guy on every Reach for the Top team in Canada a thrilling, and instructive, night with a high-priced hooker. Growing up, that was my Olympic dream. I still get a tear in my eye just thinking of it. (Hurry hard, lads, hurry hard!)

And for the cost of just one of the record five speekskating medals pumped out by Cindy Klassen's formidable and well-funded thighs, this country could have bestowed a ThighMaster Gold on as many as 84,955 of its most underprivileged (as in, undertoned) young women. And that's a lifetime of superficial pride, not to mention a 90-day warranty.

I mean, let's get our priorities straight, people.

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Okay, since everybody else is doing it...

I guess I should make my own Bollywood movie. Let's try a little action. Maybe a little romance. But surely not an LPC election training video.

[tip of the toque to the 204]

Thursday, Feb. 23... UPDATE: Please, somebody organize an intervention. I just can't stop.

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And let me say this, for no particular reason...

The manner in which my recent blog entries were worded made it seem that Mr. Kinsella and Mr. Bourrie were

(a) gigantic (not to mention poorly animated) fictional creatures having a decidedly "anti-cities" agenda;
(b) ill-tempered children; and
(c) impotent (okay, I didn't actually imply that, but I was going to);

when this was clearly not the case.

On the contrary, I do now recognize that both gentlemen are

(a) of (at best) average stature, pro-city, and very lifelike;
(b) in all respects decidedly un-childlike (except for Bourrie's thing for dinosaurs. Er, and Warren's. Hey, they had more in common than they knew!); and
(c) brimming, nay oozing, with potency (okay, that thought I didn't need) ;

and I apologize without reservation to Mr. Kinsella and Mr. Bourrie for that error on my part, and on the part of the Devil who (isn't it always the way?) made me do it.

Kisses,
Hav

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Um, like, excuse me? I didn't say this could be over!

So, right on the eve of what was going to be, bar none, the most hilarious post I or anybody else in my immediate family has done in days, nay, weeks, we get this...

So, I want to say this:

The manner in which my January 14, 2006 blog entry was worded made it seem that Mr. Kinsella had been a party to illegal conduct when this was clearly not the case. I apology without reservation to Mr. Kinsella for that error on my part. [Ottawa Watch]

And this....

February 21, 2006 - Mark Bourrie and I have reached a settlement. At his web site, and here, Bourrie has agreed that the following should be published:

"The manner in which my January 14, 2006 blog entry was worded made it seem that Mr. Kinsella had been a party to illegal conduct when this was clearly not the case. I apologize without reservation to Mr. Kinsella for that error on my part." Mark Bourrie

That should assist in bringing the matter to a close. I won't add any commentary, because everyone who reads this knows what it means. [Kinsella]

So, like, thanks. Am I just chopped liver here? Was anybody going to consult me? Hello... the Sultan. I thought we had an understanding: you feud, I mock, both my regular readers chuckle half-heartedly.

You're acting like you don't even care about what I have invested in this. I mean, I'm the injured party here. Who's apologizing to me?

To Bourrie, I say this: I want my Cheetos back -- with interest! (One of those mini bags of Dorritos would be fine. Maybe a flat of Pepsi. Beef jerky's okay too.)

To Kinsella I say this: See, Warren, just see if I ever give you another idea like the Stockwell Day-Barney gag again. And you can sooo find yourself another studio drummer.

To everybody else I say this: any ideas for a funny post?

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Warren versus Mark II: Say, wasn't that a book from the New Testament?

Okay, where was I? Seems like days ago. Right... Kinzilla versus Markthra. Innocent children photoshopped all to hell. Lawyers, bloody lawyers. Sultans. Somebody was ordering beer. Oh yeah -- and some jackass promised a solution.

So here's what the Sultan of Jackass has come up with so far: Reality TV.

Well, I didn't really come up with reality TV. According to Wikipedia, that's credited to some Italian guy named Circa, and apparently he did it in the year 2000 (or thereabouts). But reality TV is where I found my inspiration for a way out of the defamoblogopolitical quagmire.

(As an aside, I've always turned to TV for answers. When I was a 20-something playboy chef with two nubile roomies and a pestering landlord, TV taught me that hilarity was just a misheard conversation away. Earlier, when I was a chubby-cheeked African-American boy adopted by a wealthy white widower, it taught me that the way out of any tricky situation was to ask my older brother what he was "talkin' 'bout". Later, when I was four older women living together in Miami... You get the picture.)

Anyway, back to Warren and Mark. Did I say we're going to put them in a custom-made reality TV show? Well, get this: we're going to put them in a custom-made reality TV show. (Well, not really. It's just going to be pretend. You know how I pretend to be funny? Just like that.)

As for the custom-made part, apparently I've got to do that, too. Apparently, I have to do everything around here, 'cause none of you are helping any. I mean, you'd think I'd get some useful suggestions via e-mail. Not a one. Actually, that's not true -- I got one useful suggestion via e-mail. But I don't think the "all new Enlargomatic" is all that relevant here.

Anyway, this is proving to be a bit of a challenge since I'm far from a reality TV fanatic. Never was a Big Brother guy. I don't do Apprentice. Yes, I've dabbled in Survivor, but only to do vacation planning and brush up on my cultural anthropology.

But I think I have a grasp of the genre. A little man versus man, some man versus nature. Some water versus bikini never hurt.

And I have had some ideas. My first couple I tossed right away -- one, Canadian Aging Punk Rock Idol, because it unfairly favoured Kinsella, and the other, Canada's Next Top Amateur Paleontologist Who is Being Bullied By An Irrelevant Political Blowhard, because, well... no reason. (Is that a libel chill in here, or are my nipples just that naturally perky?)

I gave some serious thought to an Ottawa-based version of Fox's family-reality series Nanny 911 -- which I was going to call Nanny 613. The description for the original show ("unruly tykes" and "temper tantrums") seemed very apropos of the Kinsella-Bourrie affair. But then I learned that the nanny's preferred punishment each time an unruly brat acts out is one minute of "time out" for each year of the child's age. I have no clue how old Bourrie is, but Kinsella is no spring chicken (I mean, check out the hairline). That much dead air (and forehead) is just bad TV.

Also, I've been inspired by the competitive spirit of the Olympics, embodied in its motto: citius, altius, fortius (swifter, higher, uh... more treehouselike?) . These guys need to go head to head. Toe to toe. With any luck, thumb to eyeball. The result must be conclusive... and humiliating. (As in, exactly like this blog is for me, but with more conclusiveness.)

Stay tuned for the finale. Jeff Probst to appear as guest blogger (could happen).

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If I had a nickel for every visit to my blog

...I'd have about $48.75.

Which, coincidentally, is exactly the upper limit of what would be offered should anyone put a out a fatwa on my ass. (A fatwa on the rest of me would fetch another $18.50. Proportionally speaking, my ass is very valuable.)

Also, $48.75 happens to be just enough coin to buy two of these or two of these, both of which I'll have to keep in mind as possible elements of a Kinsella-Bourrie solution.

But I digress. The point is that I'm closing in on my 1000th visitor. Four digits. The big One Grand. The perfect number for a lameass political slogan about "points of light". Surely, 1000 must be a milestone. I mean, some people get a measly 919 hits and call that a record.

So maybe I should stay up waiting for the magic moment. Put on a pot of coffee, watch a few infomercials, maybe look up some more sites about that 919 thing. Or maybe not. At my rate of traffic, I'd be up all night. Er, and the next. Tuesday -- it couldn't take past Tuesday, could it? Anyway, that's more caffeine, food dehydrators and porn academically justifiable sexuality research than even I can handle.

So it's off to bed with me, where I'll have dreams of being, very soon, a (sigh) blog-thousandaire. And ma said I'd never amount to nothing!

Shit, I hope I don't have to give out a frigging prize.


UPDATE Sunday 9:34 am: (Doing my best Sally Field) You like me, you really like me! Thanks to the Good Queen of the South, Miss Cellania, for loaning me some traffic.

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"Warren, you play Godzilla. Mark, you be Mothra"

As as relative newbie to the blogosphere (which until last week I thought was the name of a hip Yaletown nightclub), I feel like a bit of an outsider in the blogging community. But just a bit -- more like a guy wearing a tux at Church's Chicken than, say, Vic Toews wandering into a Pride parade.

So, while I read other blogs and leave the occasional pointless comment, I haven't done a lot of the 'who is slagging whom' and 'this is what whatshisface is saying about it' posting on my blog

I'll make an exception for the Kinsella v. Bourrie affair. Long and venomous story short: not-so-mild-mannered columnist and ex-politico, Warren Kinsella, has sued fossil-collector and outspoken political blogger, Mark Bourrie, for comments made on Bourrie's blog, OttawaWatch. Details* can be found here, here and here . Related video here.

[*Warning: some of these sites may contain the allegedly libelous and objectionable material. Or, they may contain velour, which, while not libelous, is also objectionable material. If you must go to any of these sites, do so with your eyes closed. But don't close your eyes too soon or you might accidentally click on something really embarrassing.]

Quite the brouhaha -- emphasis on the brou and not nearly enough on the haha. Now, as the blogger some (me, just now) have called the "Sultan of Smartass", I've tried to lighten the mood. Really I have. I've offered to top up Bourrie's legal defense fund with cheesey goodness. Suggested a solution powered by Photoshop*. Unlikely as it might sound, I've even played dumb.

[*Long and rascally story short: In a Kinsella-as-political-hasbeen post, Bourrie posted a PR pic of Warren's brood with the photoshopped heads of Buckwheat et al on the bodies of the Kinsellakins, which pissed off Kinsellapapa to no end. Is the self-styled Prince of Political Darkness thin- skinned? Well, for comparison, I'm as fragile as they come (really -- my friends call me "Pussvril"), yet I didn't get my boxers in a ball when some gutless un-named blogger (no doubt either Breebop or Miss Cellania, the blogosphere's undisputed Princesses of Darkness) got their hands on a honeymoon photo of me and my beloved wife and did this.]

Mood? Not lightened. Last I heard, the parties are still on a courthouse collision course, leading some anonymous chap (who smells just like me, go figure) to ponder the cinematic possibilities.

All very dramatic. But I say it really has to end. I mean, the blogging world has much more important things to talk about, what with Britney's parenting/driving skills in question, to say nothing of the buzz that Justin is a two-timing bastard.

Problem is, neither guy is likely to blink. I'm no lawyer (wait, maybe I am -- I do wear a robe and say "notwithstanding" a lot). Either way, I know enough law to see that Kinsella's case is weaker than, well, me (and as any of my competitors in last year's junior girls' arm-wrestling tryouts know, that's pretty weak.) Marky knows this (about Kinsella's legal footing, not my wrist) and, with the help of a growing posse of bloggers providing moral support and a warchest, he appears determined to call Kinsy's bluff. Warren, having barked himself into a corner, cannot back down without losing face. And Warren is very attached to his face.

So we need to solve this creatively -- but with no lawsuit, no settlement, no apology. It won't be easy. It'll take unorthodox thinking. Probably some beer. A laser-pointer may be involved.

So, hang tight and stay tuned, war-weary bystanders. The Sultan is on the case.

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There's a special bond between an MP and his constituents

And I'm sure David Emerson is feeling the love right about now.

...Speaking of which, I hope he's reading his e-mail.

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"The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers"

Or at least shoot them in the face. Yikes. Double-yikes when you consider that old Dick is the backup finger on the red button. Note to Europe: duck!!!

Actually, this is a politically shrewd move that can only improve Cheney's cred with the troops. Next visit to Iraq, he'll be able to chime in when the boys start swapping hilarious "friendly fire" stories. ("You wiped out a battalion of allies? Well, this one time, I was quail hunting...")

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About as accurate as Fox on a good day

Some jackass (handsome devil) has started posting bogus and possibly comical news headlines here. I have it on very good (and handsome) authority that while it's just headlines for now, something resembling full and factless stories will follow in the weeks ahead.

For your diversionary convenience, headlines will be posted on the sidebar of this blog. The engineering corps of my army of blogging monkeys is working (well, if you saw how many smoke breaks they take, you'd hardly call it work) on a way to automatically and seamlessly feed the headlines (and links to stories when there are some) from that blog to this one.

Apparently, this is a technological hurdle on par with having a bowel movement in outer space: I know it's done, but I'm a bit foggy on the science. I think suction is somehow involved with both.

And (are you ready? put down any hot beverages)... it's sunny in Waterworld!!! In fact, it's positively gorgeous. Invigorating, even. Children are singing. Old ladies are burning their umbrellas. Did I just see the groundhog twitch?

So, with any luck, my solar blogging batteries will be recharged and I'll bother you with a meaty post soon. Until then, feel free to lovingly stroke my ego with kind comments and emails. (Except for you, Stephen Harper. I don't want a Senate appointment and that's that. Give up already.)

UPDATE (Saturday Feb 11 @ 12:51 am): Seamlessness accomplished, me thinks. Thanks to the folks at Feeds2JS. Now off to bed, all of you.

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Cabinet - or, in French, cabinet

Some more (but not necessarily more profound) thoughts on the new Conservative Cabinet...

Peter MacKay - Foreign Affairs: Smart pick. If you want to get ahead in the often dirty game of international politics, you need a guy who's not all caught up on diplomatic niceties. Like honouring agreements. Those sorry bastards from [insert name of gullible third-world country] won't know what hit them!

James Flaherty - Finance: Great choice. I absolutely loved this guy as Count Floyd.

Bev Oda - Canadian Heritage and Status of Women: A suggestion for Bev's first order of business in this portfolio: commission a report into why women of colour always get shitty second-tier cabinet posts.

Diane Finley - Human Resources and Social Development: This department is bound to suffer with the departure of Ken Dryden. Finley is said to not perform nearly as well under pressure. Also, she is notoriously weak on the glove-hand side.

Stockwell Day - Public Safety: As in, Emergency Preparedness. As in, National Security. As in, so much for putting Stock in a portfolio where he can't do much damage. I don't even need to elaborate on the disconcerting irony that he'll be the minister in charge of CSIS, our national intelligence agency. On the counter-terrorism front, I predict he'll start out by instigating some kind of ill-advised "My God is greater than your God" pissing match with Al-Qa'ida. Tragically but conveniently, this will drum up some business for his other responsibility area -- emergency response. Speaking of which, how long before a frantic Minister Day calls in 1000 troops with orders to sandbag the Niagara River because he thinks it's flowing the wrong way? Ironically, Stockwell's appointment to Public Safety will accomplish indirectly what he wishes he could legislate but can't: more prayer.

Vic Toews - Justice and Attorney General: This is the one left-minded folks have been fretting about. Needless alarmism. Vic's no monster. Why, in the criminal justice sphere, I heard he actually favours rehabilitation over incarceration, a progressive philosophy I'm sure we'll see exemplified in what I expect will be his first Bill: An Act to Outlaw Gayness.

Gregory Thompson - Veterans Affairs: This must be a typo. Surely, this was supposed to be Myron Thompson: Ex US Army; Tough-as-nails; At 5 years of age, the youngest man to enlist to fight in WWII. But if Myron's really sitting this one out, look for him to get the nod later on in Harper's first cabinet shuffle -- say, after Minister Greg mysteriously bites it during a caucus retreat at Myron's Alberta homestead. (Myron to Sundre police: "Damn accidental, tragic, accidental gopher trampling. Did I mention it was an accident?")

And, let's see. Oh yeah...

Stephen Harper - Prime Minister: Now with a Right Honourably bad haircut.

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Best damned cabinet since the one I picked up in the Ikea "as is" area

Wow, I hate to be proven wrong, but I have to say that my initial impressions of the first Cabinet of Prime Minister Stephen Harper (there, I said it) are relatively positive.

One top-notch appointment is Rob Nicholson at the newly created post of Democratic Reform. Smart move. Nicholson is just the man to tackle such blatantly anti-democratic practices as, for example, the appointment to Cabinet of unelected party advisors -- or worse, of Members who have opportunistically switched parties with the promise or expectation of a Cabinet post.

And I say it's about time. I applaud Mr. Harper for this courageous move and I wish Minister Nicholson well in this important work.

Another solid appointment is Michael Fortier at Public Works. Mike is an unelected party advisor who -- er... let's move on.

There's David Emerson at International Trade. David's the right call here given the experience he brings to this crucial post, what with having just sat in the Liberal Cabinet under -- oh. Right.

Um, any word on who was appointed as Secretary of State for Hypocrisy?

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Wiarton Willy never needed a PFD

A lot going on since my last post of any substance -- the Palestinian elections, the start of the Liberal leadership race, this whole business of Simon walking out on Paula and Randy. All hugely important issues. So, naturally, I'm not going to talk about any of them.

No, I want to talk about the weather. Specifically, I want to say a few words about the goddamn, record-breaking, soak-you-to-your-ginch, take-your-dog-out-for-a-float, complete bitch and/or bastard of a January we've just endured here on the West Coast. (WC for short. As in "Water Closet". No coincidence.) And, as I've resolved to cut down on my cussing for 2006, let's just say that most of those few words are covered here.

Just how bad has it been? Well, I highly doubt that the groundhog will see his shadow tomorrow, because while the bloated carcass of a waterlogged rat might cast a shadow, the rat tends not to see it.

That's right -- our little meteorological marmot is probably dead. Drowned. His wee gopher life-force washed away.

I mean, how could he not be? With the daily deluge these past weeks, I'm thinking his once cozy little burrow probably turned into an aquatic chamber-of-doom round about Robbie Burns Day. So unless the little bugger is either a GMO groundhog-guppy hybrid or the rodent reincarnation of Houdini, the only thing we'll be able to predict from him tomorrow morning is the likelihood that we need new groundhog. That, and the probability of maggots.

You know, I was going to post this bad news earlier today, but then it got sunny. And, after all, as anyone who's ever visited from out of town has been told by a local -- it's almost never like this. Well, January is usually shitty, but never this bad. No, this is more November weather. Okay, October's not great either -- but it's really more a mist than a rain. And December's pretty moist, I'll give you that. Then we get the wet season from February to May. Um... August, August is nice. Except for the occasional shower.

I, like most Vancouverites, have this dysfunctional relationship with the weather. We can get pissed on for weeks, and then when the clouds clear for a measly half-day, it's all we can do to not have our collective rain memory wiped clear. It's like that girl we've all known -- her boyfriend treats her like crap about 98% of the time, but then all is forgiven when he buys her a $2.99 bouquet of carnations or takes her out for "fancy eats" at Whitespot. It's like: "Oh, my dear Vancouver Weather, my lawn is all moss and mushrooms, and I'll need a mini-sub to recover my patio furniture. But that eight minutes of sunshine this morning was simply divine. And are those Portabello mushrooms? Oh, how can I stay mad at you?"

But if you're not from here and you happen to visit, bring an umbrella. And a groundhog with a lifejacket. Because it's raining now. Again. Always.

So I'm thinking of moving to someplace with better weather. Like Winnipeg (it's cold, but it's a dry cold). Or maybe St. John's.

Unless, of course, I get some flowers out of this. Then I'm good.


UPDATE: I forgot to mention, the Groundhog Day's Eve party has been cancelled. You show up at my door with a stuffed squirrel, and I'm calling the cops and the humaine society.

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And he emerged, not unlike a dusty Mike Brady at the end of A Very Brady Christmas

Despite rumours to the contrary -- and those secret messages you think you hear when you play your old Mini Pops records backwards -- I am not dead. (Note to my family: this means I'll need my CDs back. Weren't you even going to wait to find my body? I am so changing my Will.)

So stay tuned, dear reader, for exciting new posts that will make you laugh, cry, and above all ponder the great issues of the day. Such as...

• The Barbapapa Genome Project: Good Science, or Squishful Thinking?
• If This is the Year of the Dog, Shouldn't I be Checking the Bottom of My Shoe? and
  
• Why Every White Male Really, Really Wants to Be Oprah.

And much, much more. Just watch me.

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