Man, I feel like a... chapter in a criminal defence lawyer's handbook!

On the heels of the story described in my last post, we have this. Twice in one week? For the love of God, Shania Twain must be stopped... now!

(Hat tip to Jen, who is apparently too cool to have a blog.)

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That don't impress me much... Drive faster!

Okay, the carnage this guy has wreaked is no laughing matter. But, shit, if that isn't one interesting mental disorder.

Can't say I relate. Now, Celine Dion makes me want to self-mutilate, but I think that's different.

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Easy on the bludgeoning, heavy on the mayo

As if we haven't suffered enough, Sir Paul and the Her Whineness aren't giving up their efforts to stop this year's Canadian seal hunt, scheduled to begin tomorrow morning. In these final hours, I won't be at all surprised if they resort to some sort of ice floe sing-in, or a publicity stunt where Heather tries to pin daisies to the hunters' parkas. Or something involving the mock clubbing of ketchup-filled Cabbage Patch dolls.

Now, as my comments to a most hilarious related post imply, I'm not a fan of the seal hunt. As a visual, it's harsh and icky. Like footage of Ben Mulroney, but with more blood. (Speaking of which, if the hunters had any PR sense, they'd inject the seals with blue food colouring beforehand. Then media images of the hunting grounds would look less like a scene from the Shining and more like the aftermath of a grape slushie machine mishap. Much easier to stomach. Dare I say, purpleicylicious?)

But provided it's done humanely and is sustainable from a conservation perspective, I say: have at 'er! That is, so long as I don't have to watch. Or clean up afterwards.

This happens be precisely the same approach I take to the idea of elderly people having sex (which, if you've seen old Paul these days, is not completely irrelevant to this discussion). But even more relevant than that, it happens to also be the approach I implicitly take when I chow down on commercially raised beef, pork or poultry. The hunter slaughters, I slather. The farmer guts, I grill. In the combined words of INXS front-man JD Fortune and grease-guru Colonel Saunders, "It ain't pretty [but] it's finger-lickin' good."

Which is all a very indirect and space-filling way of getting to this: Lady Heather's website promotes the US Humane Society's own stop the hunt campaign. All fine and lacking in irony -- except that the HSUS site flogs such socially-responsible swag as shirts bearing the painfully clever slogan "Club Sandwiches Not Seals."

Got that? Club sandwiches: lettuce, tomato, bacon... turkey.

But surely not those tortured toeless toms featured in a certain PSA, eh Heather? 'Cause that would be selling out the turkeys to save the seals.

And that would be cold. Tasty, but cold.

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"Your petty floor crossings make us laugh, simple fur-traders!"

British Prime Minister Tony Blair is facing mounting criticism over a 'cash for honours' scandal, where a series of secret loans were made to the Labour party by individuals subsequently considered for a seat in the House of Lords.

I, for one, say: Good on you, Tony.

So much has been made in the past year of so-called scandals like the Grewal/Belinda/Emerson affairs that Canadians can't help but be left with mistaken impression that our federal politicians have a monopoly on the unethical use of power for political gain.

It's refreshing to see that the Brits, the originators of the parliamentary system we pretend to be so adept at abusing, are showing us how it ought to be done.

Way to school us amateurs in the colonies.

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And the gales of April came early...

The original contents of this post contained an attempt to find humour in the sinking of the Queen of the North ferry at a time when, by all accounts, it was thought nobody was killed or injured in the mishap. I have removed the original post in light of subsequent news that two passengers, Gerald Foisy and Shirley Rosette of 100 Mile House, B.C. are unaccounted for and feared lost at sea. My thoughts are with the families at this time.

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Where there's smoke...

...there's shit in your boots, allegedly.

In a poll released this week, firefighters topped the list as most-admired members of the community, with a 95% approval rating amongst the general public.

Firefighters' approval rating amongst other firefighters? Apparently not as good.

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What would Father Guido Sarducci do?

Now, I'm not Catholic. But as a child I played street hockey with Catholics, so I feel qualified to comment on the faith. Oh, and did I mention the Pope's nose is my favourite part of the turkey? Yeah, so I'm good.

Anyway, is it just me, or is the probe into Pope John Paul's miracle looking sketchier all the time?

First the good Sister was cured on June 2, 2005, precisely two months after the Pontiff's death. Now we are told she was cured in October, six months after his Holiness ascended. Seems the Lord works in mysterious ways, possibly with the help of a TiVo.

And what, pray tell, is so special about either date, anyway? Why does the fact that she was de-Parkinsonized two, or for that matter six, months after JP2's death mean it was his spirit that cured her from the great beyond? I've checked, and the Bible provides no such guidelines. (It appears to provide some sort of guidelines for gardening, but that's not helpful here.)

Lawyer Johnnie Cochran, celebrated as a legal miracle-worker by many of his clients, died on March 29, just four days before the Pope. Could have been him. Or James Doohan, who died July 20. Doohan was best known as Scotty from Star Trek, a man who constantly worked miracles with the Enterprise's notoriously finicky warp drive. Or why not news Anchor Peter Jennings, who died August 7? (An authoritative voice from on high: "This just in... You're healed!")

I mean, I understand the desire to fast-track the much beloved John Paul to sainthood. I, like many, admired his ability to connect with so many people from different walks of life. And damn if that Popemobile of his wasn't supremely bitchin'.

But, in honour of his legacy, I call upon the Church to wait for a real miracle.

Like when his image appears on a pączki.

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Blue Grit

It appears the Southernmost part of Canada, like me most days, is now officially pointless.

But what the mainstream media isn't reporting is that this is a development of not just geographical, but geopolitical significance. Notice how this story broke only days after a flack-jacketed Stephen Harper was spouting rambo-rhetoric in Afghanistan? While Pelee is missing its point, the MSM is missing an even bigger point -- that the two events are connected.

It's about time we acknowledge the dirty truth about why Canada is still in Afghanistan. It's not about international commitments, fighting terrorism, or even bringing stability to a region wonkier than my serotonin levels (or the bedframe of that randy roommate you had in undergrad). No, the Canadian mission in Afghanistan is about one thing and one thing only -- a four-letter word that nobody but me has had the courage to say: sand.

Connect the grains, people. Point Pelee National Park, which sits in a Conservative riding, needs sand -- lots of it, and now -- to avoid being renamed "Boring Blunt Thingy Pelee", which would decimate area tourism. (The stream of confused visitors searching for the birthplace of a soccer icon, while steady, cannot sustain the local economy over the long term.)

The fact is Canadians are addicted to sand. A nationwide home renovation craze has fueled demand for sandpaper and texture-finish designer paints. With babyboomers' burgeoning interest in anything New Age, zen garden construction is at an all time high. Domestic supply has been further strained by an explosion of new and expanded golf courses (the traditional playgrounds for business elites, lobbyists, and politicians).

Meanwhile in Harper's own backyard, the corporations running Alberta's massive Oilsands project (rumoured to be some of his largest financial contributors) are finding it increasingly technically difficult, and therefore less profitable, to separate all that gooey oil from what they are really after -- the sand.

And the new Government's silica connections are far more direct, and personal, than that. Consider the following:

1. Prime Minister Harper has two sandbox-aged children, and at least one pet cat.
2. Public Saftey Minister Stockwell Day is rumoured to own a series of "Footprints in the Sand" products, including a poster, keychain and refillable holy-water flask.
3. Within the constituency of Rob Nicholson, House Leader and Minister of Democratic Reform, lies the crucial peach-growing Niagara Valley region. Peach trees grow best in sandy soil.

The big view of the beach: A Government so buried in sand interests, the stuff impregnates every nook and cranny of the foreign policy file, like so much butt-crack grit after a day at the lake.

Enter Harper, on location in Kandahar, doing his best Churchill/Corey Hart in assuring that Canada will 'never surrender' until the job is done in Afghanistan.

That job? Apparently, a sand job.

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Topical? You mean like that ointment I use "down there"?

I'm in the midst of yet another busy day -- clients to enrage, family members to disappoint, nomination papers to fill out -- so this will be brief. In and out. I think the term is "cut and run" (possibly with the words "the cheese" in there somewhere).

I really just care that he's still dead: So maybe old Slobo wasn't poisoned after all (by others, as some had speculated, or by himself, as carelessly reported by a certain disreputable source). But that doesn't mean that these two are off the hook.

What the baseball gods give, the hockey gods take away: In the words of that Nelson kid from the Simpsons, Haa Haa! In the words of Homer Simpson, Doh!!!

What NAFTA gives, the DOC takes away: Well, we have the Haa Haa! As for the "Doh" -- just take the nose-thumbing that followed the last three similar rulings, rinse and repeat. But at least David Emerson is on the job. Word on the street is the man knows a thing or two about obstinance.

That is all. Go outside and play.

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Actually, it's a collection of things

As excuses go, that was pretty bad. I'm ashamed I even went there. So let me be clear: my recent lack of posts and the death of Slobodan Milosevic are unconnected.

No, it was the death of Luna the mischievous whale. Yeah, that's what's got me all messed up. It's not that I'm still all broken up about Luna's untimely, um, pureeing. Don't get me wrong, I was sad. But then my sadness was replaced by a chilling thought: Did he have a mate we didn't know about, one that's now lurking in the cold, dark waters of the South Coast, plotting murderous revenge on the inhabitants of Gold River or Victoria or... Vancouver?!

Could happen. Remember that movie Orca? That whale burned down a town. A whole frigging town!

Anyway, that's why I haven't been blogging. Or bathing. Water. Orcas. Not safe.

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An entirely reasonable explanation

Why yes, thanks for noticing, I've been away. Well not in the "Moosejaw" sense of away. More in the sense of strangely distant, unfocused, not able to concentrate on anything long enough to -- uh, what was I saying?

I think it's because I'm reeling from the death of Slobodan Milosovec. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't a fan. (Granted, dude knew how to pick out a suit, which is cool. But then there's the genocide, ethnic cleansing and mass rapes. Not cool.) But old Slobo's suspected to have died from the effects of unprescribed meds he was secretly popping to exacerbate his medical problems to the point where his War Crimes trial would be halted. And that really hits close to home. As a child, I used to spew out chewed-up soda crackers in fits of feinged vomiting when I wanted to skip out on school. Shit, I could have choked on those crackers. Slobodan Milosovec: there but for the grace of God go I.

So that's why I haven't been blogging. Or eating soup.

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Send maple syrup

Can't... blog... Too... much... snow.

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Roadside distraction

This is really sad. I sincerely hope the old guy passed peacefully soon after he pulled over and that the apparent police incompetence had nothing to do with his demise.

Or maybe I shouldn't say "incompetence" just yet. I mean, the RCMP could have some very valid explanation as to why they didn't find him despite checking the vehicle not once but twice in two days...

• "We thought he was just a really cautious driver."

• "Before getting a chance to look in the vehicle, the officer was called to a 5-4... um -- psst, Jim, what's the code for the 'hot fresh' sign was on at Krispy Kreme?"

• "In our expert assessment, he was only mostly dead. What, like you've never watched Princess Bride?"

• "We suspected it was one of those Just for Laughs pranks. We didn't want to come out looking stupid or anything."

• "It looked like the terrier had everything under control."

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Oscar? Never heard of him

Somewhere amidst balancing the many facets of my life -- work, blogging, married life, voting (...blogging at work, martial relations while voting... oh, and squirrels) -- I've managed to miss just about all of this year's Oscar-nominated films.

I did catch Wallace and Gromit in the Curse of the Were-Rabbit (best animated feature) and Crash (best film, best director). One I saw because my wife and I were babysitting our friends' four year old daughter and thought it would be an age-appropriate choice -- and the other because, well, I really dig that crazy claymation dog. (Child upon returning home after the matinee: "Mommy... what's a 'honky'?")

But other than those, I have a big-ass Oscar blind-spot this year. Which makes it kind of hard to do an Oscar-related post.

But maybe not impossible. Ignorance is behind many very unfortunate things this world: racial intolerance, homophobia, my lack of a writing job with the The Daily Show. But it's also behind two other occasionally amusing (though also unfortunate) things: Canadian politics and my imagination. So, I thought, why not combine the two and come up with some alternate Canadian politics plot summaries for Oscar films?

Fortunately for you, all I came up with was this:

The Corpse Bride: After a series of failed marriages, an aging political party dies... or does she? Her would-be suitors aren't quite sure. Slapstick hilarity ensues as they all jockey for position to be first on the scene if she's got a pulse... but without committing in case she doesn't, lest they be whisked away to the Land of the Dead. Cameo performances by Nick Nolte and Gavin MacLeod as the voices of feuding ex-husbands, Jean and Paul.

Why not, indeed. And the award goes to... somebody other than me.

And apart from that dud, there was nothing else in the cinematopolitical vault. Mercer has already done the Brokeback Martin thing. And a variation starring Scott Brison was a bit too cheap, even for me (which is the same reason why I opted not to touch Cinderella Man).

March of the Penguins vaguely reminded me of the Quebec sovereignty movement -- something about the incessant squawking and stunningly persistent devotion to a fragile cause (oh yeah, and because Jacques Parizeau has always reminded me of a certain Batman villain). But I'm not quite ready to have my blogue angrily quoted in the National Assembly, so j'ose pas.

And titles like Pride and Prejudice and Walk the Line held obvious potential for something Emerson-esque, but that's a film we've all seen a few too many times.

I thought about throwing together a few more Bollywood subtitle films. But after my first six and a very disturbing seventh, my therapist says I need to lay off those for a while. Like curry, too much can cause gastric distress.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that there will be no more from me on this Oscar night. Well, not here, anyway -- I'm sure I'll have my Oscar party guests in stitches. Well, it's just me and the wife, but she thinks I'm pretty funny, or at least pretends to. (Glad I insisted on the obscure 'love, honour and patronize' variation on the traditional wedding vows.)

So, go on and watch the big show. It's hosted by Jon Stewart. His stuff will be funnier than anything I could have come up with anyway. And he had to shell out for the tux, so it's the least you could do.

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Don't hate me, or you

Something else to file under "R" (for "Remotely Original, Havril is not"), I just stumbled across a site called www.somethingclever.com.

Nice domain name, but the content's a bit of a downer.

So I wonder: is the "you" me? Dick Cheney? Maybe whoever came up with the idea for that annoying/mildly gruesome Dairy Queen popcorn shrimp ad?

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Must flee TV (or, Live and Let Die)

Newfoundland Premier Danny Williams and pop music icon Paul McCartney will face off on CNN's Larry King Live tonight to debate Canada's seal hunt.

Okay, if I happen to watch this, it will only be because I gave up "not gouging my eyes out" for Lent. Or, because it just might get even bloodier than that.

I mean, there could be a rational, enlightening chat on the (semi-important) issue of animal rights. Danny is an educated and articulate man. As for Paul, I don't know -- he looks a little stunned these days, but I think that's just a bad eyelift.

But this is a very emotional issue all around, and one that every Newfoundlander I've ever met is a wee bit defensive about. So the discussion could just as well degrade into something like the following:

McCartney: ... and this hunt, this senseless massacre, is a stain on the character of the people of Canada.

Williams: Like Flaming Pie is on your career? Listen, if you want to talk 'senseless', my son...

King: Mr. Premier, that hardly seems relevant.

McCartney: It's okay, Larry. He just wants to avoid talking about the extreme cruelty --

Williams: Cruelty? We're just bashing them over the head with clubs, sir. It's not like we're playing them your latest album.

King: Mr. Premier, I don't want this to get --

Williams: ...Or anything Linda wailed on, God rest her soul. I know my ears are resting better.

McCartney: You leave Linda out of this, you moronic, inbred, cod salting--

Williams: Does your new one sing any better, Sir Paul? Speaking of young pups, what is she, 38? You've got a few anthologies on her, don't you think? Mind you, the LSD has preserved you rather well, good Knight.

McCartney: You, sir, are lucky I'm a pacifist or I'd --

Williams: Bash me over the head with a club? Well, if that would put money in the pocket of a hard-working Newfoundlander, I'd gladly take a shot from the likes of you. But, my son, my hide just ain't worth that much.

McCartney (pulling out a casio keyboard and notepad): That's it, I'm writing an unflattering song about you.

Williams: Make sure you rhyme my name with "millions," you granola-eating has-been.

King: Well, that's all the time we have. Sir McCartney, Premier Williams, I thank you both. On Monday's show, we'll have another Canadian Premier, Ralph Klein of Alberta. He'll be debating the topic of oil production with a man who is no stranger to greasiness, the Artist formerly known as Prince.

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