[insert something clever]

Oh baby (he said, not referring to Sheila Copps)

2007-12-29T13:49:00.000-08:00

Be afraid, be very afraid. Havril has replicated.

Round about a fortnight ago, my wife and I were given the best little package you can get that won't bring you before a Commons Committee -- our first child, a beautiful baby boy. To protect his identity, let's call him "Karlheinz", and let's say he weighed between two and 18 pounds.

And to answer the question you must be asking, why yes, I am the father. I mean, my wife says so, and the boy does have my testicles. Now, the rest of him looks oddly like Joe Clark, but I'm told that's a natural stage of child development.

To answer another question you might be asking, no, fatherhood will not change the frequency of my blogging. Thankfully, I am inexplicably proficient at one-handed typing, so blogging whilst soothing baby should be a breeze. So, like clockwork, I will continue to post every two to 18 weeks, NHL playoffs excepted.

But the content of my posts may change. I mean, how could it not? Being a father is changing my whole outlook on life.

For example, the prospect, however remote, that Stephen Harper might eat babies was mildly concerning when they were babies in the abstract. But it's downright terrifying now that it's my baby that's at risk. In 2008, look for more posts against federal infantavorism.

And I used to mock Harper's piddly $100 per month Universal Childcare Benefit. But now I see the value of that monthly infusion of cash in subsidizing my increased costs of pay-per-view movies now that I am up at all hours attending to a crying baby. Mind you, the benefit could be higher. At $12.99 a pop, a measly 100 loonies won't even get me through Comely Coeds 9. In the new year, look for more posts advocating for a generous universal porn top-up for new parents.

My life right now is pretty much about two things: one, trying to attach meaning to incessant incoherent bellowing; and, two, poo -- endless streams of foul, runny poo. Come January, watch for more posts about speeches by federal Environment Minister John Baird.

Anyway, I have to run. Little Karlheinz is stirring.
*

And maybe a title for this post too?

2007-12-01T11:40:00.000-08:00

Okay, ya'll. Once I take care of a few errands around the homestead (shoveling snow, dealing with the cat's latest 'cling-on' issue, ordering a bunch of Ottawonk thongs for stocking stuffers) I'm going to get right back to the blogging thing.

To help me with that (the blogging, but would it hurt you to pick up a kitty turd or two?)... I was thinking maybe y'all could go all Aught-six and send me some title suggestions for new posts.

Do it now, or you'll never see the rest of that $500,000.

*

Hello, Kitty. We thought you'd like a little truth in advertising

2007-11-28T23:30:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: the following presentation is fictional. Any resemblance to actual creatures, real, imagined or chemically induced, or to persons natural or corporate, whether alive, dead, undead, preserved or stunned out of their excited delirium, is completely and utterly unintentional, accidental and otherwise one big coinkyidink, and we aren't even smirking or crossing our fingers when we say that. The phrases "Olympic", "Games", "2010", "Winter", "Cold", "Snow", "Snow Bunny", and "Baby Jesus" are, we think, registered trademarks of VANOC. So are, we assume, the phrases "We've Trademarked Everything So You Can't Say Anything", "Colossal Waste of $$$", and "Why, Yes, $580 Million Would Feed a Lot of Hungry Kids". Until Tuesday, we thought the phrases "Pokemon" and "Hello Kitty" weren't, but now we aren't so sure.

Right about now, in a crowded auditorium somewhere in Metro Vancouver...

Ladies and gentlemen, sporting fans, children of all ages (Mesdames et messeurs, sacs de monnaie, petits consommateurs de tout age)... The 2009-and-12-months Olympuck Funtimes^TM commitee is proud to introduce to you (Le commité des Bonstemps Olymphoque 2009-et-12-mois^WTF est fier de vous vendre)...

The 2009-and-12-months Olympuck Funtime mascots! (Les p'tits cashcows des Bonstemps Olymphoque 2009-et-12-mois, tabernac!)

These ambassadors of the 2009-and-12-months Olympuck Funtimes tell the real story of British Columbia: political, historical and natural (Ces ambassadeurs des Bonstemps Olymiphoque 2009-et-12-mois representent les vrais contes de fée de la C-B: politique, historique... satirique?)

Swimming... no, flying...no, swimming his way into the theatre, it's.... Muta!

Muta is a mysterious and wonderful creature, part Orca whale, part seagull. The great force that gives Muta his fantastic form is the Funtimes spirit. That, and a soup of toxic chemicals in the ocean. But soup is good for you, right kids? And that fun baking soda volcano you made in science class -- that's chemistry! Chemicals are like magic, but better, because magic doesn't contribute to the provincial GDP. Well, except for Harry Potter, but we don't own his trademark. Yet.

If you look closely, you will see that Muta is sporting a bit of propeller-shaped a boo-boo, which just shows how much he loves to play tag with cruise ships and speedboats. Toot toot! Watch out, Mr. Oil tanker -- it's that rascal Muta!

And from that plastic six-pack ring wrapped around his neck, it looks like Muta had some soda to share -- that's Jazz^TM Soda, the official drink of the 2009-and-12-months Olympuck Funtimes -- but he couldn't resist drinking them all. That's okay, Muta. But how about you swim-fly to WallyMart^TM, the official store of the 2009-and-12-months Olympuck Funtimes, and get us some more? Goooooooo, Muta!!!!

And who's this cute little critter whirling her way onto the stage? Why, it's Suyu!!!

Suyu the crafty coyote represents our province's mischievous first nations. We call them "first nations" because they were the first people European explorers met when they discovered this nation. Suyu likes to tell tall tales, like one called "You stole my land". We call these stories "legends". You will notice that Suyu has a detachable mouth, because sometimes, like say from 1927 to 1951, it's good for her to have a little time-out on the naughty mat for bothering busy grownups, like judges, with her stories. Telling a story to a judge is like tattling to your school principal. Nobody likes a tattle tale, right, kids? Oh, silly Suyu!

But as her name suggests, little Suyu keeps on telling her stories, when she could be making treaties. Treaties are like a bag of toys, where everybody shares, and there is enough for everyone. Sharing is good, right kids? In our province, we've made three whole treaties! Three is like a triple-scoop ice cream cone. Silly, silly Suyu! Don't you like ice cream? But we like her anyway, because her hat is pretty and her dancing makes us happy. Hurray for Suyu!!!

And last but not least, who's that husky guy thumping his way down the aisle? My goodness, it's... Squashi!!!

Squashi the sasquatch is the protector of the Funtimes spirit in BC. From his steel-toed boots to his strong arms, Squashi is there to give a gentle "squash" to any little meanies who would poo-poo our Funtimes. Kids, your parents might remember Squashi as the mascot for the 1997 APEC Summit. The silly meanies were making too much rude noise, so Squashy playfully squirted them with mace, which is sort of like silly string, but with more flavour. So don't make rude noise to wreck everybody's Funtimes, or Squashi might squash you, or wrestle you, or zap you with his handheld Magic Lightning Bolt. Yikes, Squashi -- that tickles!

During the 2009-and-12-months Olympuck Funtimes, you might see Squashi greeting visitors at the Vancouver International Airport.

And there they are, kids... your 2009-and-12-months Olympuck Funtime mascots!!!

If you'd like to give one of these guys a great big Olympuck Funtime spirit hug, line up right here beside the stage. Hugs are only $14.99, or three for $40! Major credit cards accepted.

[Original (and probably trademarked) artwork courtesy of Alison]

**

And an analgesic for the puppy

2007-11-26T19:21:00.000-08:00

[Okay, let's get this out of the way, shall we? Yeah, I've been away for a while. So what? I've been busy trying on sweaters. And, so help me Earthgodmother, if I get so much as one taunt, one snide remark, anything remotely resembling "Welcome back, Once-a-Year Boy!" -- well, I just might cry. 'Nuff said. Onto your (ir)regularly scheduled post...]

I'm all about analogies. Love 'em. In the political realm, a good analogy can really cut through political doublespeak and put the essence of a policy into perspective. That, and there's "anal" in the word, which sounds sort of naughty.

Speaking of which, last week saw some dirty machinations on the part of the Harper Government at the Commonwealth leaders' summit in Kampala. You know the story: Steve-o the torpedo single-handedly deep-sixed a deal on firm GHG reduction targets, refusing to sign unless India and other developing countries were also forced to cut emissions. No point in countries such as Canada committing to reductions, Harper's stated rationale goes, unless all the major emitters do. Talk about ruining a tea party.

So here's the analogy that comes to mind...

A gang of punks are kicking the doo-doo out of a puppy (The puppy's name doesn't matter, but let's call him "The Capacity of the Earth to Sustain Life as We Know it". 'Fluffy' for short.) In a pang of conscience, one of the punks proposes that they all stop kicking the puppy. Most agree. (After all, it's a nice puppy, and WWE Raw is almost on.)

Harper's like the dude who says: "Well, we could stop kicking the puppy, and I'm certainly willing to... but only if the kid with the biggest boots stops first."

Only in Canada, you say? Pity.

Sorta like a hernia

2007-01-01T20:46:00.000-08:00

Hey, kids. Happy 2007 and all that noise.

Just thought I'd break the deafening blog silence to announce... well, that there will be more blog silence.

I'm going to take, as they say, a hiatus. And before you make some snide remark about a person having to actually post once in a while in order to have something to take a hiatus from, just -- well, just don't. Unless you are Jack Layton, in which case you probably can't help yourself.

I'll be back in a month or two. Five tops. Oh, shit -- I'm back when I'm back.

Stay real.

Kisses,
Hav

Well, not so much staggered as got dragged by a salt truck

2006-11-26T23:05:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the stars align. Or at least the flakes.

Here I was, pondering my 13th place showing in round 1 voting at the 2006 Canadian Blog Awards. And there it was -- snow. Right here, in my little Vancouver suburb, heaps and heaps and heaps of snow.

And we all know what a guy needs to work out his political future: a long walk in the snow.

And so I walked. Well, I got a ride down to the pub, threw back a few, had a couple dozen wings, then wrote my name in the parking lot. Dotted the "i" and everything. Thing of beauty. But I walked home. Staggered, anyway.

Point is, I figured a couple of things out. One of those things had to do with foreskin and frostbite, but I'll spare you the uncomfortable details. The second thing I figured out is that I'm not about to give up this fight.

Sure, my blog has been "eliminated from future rounds of voting". Yes, I've been "resoundingly rejected by blog readers". Absolutely, I "have no chance of winning within the rules of the competition."

But, in the words of Gandhi, anytime somebody reminded him that he was an untouchable -- so fucking what?

My mission to be voted the Canadian Blog Awards Best Humour Blog of 2006 is bigger than the mere fact that I cannot be voted the Canadian Blog Awards Best Humour Blog of 2006. My dedication to serve as your democratic choice for humour in the blogosphere is not weakened by your decision that you'd rather I didn't. My commitment to this process will not be stymied by its results.

And so, I formally announce that my campaign will continue. With this announcement, I am unveiling my first in a series of campaign ads directed at some of the front runners in round two voting, whom I view to be my most serious competition, given that they made it to round two and I didn't.

Remember: vote for me in round two... even though you can't.

It's too early to comment

2006-11-22T22:37:00.000-08:00

Havril is meeting with his advisors to consider what these results mean for his campaign and will issue a formal statement shortly. Havril has some numbers to crunch. Also, he is looking into unconfirmed reports of voter intimidation in Keady, Ontario. It's going to be a long few days.

This isn't funny

2006-11-21T22:27:00.000-08:00

And I'm not talking about Racist Kramer.

What I mean is, can somebody tell me why my blog looks all wonky in Explorer?

Shit, I don't even know how long this has been going on. What, were you all just not going to say anything? I suppose I also have B.O. (The zit on my forehead I know about, thanks.)

Seriously, can somebody take a boo at my blogger template and tell me what I did to eff it up? I'm a Firefox man myself, but I want to be IE friendly. Well, not hostile.

There's a shiny toonie in it for ya.

UPDATE 10:43 PM: Stand down. Problem solved. In the words of Dubbya, I'm a problem solver.

WWRD

2006-11-19T13:19:00.000-08:00

No doubt drunk on Saskatoon-berry wine, some misguided kid nominated this blog -- yes, this blog -- under the "Best Humour Blog" category at the 2006 Canadian Blog Awards. I've know about this for some time, but declined to mention it out of a sense of modesty. Also, I've been busy with a frame-by-frame analysis of the Screech sex tape. But mainly modesty.

I'm glad to be nominated. Honoured. Flattered. And quite possibly aroused. But all is not warm and tingly. See, the nomination has heightened the usual criticism I get from readers. "You really need to post now!" said one commenter. "Look busy!" said another. Then there was "You know, we aren't done just because you've had an orgasm!" Er, that last one was probably my wife. But now at least I know she's read my blog at least once.

Anyway, I feel compelled to respond to these unfair attacks on my blogging frequency -- to tell the world why I don't post as often as I should, and what I'm going to do about it.

At times like these, I look to that wristband I wear, inscribed with those four letters to live by: WWRD. What Would Rona Do? Sure enough, there, in her forthright and courageous words last week to the UN Climate Change Conference in Nairobi was all the inspiration I needed...

Webcast Address to Canadian Blog Awards voters
November 19, 2006
Speech delivered by Havril
-------------------------------------------
Mr. Myblahg, distinguished nominees, honoured readers, that guy who accidentally got here looking for pics of Scarlett Johansson's boobs.

Havril is proud to be here at the Canadian Blog Awards as a friend, a partner and an ally to further our international efforts to address the Humour Deficit.

We have come together to demonstrate to the Blogosphere that an effective global response to the Humour Deficit is needed, and that it is possible - to offer hope instead of fear, and to be constructive in the face of institutional challenges, chief among them the fact that Havril can't afford a TiVo.

EFFECTIVE ACTION

Anyway, we are here to share our challenges, our successes and our hopes for the future. I am pleased to share with you Havril's challenges, his successes and his hopes. And, with any luck, a lapdance. Er, sorry - that's from my address to the Canadian Adult Video Awards. Um, excuse me while I sit for the rest of this speech.

When New Havril assumed control of Insert Something Clever a year ago he found an unacceptable situation. He found that measures to address the Humour Deficit by previous Havrils were insufficient and unaccountable. In short, previous Havrils were incompetent assholes. And Criminals. Did I mention they were criminals?

Weeks after promising Mrs. Scout from Harper-Valley that he would post more often - and let's pretend for the purposes of this stupid speech that he posts while wearing a robe - Havril still had not implemented a domestic plan to address the Humour Deficit. And the result is that Havril is 35% below his - wait for it, wait for it - Kimono target. [Allow for applause, curtsey]

Havril recognized that it was time to face up to his challenges in the most Havrilian way: to be forthright with his readers (all four of them) and his international partners (i.e. that Cuban chambermaid he hooked up with in Varadero) about the results of his previous efforts, and to be realistic on the progress he could make by 2012.

As an aside, we measure these things with reference to 2012 for one reason: Because Nostradamus has predicted the start of World War 3 in 2011. A longstanding principle of good public policy, and the mob, is that it's easy to be accountable to others when those others are dead.

Anyhoo, as with any bold recognition of the truth, Havril's was met by resistance. But it was the right thing to do. Havril will not deny the obvious, nor disrespect his blogging obligations by paying them mere lip service with no substance. However, speaking of respect, he will deny ever having paid for lip service, substantive or otherwise. That woman was a certified massage therapist, and those pictures were clearly photoshopped.

Havril will confront the reality of previous Havrils' inaction. Indeed, Havril has chosen real progress over delay - and transparency [point to mesh tank top, pause while audience oggles man nipples] over rhetoric. Havril is taking responsibility, embarking on pragmatic solutions and finally beginning the process of putting his own house in order. No, literally - this place is a mess. See, the wife was out of town, and a few buddies came over with a two-four. Havril isn't sure who got the pizza sauce on the ceiling. Might have been the registered massage therapists.

This is where Havril's challenges have turned into successes. He recognized that leadership and real action were required. And under the leadership of, well, Havril, this morning Havril introduced Havril's Computer Time Plan; the first ever policy by Havril to take a coordinated approach on increasing Havril's computer-related activity - checking his hockey pool more often, keeping better 'abreast' of the latest celebrity nipple slips, emailing more fart-related science questions to Quirks & Quarks. Oh, and blogging more. If he has time.

Havril recognized that the voluntary approaches of the past were not sufficient and that it was time for those sons-of-bitches who never help Havril out, to become a larger part of the solution. As such, this New Havril is the first Havril to move his family, friends and colleagues from voluntary measures to mandatory assistance, also known as 'blackmail'. A coworker won't volunteer to work late so Havril can go home early to blog? His fiancee gets an email attaching those pics of said co-worker getting his freak on in the alley behind the Number 5 Orange. See how this works?

His plan recognizes the importance of a long-term commitment to increasing blogging. He will continue to take into account the well-researched advice from credible sources such as Wikipedia and will work to increase Havril's absolute blogging output by up to 65 per cent by 2050. Or 2075 at the latest. With this timeline, Havril will be more accountable to more dead people than ever before.

But Havril's plan also recognizes the need for urgent action so that he can finally make progress towards his 2012 obligations, whatever the fuck they were. Early in the New Year, Havril will finally have short term targets and timelines for the implementation of, er, short term targets and timelines. Um, did I mention that the last bunch of guys were crooks?

Recognizing the role for non-regulated entities, such as his noisy-ass neighbours, to take on voluntary targets and receive credit for the contributions they are making, Havril is working with several of his drinking buddies, who happen to belong to certain motorcycle enthusiast clubs, to develop a system for opt-ins and offsets - whereby, if the neighbours 'opt' to turn down their shit music so Havril can work on his blog, nobody will 'set' said neighbours' garage on fire. Only a plan that seeks to include everyone will deliver the results Havril needs to make a difference.

Havril's plan recognizes the Havrilian context: his lack of blogging comes primarily from two places - procrastination and energy. To combat procrastination, Havril has invested 1.3, um, tens of dollars in one of those Habits of Effective People books. Well, he plans to. As for energy, he is finding innovative ways to utilize higher caffeine levels without the inconvenience of heart palpatations.

Havril's plan recognizes that citizens must be a part of the solution. If blog consumers do not take individual responsibility for their actions and make more Havril-friendly choices, the blogging of Havril will be in vain. To support his new blog assistance regulations, Havril this afternoon committed 20 dollars towards consumer education programs. Untraceable flea-market typewriter: $12. Stamps and envelopes: $8. The buzz generated by a mass mailing of "Read my blog or your grey Tabby meets my Silver Tahoe" letters: priceless.

There are some who are using the Kimono Protocol to create divisions within Havril, but Havril will not let that happen. Havril has one target and we -- er, I, er, he - all share the responsibility to work together to fulfill his obligations. And to develop rock hard abs. And to make a million dollars. Oh, and to learn to juggle. Focus is key.

It is Havril's belief that Havril must strive to create a blog that is compatible with other blogs and leads to the inclusion of Ottawonk - a blog Havril will not criticize, isolate and exclude because it must be part of the solution. Havril will continue to engage our neighbour and encourage them to take on a stronger role within the Blogging Community. And to use upper-case letters once in a while.

As you can see, Havril has begun to work through his challenges. He can now share some of his progress and he looks forward to his successes. It is through your continued support that Havril will be able to provide hope to unmotivated slackers everywhere and proof to the Blogosphere that Havril is finally on track to make a difference on this important issue. Which, as I recall, was juggling.

Havril's hope is that other bloggers can learn from the challenges Havril is overcoming. Havril's hope is that we truly find an inclusive approach as we move forward. That we include, and support and encourage, instead of exclude, isolate and criticize. And no noogies. Purple nurples, however, are motivational and oddly arousing. But I digress.

To those of you who might question Havril's resolve to stand together on this urgent issue, let there be no doubt. Except for as to how one person can stand together with himself - but for the purposes of this speech, let's let that one slide. Remember, no criticism.

Havril remains strongly committed to the Myblahg process. Havril remains strongly committed to Kimono and driven by a principled obligation for comfort and elegance in Asian lounging attire. And he looks forward to making a significant contribution to the global efforts to fight the Humour Deficit. And to blogging more, if he has time.

Havril wants to thank his delegation for their outstanding professionalism and dedication to this cause. He was glad to have met you on the bus ride over here. Sorry those Grey Cup tickets didn't pan out, but this was fun, right?

CONCLUSION

As we gather here, we are as blog writers obligated to take stock of the challenges facing us, through article 3.9, article 9, and article 99 - the so-called "Wayne Gretzky" clause, which states that if you used to be a superstar, you can coach a hockey team into the ground and nobody will question you. But that's probably not relevant here.

As we do this, we must ask ourselves "what has worked?" and "what has not worked?" More importantly, we must ask ourselves "why work at all?" The answer is clear: because lap dances aren't free. Um, wrong speech again.

There are some who fear that by admitting certain things are not working Havril is in effect abandoning Kimono. On the contrary, Havril would challenge each of us to recognize that we are abandoning our blogging obligations if we do not acknowledge that we must make improvements. Havril would further challenge each of us to not think too much about that logic. To that end, Havril's delegation will be handing out copies of the Screech sex tape as a diversionary tactic.

Our debate needs to be one of constructive dialogue - centered on real policy discussions, not cynicism and political expediency. Or noogies.

Ultimately Havril will not achieve success by denying the shortcomings of his past approach. Rather, success lies in an open, honest and constructive assessment of where Havril stands today, and a determined effort to identify how he can hack into the the blogs of funnier, more prolific nominees and replace their posts with erotic fiction about Myron Thompson and parliamentary pages in the Peace Tower.

In Havril's world, the Humour Deficit is the subject of vigorous debate as it is throughout the Blogosphere. In his social circle, he seeks open and constructive dialogue (subject to the "no criticism" policy outlined earlier) and welcomes every overture of collaboration. Well, not so much collaboration as motivation. Well, not so much motivation as unsolicited emails attaching pictures of female readers in various states of undress.

Havril offers the same in the blogging community. Naked pictures to follow.

Thank you.

Arf

2006-10-21T16:31:00.000-07:00

This whole dog and Petey show is childish and silly, hardly the type of thing I would normally discuss on this blog. My readers come here for reasoned discourse on the great issues of the day -- nuclear proliferation, AIDS research. Er... brussel sprout farts?

Right. So, this "dog" thing. In case you missed it -- say, because you were at work or having really loud sex during Thursday's question period (or, in my case, both) -- the barely audible details are like, here, somewhere.

In the wake of the incident, observers have opined on what it says about Peter MacKay's attitude towards women, and, more generally, what it says about the barriers faced by women in Canadian politics and our society at large.

I, for one, have nothing to say about any of that -- mainly because such talk invariably leads to somebody mentioning the term "glass ceiling", to which I can never help but smart-assedly respond, "Um, I think the word is skylight," which on more than one occasion has put me on the business end of a size 8 ladies' shoe (oddly, never with a high-heel). Also, somebody usually mentions the dehumanizing effect of porn, and my 'Yes, I am part of the problem' t-shirt isn't in from the printers.

But I do have a thing or two to say about how 'wagger-gate' reflects on Peter MacKay's credibility. Quite simply, it reminds us that he has none.

Now, I don't fault Minister P-Mac for denying he made the remark. Sure, compared with Trudeau's famously coy "fuddle duddle" explanation or Bill Clinton's "depends what your definition of 'is' is" semantic gymnastics, MacKay's reliance on the technicality that his impugned words didn't make it onto Hansard lacked a certain creative flair.

But it's not an entirely reprehensible position to take. The procedural fiction that if it isn't on the official record it didn't happen is a longstanding tradition central to the proper functioning of Parliament. And it goes further than you might think. You can actually murder somebody on the floor of the Commons, and if they don't refer to it in Hansard, you walk. Well, you have to take care of some witnesses -- that sign interpreter bitch up in the corner of the screen sees everything.

The tradition is akin to other universally accepted "deemed truths" that maintain social order in our everyday lives -- such as the legal presumption of innocence, "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" or "the one who smelled it dealt it". Some others, I have learned, like "cybersex isn't really cheating", have yet to gain such status. (And, Honey, if you are reading, I totally thought nubian_queen1983 was you.)

But, parliamentary fiction notwithstanding, let's pretend the words were uttered. And while we're pretending, maybe you could aim your webcam just a little lower...

Er, where was I? Right. The comment. Credibility, lack of. To imply that Belinda Stronach is a dog is way beyond incorrect. It is completely and utterly (dare I say doggone?) unsupportable. Ms. Stronach is certainly no dog. A fox, perhaps, but no dog.

(And I know I shouldn't even go there, not having my t-shirt and all. But I don't think it's necessarily inappropriate to comment on the physical appearance of politicians, male or female. Why, Paul Martin himself used to muse publicly that his male pattern baldness gave him the look of a Benedictine monk. And didn't we all have fun taking a poke at Steve Harper's paunch last summer? But, of course, such superficial commentary should never overshadow a politician's stand on the issues. How a politician looks is a legitimate topic only as a passing matter of human interest. It should not be dwelled upon.)

(...Okay, not to dwell on it, but I've never thought that Belinda was really all that, despite media gushing/throbbing to the contrary. She's alright -- no Anna Bergkvist, member of the Swedish Riksdag, but alright. And in the interest of balance, I should say that Peter MacKay's physical attractiveness has also been a tad overblown by an Ottawa press corps who, after decades of Joe jowls and McCallum muss, are a little too hungry for hunkiness on the Hill. In my astute but non-gay assessment, Petey fixes up nice enough, but he's no Jan-Henrik Fredriksen of the Norwegian Storting.)

Yeah, so, anyway, Peter's comment was patently unreasonable. What's more, it's a complete flip-flop from his previous position on the issue. Recall that when a freshly-dumped Peter was off to mope for the cameras in a potato patch back home, he told reporters he was looking forward to spending time with his dog because "dogs are loyal". The obvious implication: Belinda is not loyal. The logical extension (which Peter ought to know, since, as a lawyer, he must have passed the LSAT): Belinda is not a dog. But having taken the LSAT, Peter must also know that if Belinda is wearing glasses, and the girl sitting behind her, who is not Sally, has pigtails, then Peter is wearing a green t-shirt. Which may not be relevant here.

My point is, you can't have it both ways, Peter. Well, sometimes you can. But not this time.

So, Honourable Minister, I call on you to apologize -- not just for insulting Belinda and demeaning women in general, which would be a start, but more importantly for being, well... a bit of a weasel.

Or don't. Either way, Tie Domi is still going to kick your ass.

Boom goes the dynamite

2006-10-10T06:57:00.000-07:00

I refer, of course, to North Korea's recent explosive admission into Club Nuke, and not -- as my wife, our neighbours, or our local haz-mat squad might have guessed -- to the equally explosive effect brussel sprouts have on my colon. Though, if you asked any of them, the latter is probably the more pressing threat to global security. And I tend to agree.

Saturday's detonation doesn't mean North Korea has the bomb. It only means North Korea had the bomb.

These babies are notoriously expensive to construct. A tonne of enriched uranium on the black market will put a guy back more than the equivalent of a month's rent in Fort McMurray. Okay, maybe not that much, but a lot. And all those little yellow radioactive triangle stickers you are supposed to put on a nuclear bomb aren't cheap, either. Mind you, in a pinch, you could get by with some pink triangle stickers, with the added advantage that you could recoup costs by renting the weapon out for use as a Pride Day float. But Jong-Il probably didn't think of that. Evil genius, my ass.

So here's what I'm thinking: Kooky Kimmy, crazy mofo that he is, blew the People's Democratic wad on just the one functioning melt-o-matic. That one is gone, and he can't afford to build another one any time soon. I mean, shit, think of the balance on his RadioShack credit card alone. So any other nukes he might parade out for the cameras in the months to come are just duds. Old movie props from Armageddon. Surplus sex toys.

Now, do I want to go all Dirty Harry on this guy and call his bluff? You know, send in the troops and see how many caps he has left in the chamber? Well do I... punk?

Er, no. And don't call me punk.

It's too risky. I mean, I could be wrong on the lone nuke theory. It's bound to happen one of these times. And if I am, and if these nutters have two or ten of them, the consequences would be catastrophic. Sure, a couple of years of nuclear winter would put a dent in global warming and create new market for that warehouse of three-armed factory reject parkas I bought on eBay. But if North Korea nukes South Korea, then the US nukes North Korea, millions of innocent people will die (or, if I recall correctly from the made-for-TV movie The Day After, sparkle momentarily and disappear.)

Which, either way, is bound to fuck with the global supply of kimchi pancakes. Now, I'm not equating the two in terms of tragedy -- I'm just making the point that there is a ripple effect to these things that nobody ever talks about. And that kimchi pancakes are very tasty.

So, no, I don't want to see the Americans or anybody else to go in there guns a-blazing. (Anyway, as this top secret intelligence video demonstrates, guns-a-blazing is no match for fists a-taekwondoing.)

No, I'm just saying that Kim Jong-Il's little firecracker display doesn't necessarily mean that the world is any closer to nuclear annihilation. So we should all chill a bit and not do anything rash -- like build a fallout shelter, find religion, or pick Eric Lindros in a hockey pool.

Yeah, so I guess I'm just I'm saying we shouldn't all crap our collective pants over this nukes in North Korea thing. Brussel sprouts, however, are another matter.

Working Title 4: Carrot Cake Ruined My Life

2006-09-14T09:52:00.000-07:00

Well, not really. But the mental images this conjured up ruined my breakfast. Well, not so much 'ruined' as 'brought back up in vomitous form'. Is it possible to have the willies and the heebie-jeebies at the same time?

And, by the way, Carrot Top ruined my life. Hate that guy. Something about the eybrows.

Working Title 3: Fun with Dimethylsulphoxide

2006-09-02T03:06:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the title, Procrastinatrix. When I first read your suggestion, I had no idea what you were talking about. Dimethylsuphoxide. Never heard of it. Then it hit me: ohhhhh... she means Dimethylsulphoxide. Learn to type, girl.

Now, as any moron knows, Dimethylsulphoxide is a dipolar aprotic solvent that permeates cellular and vascular membranes. Duh. Which made me wonder whether this title suggestion was your way to get me to talk about Fawzia A. Fahim's research into the antitumor activities of Iodoacetate and Dimethylsulphoxide against solid ehrlich carcinoma growth in mice. Please, as if that topic hasn't been blogged to death.

But these thoughts of morons and chemical solvents reminded me of another story: "Residents duped in blackened money scam."

With the exception of truly vulnerable members of society -- the elderly, the mentally challenged, me in the presence of a True Confections chocolate-banana cream pie -- anybody who falls for a scam that lame deserves to wave buh-bye to a whole lot of coin (and a kidney or two for good measure). Call it a cost of being stupid.

Or call it financial Darwinism. When doofus hands 50 g's to a couple of guys with a sedan full of sooty monopoly money and a flat of club soda, the said doofus, to the extent of his payout, has removed himself from the economy. Which is good for us all. Cash that in his idle hands would have been wasted on a copy of Toilet Training your Cat for Dummies or an apartment full of 'As Seen on TV' crap (And by 'crap', I mean stuff other than RonCo Spray-on Hair, which is a fine product. Gave me the pubes of 20 year old, swear to god) will now be invested into the real engines of GDP -- like meth labs and human smuggling rings.

Which reminded me of this other headline: Money woes could affect Liberal convention. Er, the Darwinism, not the scamming.

Rae under half a million. Ignatieff under $400,000. Volpe at $340,000. (And half of that was in arcade tokens.) Darwinism: If you don't have the ability to adapt to your environment -- in this case, Chretien's campaign finance reforms (Jean's other exploding-cigar gift to would-be successors) -- you risk being removed from the political gene pool. Which leaves Stephen Harper in the pool at 24 Sussex... where he and Laureen are probably lounging right now.

I mean, in Vancouver's Shaughnessy neighbourhood, the average six year old with a lemonade stand grosses $500,000 a summer, and that's with time off for polo lessons. Is Canada's natural governing party so devoid of new ideas and money smarts that not one of its supposed best and brightest can figure out how to generate a measly mil in contributions?

If I may be so bold, kids, a few fundraising suggestions...

The Martha Hall Findlay Trivia Challenge: Contestants make a modest donation to compete for valuable prizes by answering questions about Martha, such as: "Hall-Findlay -- hyphen or no hyphen?" and the grand-prize stumper... "Who the fuck is she, anyway?"

The Kick Bob Rae in his Piano-Playing Tax-and-Spend Ass for a Toonie booth: Self-explanatory. Open only to residents of Ontario from 1990-95. For an extra buck, you can kick him in the ass while he plays piano.

Iggy's Dungeon of permissible Duress: Contributors pay by the hour to enact scenarios from Michael Ignatieff's book, The Lesser Evil... on Michael Ignatieff! Put Iggy in an isolation hood. Subject him to disorienting noise (Drowning Pool's "Bodies" perhaps). Stress him out with misinformation: "Iggy, we have footage of you waxing your unibrow!" When you're done with him, for an extra $10 you can go home with a commemorative 'torture warrant'.

Gerard and a Hair Rub, Two Bits: Tousle Kennedy's boyish mop for a quarter. 'Cause you know you want to. Noogies extra.

Deke out Dryden: Ken's back between the pipes for a little breakaway action. Bucket of pucks for 10 bucks. As an added bonus, he'll drone on for hours about early childhood education if you manage to sneak a shot through the 5 hole. Or even if you don't.

Dion chante Dion: A $20 contribution gets you this 5-track album featuring Stephane covering Celine's biggest hits, but with politically-tweaked lyrics. Hear the inspiring, albeit awkward, 'Love Can Move Mountains (But Only Extensive Environmental Review Can Mitigate Against Damage to the Alpine Ecosystem)' and 'Beauty is the Beast' -- a tender ballad in honour of his dog Kyoto and all the animals on Schedule 1 of the Species at Risk Act.

Carolyn's Cabaret: $100 to the Bennett campaign will get you a ticket to this vaudevillian one-woman act. See Carolyn do celebrity impressions. Well, she does just one -- a circa-On Golden Pond Katherine Hepburn... on speed. But it's really good, and she never stops.

Joe Volpe: No gimmicks required. School's back in session on Tuesday, and Unca Joe's got some goons on playground patrol. Lunch money should be pouring in by Friday.

Yeah, so hope that helps. But I gotta run. This chap from the Ivory Coast emailed me about an unclaimed US $5 million hidden by the former President of Tanzania, and let's just say I stand to get a huge cut. I'm off to the bank to wire him some money for expenses right now. And there you sit at your day-jobs. Morons!

Working Title 2: Harper disses Village People! In Tuktoyuktuk!

2006-08-28T13:56:00.000-07:00

As was an all-too-common occurrence back when I haunted a certain institution of higher learning, this morning I awoke to the sober light of Monday and regretted something I had done over the weekend.

Er, not that. What, does everybody know about that? 'Discretion assured', my ass! No, I mean my last post. Harper should have attended the World Aids Conference, I said. What was I smoking?

I mean, what would I have Stevie actually do at the Conference, exactly? He shows face, face gives speech, face gets booed. Then what -- is he supposed to hang out with the other big-profile attendees? How embarrassing would that be?

[Harper, scouring the hors d'oeuvre table for something not containing spelt. Up walks Bill Gates...]

Gates: "Mr. Prime Minister. Let me say that your Government's commitment to an additional $10 million over 5 years for AIDS research will nicely compliment the $967 trillion Melinda and I are giving. This month."

Harper: "Yes, well, Laureen and I are also very generous with these sorts of matters. Why, just the other day we gave a loonie to a street performer. He was a mime, if you catch my drift..."

[Up saunters former US President Bill Clinton, chicken satay skewer in hand]: "Mr. Gates, Mr. Prime Minister."

Harper: "Hello, Mr. Pres -- er, is it okay if I don't call you that? That's what George lets me call him, and, well, it would just feel wrong."

Clinton: "Um, 'Bill' is fine. Hey, it was really great of you to show up. I mean, I know you're a little uncomfortable with..."

Harper: "-- I also got a stain on a dress once, you know. Mustard. Laureen and I were at this Reform Party wiener roast and..."

Clinton: "Er, that's nice. Excuse me, I told Stephen Lewis I'd take him to the Cannonball, so..."

Harper [to Gates]: "Guess that just leaves us geeks, other Bill. You know, speaking of money, I was thinking your company might want in on the oil action in Northern Alberta. Lot of pipelines up there, and I just heard the other day that this inter-web of yours is a series of tubes..."

Gates [looks at watch, feigns surprise]: "Wow! Is it 4:00 already? I have to get to Price Club before it closes. Melinda goes through Alphagetti's by the case."

Harper [to back of Gates' head]: "Yeah, so, I'll have Emerson call you about that tube thing, then... Bill? Bill? Now, where were those Chicken Satays?"

Yeah, so it was maybe a good thing that he skipped out on the conference and -- what was he doing instead? Right. Kicking it in Nunavut. Asserting Canadian sovereignty over the Arctic by his mere Harperian presence. Shit, he really is a beacon. (And, as evidenced above, a damn good ice-breaker.)

Which is a good thing. I'm all for Stevie pounding the permafrost, licking the lichens, mushing the dog. In fact, I'd have his government do even more on the Arctic sovereignty file: An armada of ice breakers. Annual Prime Ministerial visits with the sole purpose of letting Stevie urinate directly on the north pole. (There is an actual pole there, right? Could be metal. Best just aim from the deck of the ship.)

It's about symbolism. It's about showing that, now matter how uncomfortable it is for the PM to spend a few hours in a chilly, hostile environment, hey, he's going to do it, because this is important to Canada and the World. Um, which is completely different from the AIDS Conference thing. Somehow. Trust me.

And, apparently, it's all about timing. Stevie's participation in 'Operation No Go Yellow Snow' could not wait. Not one single day. As the Prime Minister himself said, when it comes to the international community recognizing Canada's sovereignty, it's a matter of use it or lose it.

Um, which is completely different from Canada's moral authority to speak on issues of international importance. Somehow. Trust me.

Working title 1: What if Harper had AIDS?

2006-08-26T22:56:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the title, Boo. I suppose this is your way to get me to talk about the World AIDS conference that was held in Toronto earlier this month, which our PM avoided like the -- well, you know. Okay, Boo, I'll bite.

What if Harper had AIDS? I'll tell you what: Life as we know it would end. Gravity would reverse, and every molecule in the bodies of you, anyone named Madison, and three out of four dentists, would fly apart at eight times the speed of light. Chickens would talk with Estonian accents. Lou Reed would have a beautiful singing voice.

I mean, the very idea is just that preposterous. As any common-sense, god-fearing Canadian knows (and I mean really knows, like the way you know the world is 5,000 years old), Stephen Harper does not engage in any of the immoral practices that cause AIDS. You know the ones I'm talking about. Homosexuality. Shooting up. Or the ultimate perversion: hemophilia. Mr. Harper has always made the right life choices for an AIDS-free existence. Why, even as a zygote (a living, sentient zygote, albeit one with a bad haircut), Stephen had the good sense to not be born in Sub-Sarahan Africa to a mother with HIV. Talk about a leader with foresight.

All of which, to address the subtext of our title, is exactly why Stephen Harper should have been at the World AIDS Conference. Quite simply, Stephen Harper is the antidote to AIDS.

He wouldn't have to say a word. His very presence -- his mere uber-straight, ultra-sober, terrifically non-transfused (and not to mention, impeccably geo-maternally planned) existence -- would have stood as a beacon of non-infectiousness and immunosufficiency to the world. By just being there, Stephen Harper would have reminded us all that the key to stopping AIDS lies in stopping the lewd, opitated, easy-bleeding debauchery -- or, alternatively, the ill-advised choice of birth mothers -- that got the world's 38 million or so AIDS 'victims' into the mess they are in. (Or were in. Like, before they died. Whatever.)

Forget drug cocktails. You want to halt the spread of HIV/AIDS? Bottle Stephen Harper.

That's right -- take his Right Honourable ass on a world tour: India, Africa, and, er... some other places where people have HIV/AIDS. (It's not like he needs to actually know. He does have aides, people.) Anyway, have him walk among the infected, not unlike a modern-day Jesus. (But, for his comfort, lose the robe and sandals and give him a biohazard suit. Hey, Christ would have worn gloves in the leper colony if latex had been invented.) And let Stephen Harper just be Stephen Harper.

And lo, his innate anti-AIDSness (to coin a clever phrase. Yeah, it's a gift) will stem the tide of this global epidemic of sin and stupidity and set the stage for a Harperian tomorrow, a glorious age where nobody has AIDS and all the world's people live, disease free... long enough to be killed by global warming or an invading American army under Jeb Bush.

And, at the very least, the sick will be momentarily distracted from their plight by the sight of his khaki safari vest. Yes, worn over the biohazard suit.

Upcoming post: What if Harper had style?

Here goes nuthin'

2006-08-26T22:00:00.000-07:00

Or that's what has gone here for the past fiscal quarter, give or take. But, me thinks, no more. Thanks for all the um, interesting suggestions for post titles. Think I'll use a few.

In fact, know what? Let's make it a 'thing'. I had this great idea to categorize my posts by race, but Mark Burnett beat me to it, so this will have to do.

From now until I'm done with it, I give you Havril's "Working Title" series of posts. My shit, your title.

Okay...

2006-08-18T06:45:00.000-07:00

New posts coming next week. But I'm going to need a bit of help priming the pump. Titles. I need about five kickass post titles to get going. So gimme. Pretend it's a contest. Pretend you're a fluffer. Pretend you care.

Oh, and no swears -- Jesus is reading.

I also caught up on my infomercial watching

2006-08-04T01:28:00.000-07:00

If you thought that three nights of insomnia might produce a decent post or two... you thought wrong.

Update: Somebody call my HBMA sponsor. I'm definitely off the wagon again. God grant me the serenity...

Deja doo-doo

2006-07-17T12:32:00.000-07:00

As in crap you've seen before. As in, me, instead of a real post, giving you utter shite like...

Seven reasons why I haven't posted in a while

7. Studies show the average worker spends twelve days per year commuting. To get them out of the way, this year I'm doing all of mine in one shot.

6. I had been working on this 10,000-plus word post entitled "Oprah is Gay". Until today. Guess it's back to work on "Confessions of a Billionaire Transsexual: the Wilma Gates Story".

5. That space shuttle wasn't going to land itself, you know.

4. Blogging hardly seems a priorty right now, what with Hearst on the warpath after spending a night in jail next to the corpse of the Cornishman whose murder Utter implied Hearst ordered, Trixie pondering a return whoring at the Gem, Dan still reeling from having watched the life drain out Turner's eyes (well, the one eye Dan didn't tear from its socket), and Swearengen contemplating sending Dan to Cheyenne to see to the hiring of some guns.

3. I had this bear in my house for like three weeks. Swear to god.

2. The "all over" sunburn at I got at Wreck Beach a couple of weeks back has made typing quite painful. You see, I don't use my fingers.

And the number one reason why I haven't posted in a while....

1. Ottawa's plan to evacuate Canadian citizens from Lebanon: me, in a dinghy.

If I had a rocket launcher...

2006-06-29T10:45:00.000-07:00

I'd put it in my attic for, like, 30 years.

She was relieved to get it out of the house. No shit. This thing was a danger. A lurking menace. Maybe a national security incident waiting to happen.

Imagine. Poor old gal forgets she has it. Then one day she's going through a box of old knitting supplies. Some yarn gets wrapped around something. She tugs. Hsssssst... Swooosh. Silence. Distant boom. Horrified, granny doesn't report it. Nor does she come clean when the police, having tracked the trajectory back to her street, come to ask questions about a downed Airbus A340. They leave, satisfied the old dear knows nothing. And she goes about her life. Sweaters are knitted. A skylight is installed.

...But life would never be the same for those five young Muslim chaps who were renting the house next door.

And our pepper spray is from Moose Jaw

2006-06-22T12:07:00.000-07:00

As reported here, three youth delegates to the World Urban Forum in Vancouver allege that UN security officers -- apparently from either New York or Nairobi -- dragged them out of the Vancouver Trade and Convention Centre Wednesday night, one of the by the hair, after the youths objected to the officers' confiscation of t-shirts bearing a political slogan.

Assuming that the complaint is true, this is absolutely outrageous and deplorable conduct. It is simply unacceptable and must not be tolerated.

I mean, if anybody is going to deny the civil liberties of individuals on Canadian soil, it had better be a representative of the Canadian government.

The nerve, the unmitigated gall, of an international agency to think it can march in here and allow its thugs to stifle political expression and physically assault peaceful protesters -- as though we don't have our own homegrown thugs that are perfectly capable of doing the job. History has shown otherwise.

It's a denial of Canadian sovereignty. It's insulting.

Vancouverites in particular should be appalled, given this city's track record of excellence in the area of police misconduct. When it comes to excessive force and violation of rights, our cops can not only compete with any police force in the Western world, but our cops can kick their asses. (Most likely after dark, possibly in a secluded park somewhere.)

So I call on Ministers McKay and Day and Ambassador Rock to make a clear and unequivocal statement to the UN and the international community in general: It's our Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Canadian minds conceived it. A Canadian Prime Minister signed it. And when it's trampled, those size 12 standard-issue bootprints are goddamn well gonna say "Made in Canada".

But if you drop your sub-machine gun, a passer-by picks it up for you

2006-06-20T12:39:00.000-07:00

Some concurrent headlines don't add up. Like "Head injuries on decline in Okanagan" along side "Stockwell Day wins by landslide".

Today, I'm having trouble reconciling "T.O. third most polite city in the world: survey" with "One man dead after shootings continue in T.O.".

Hmm. Guess the folks at Reader's Digest didn't consider 'tendancy to not riddle fellow citizens with hot lead' as a valid measure of politeness.

Or maybe it's all about whether you say "my bad" afterwards?

They even look a bit alike

2006-06-13T13:54:00.000-07:00

Some things are so horrid they must be shared, lest one suffer alone.

At first, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Ultimately, I did both -- but only after flushing my eyes, ears (and, for good measure, at least one other orifice) with a 1:1 solution of CLR and paint thinner.

I was about to entitle this post "This has nothing to do with politics..." but then I realized something: this is the musical equivalent of every Stockwell Day press conference I've ever seen.

I'm sorry.

Decapitation is not funny, but Howdy Doody is

2006-06-06T13:24:00.000-07:00

The shocking headline: Suspect accused of wanting to behead PM, lawyer claims.

The obvious defence: "My Lord, my client meant he wanted to cut the Prime Minister's hair off, not his whole head. I refer your Lordship to Exhibit 12, "Official Photo of Prime Minister". I mean, really, just look at that mop. Need I say more?"

Count dismissed.

Call me a fire retardant, but...

2006-06-02T07:10:00.000-07:00

Toronto-based watchdog group Environmental Defence has issued a report of research showing that Canadian children are contaminated by a 'soup' of potentially toxic industrial chemicals -- including several known or suspected carcinogens, hormone disrupters and neurotoxins.

Which has to be great news for Joe Volpe. Neurotoxins. Might just make a kid do something wonky. You know, like empty his RBC Little Moneybags account to donate $5400 to somebody's leadership campaign.

And a Myron Thompson nudie air freshener

2006-05-31T23:34:00.000-07:00

Fixed election dates. Term limits for Senators. Damn, Stevie's gonna hook y'all up with one dope democracy, dog!

Er, just don't look under the hood, aight?

A headline like this can't go without comment

2006-05-18T11:02:00.000-07:00

And mine is: I assume beer was involved.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main...

A month in review - part one of at least one

2006-05-18T07:34:00.000-07:00

Alternate title: Nobody said I'd be topical

Let's see, what's been going on while I've been incommunicado? (Er, commando. That's right -- no underwear for the past four weeks. But then, you knew that.)

That Budgety Thingy

I'm torn on Flaherty's first effort at spending my sorta hard-earned tax dollars (and, I guess, yours).

First, I'm in favour of the 1% cut to the GST. Now, some of my fellow lefties have complained (the left, complaining -- go figure) that a miniscule drop in a consumption tax won't really help, say, a single mother trying to raise a couple of kids on $15,000 a year.

Hogwash! Sure, Mommy Nobucks would save only pennies on, say, the rental of the latest Wallace and Grommit flick for little Jimmy to watch on movie night. But if she really loved her kids, and got them a Samsung 61" Widescreen DLP HDTV to prove it, the savings would be a hefty $50! That's enough to subscribe to a month of the Hustler/Playboy channel value pack, with some left over for a 24 of Blue. (Hey, grade two's a bitch. A kid has to unwind.)

But I'm strongly against the $1200 annual child care allowance for families with children under 6 years of age. And not for the reasons you might think. I'm not upset about the scrapping of the Liberals' plan to provide more daycare spaces. There are quite enough daycare spaces right now. It's just that they are too large. Really, these spaces are huge -- some with enough room for three or four kids. What they ought to do is subdivide them. The Tories' plan to allow for a tax break on the cost of recreational activities for kids will come in handy here. A more active child is a thinner child, meaning you can cram more of them into one daycare "space".

No, I'm against the new baby bonus because it is yet another attempt to offload a financial burden onto the provinces. Here's the problem: $1200 per child per year is such a ridiculously generous amount that people will be having kids just to get their hands on the cash. Women will be popping fertility pills, birthing four, five, six kids at a time. Rolling in Haperbucks, ma and pa will live high on the hog for a few years -- Belgian beer, gourmet popcorn, weekend excursions to Sarnia. Then, a day after each child's sixth birthday, he or she gets abandoned in a farmer's field, clad only in a "Mommy and Daddy blew a grand at RiverRock Casino and all I got was this lousy t-shirt" shirt. This will mean thousands of extra children in foster care, on the province's dime. Fiscal imbalance, indeed.

Yeah, so that's that. I'm thinking there must have been something else that went on while I was away. I remember hearing something about Afghanistan -- probably something to do with the final episode of Amazing Race. Lemme check my TiVo and get back to you.

Been a long time, been a long time

2006-05-18T07:10:00.000-07:00

Yeah, yeah, so I'm back. But please, no balloon-o-grams, Starbucks gift cards, or JPEGs of your sister in her I heart havril baby tee. Well, if you must.

It's been about 30 days since my last post. I contemplated staying away for 30 years, so I could return to become the instant frontrunner in a national leadership contest. But I wrote some controversial stuff about torture in my youth (grasshopper, magnifying glass -- not pretty), so I thought better of it.

Anyway, it's been a while, so I'm going to say what in retrospect I probaby should have said to my wife on our wedding night: Don't expect anything spectacular.

Nada, take 2

2006-04-18T20:08:00.000-07:00

Yeah, about the lack of blogging. Just catching up on some worky type stuff at work and some sledge-hammery type stuff at home. Anyway, more posts soon. I sorta almost promise. Like when your dad promised you a pony, except I really mean it.

In the meantime...

To Alberta, I say: You want respect? Okay, we respect you. Your oil is the oiliest. Now quit whining and spot us a few Ralph Bucks.
To Stockwell Day I say: Chilling, isn't it, to think of the countless thousands of good people that must have died in the jaws of these monsters? The humanity, my God, the humanity!
To the Holmes-Cruise child, I say: Welcome to the world. Sorry about your parents. Er, and your President.

Later. Go Sens!

This is nothing, really

2006-04-11T10:00:00.000-07:00

To twist the words inscribed on Stockwell Day's favourite pewter bookmark, let me say this: Seven days with no blogging makes one weak.

Not Horshack from 'Welcome Back Kotter' weak, but pretty weak. Think of an accountant who just gave blood but said no to the cookies and oj. Yeah, so that's the level of energy I bring to the blogosphere right now.

So, in the interest of putting you all on notice that I am not completely dead, I give you the tried and true non-post post. Or...

TOP 8 REASONS WHY I HAVEN'T BEEN BLOGGING MUCH LATELY

8. Belinda's decision to not seek the Liberal leadership hit me really hard, and Peter MacKay's potato patch doesn't have WiFi access.

7. I think I might have cut off a Bandido on the 407 a couple of years back. I'm keeping a low profile until it blows over.

6. My conditioner bottle said "rinse, repeat". It didn't say how many times.

5. My campaign to draft John McCallum is floundering. (And after I blew $19.95 on a sweet domain name.)

4. Enriching uranium is harder than you'd think. (Gholam Reza Aghazadeh -- complete asshole to work for.)

3. Well, it's all very complicated. You see, Scofield can't remember parts of the prison schematics where his tattoo got burned off, and the Warden transferred him to solitary because he wouldn't answer questions about the bit of guard's uniform found embedded in his wound, leaving Sucre to conceal the hole in the guard's break room. Are you following me?

2. Priorities, man. That turkey pepperoni's not going to eat itself.

And the number one reason I haven't been blogging much lately...

1. I'll put in more effort when the Canucks do.

Real posts to follow. Eventually.

And maybe I wasn't joking about the Harper-Coulter Motel 6 photos

2006-04-04T17:39:00.000-07:00

Has the dust settled? Keee-ryst!

After five months of busting my bony white ass trying to write semi-amusing shit for this blog on a semi-regular basis, I had cultivated a readership consisting of a handful of sorta regulars and the odd horny guy who accidentally got here by Googling 'scarlet johanson breast'.

Then, on a lark, I do a half-assed photoshop job of two dudes trading spit and... kazowy! Traffic goes from sad to -- um, whatever 16 times more than sad is -- overnight.

Which probably says something. Like maybe: "A picture is worth a thousand words." Or: "Comedy is the art of the unexpected." Or: "Less funny talk, blog bitch, more man-on-man action!"

Oh, yeah. Did I mention that my traffic has gone back to sad?

Which is fine. I'm good with that. But I shudder at what lengths I'd have to go to for another spike in hits.

(...Now, let's see, if Her Majesty's PVC 12-buckled corset is candy apple red, should her the harness for her strap-on dildo match? And what about His Holiness' lipstick?)

We'll always have Cancun

2006-04-01T08:49:00.000-08:00

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

2006-03-31T11:57:00.000-08:00

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.)

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

2006-03-28T22:09:00.000-08:00

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.

Easy on the bludgeoning, heavy on the mayo

2006-03-24T13:18:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2006-03-22T12:20:00.000-08:00

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.

And the gales of April came early...

2006-03-22T07:31:00.000-08:00

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.

Where there's smoke...

2006-03-21T13:14:00.000-08:00

...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.

What would Father Guido Sarducci do?

2006-03-20T08:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Blue Grit

2006-03-18T10:12:00.000-08:00

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:

Prime Minister Harper has two sandbox-aged children, and at least one pet cat.
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.
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.

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

2006-03-17T12:19:00.000-08:00

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.

Actually, it's a collection of things

2006-03-15T21:44:00.000-08:00

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.

An entirely reasonable explanation

2006-03-15T19:37:00.000-08:00

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.

Send maple syrup

2006-03-10T07:52:00.000-08:00

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

Roadside distraction

2006-03-08T09:52:00.000-08:00

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."

Oscar? Never heard of him

2006-03-05T12:44:00.000-08:00

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.

Don't hate me, or you

2006-03-04T15:12:00.000-08:00

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?

Must flee TV (or, Live and Let Die)

2006-03-03T10:24:00.000-08:00

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.

Lord tundering jesus, whazzat in me gandy, ma?

2006-02-28T20:10:00.000-08:00

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?

Ciao Olympica (or: Next Sunday, bran muffins)

2006-02-26T12:50:00.000-08:00

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.

Okay, since everybody else is doing it...

2006-02-22T18:47:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2006-02-21T14:31:00.000-08:00

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

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

2006-02-21T13:13:00.000-08:00

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?

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

2006-02-20T19:40:00.000-08:00

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).

If I had a nickel for every visit to my blog

2006-02-19T00:41:00.000-08:00

...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.

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

2006-02-18T12:52:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2006-02-14T08:01:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

2006-02-12T21:28:00.000-08:00

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...")

About as accurate as Fox on a good day

2006-02-10T14:16:00.000-08:00

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.

Cabinet - or, in French, cabinet

2006-02-07T06:07:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2006-02-06T08:16:00.000-08:00

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?

Wiarton Willy never needed a PFD

2006-02-01T12:20:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2006-02-01T07:49:00.000-08:00

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.

A little something to get off his chest?

2006-01-27T11:35:00.000-08:00

(Yeah, yeah, I'm still not officially here. But I just had to pop into the office for this...)

Last night, prime minister-designate Stephen Ha.. Haarr -- you know who-- was treated at hospital for a chest inflammation, later diagnosed as an infection.

Thankfully, it's not serious, so I feel it not too insensitive of me to comment -- specifically, to speculate as to the origin of this wee infection.

I'm no doctor, but my guess is it's the bacterial strain: concealus socialus conservatis, which the literature suggests is usually linked to prolonged retention of a hidden political agenda.

UPDATE: I hope our PMD also got inoculated against two other grave afflictions apparently common in our northern climate -- hedonism and cultural Marxism. I wish him well on this front. Unlike most people of my generation, I never had my Marx removed when I was in 20's, so I'm obviously at risk. And a few months ago, I was in bed for a week with a bad case of hedonism.

The pause that refreshes

2006-01-24T19:43:00.000-08:00

Y'all:

Please be advised that I'll not be tormenting you (yes, you -- both of you) with new posts for a few days, maybe ten. I'll be busy with a combination of working for the Man (while secretly plotting to stick it to him), recharging the old blog batteries, and trying to digest yesterday's election results.

(Okay, here goes: Prime Minister Haa... Prime Minister Haarr -- Yeah, I definitely need some time.)

In the meantime, study my previous posts thoroughly. There will be a test when I get back.

And, for the love of Elsie Wayne's lord and personal saviour, somebody throw me a freakin' comment once in a while! I know you are there. I can hear you breathing. But you just read and don't say anything. It's starting to creep me out.

Govern yourselves accordingly.

Jeers,
Hav.

Something of which I am rarely accused

2006-01-23T12:49:00.000-08:00

A wise person once said, "All things should be enjoyed in moderation, except for moderation, which should be enjoyed to excess." (That wise person? Me, just now.)

Although probably not warranted given my depressing lack of readership, all the cool kids are doing it, so I've just turned on comment moderation. This way, nobody can get me in trouble with the Election Police by sneakily posting results from out thataway while us schmucks out thisaway are still voting. (Or trying to -- any idea how hard it is to mark a rain-soaked ballot?) Last thing I need is to end up as CalgaryGrit's bitch . Mind you, the hoodoos are pretty this time of year.

So, I'm about 3 hours away from voting. Still not pleased about my choices. But at least there's the complimentary latte to look forward to. (Or is that just a West Coast thing?)

See you on the flip side.

Whatever

2006-01-22T21:43:00.000-08:00

Alternate title: Strategic "Boating" Would Be Easier. Like a Game of Battleship.

Alternate, alternate title: After This Election, I think You Should Stop Blogging for a While. Maybe See Somebody. You Know, Just to Talk.

Okay. This is most likely my last post before The Big Day. To sum up my what I've shared so far:

I'm not voting conservative.
I'd rather not vote Liberal.
I have some options.

But, in case it's not been abundantly clear, there's one overarching sentiment that I'm feeling with every fibre of my being...

Thought 4: I'm seriously considering gouging my eyes out with a grapefruit spoon.

Really. It's that bad. And nobody is making this any easier.

Take Jack Layton's oft-repeated warning in these final days of the campaign: "You can't trust the smoking hulk of a defeated Liberal Party to keep the Conservatives in check." Excuse me -- smoking hulk? What does that even mean? Do cigarettes and Marvel characters suddenly have something to do with this election? What's next -- Duceppe's a boozing Spiderman? Harper a gambling Captain America? (Oh, wait a minute... that last one sorta works.)

Then there's Paul Martin's call to all progressive voters to band together to defeat the Conservative agenda. All fine and strategic, except that his definition of "progressives" is a bit of a stretch in that it includes Liberals, NDPers, Greens -- and the undecided. Mind you, I guess we don't know the undecided aren't against Stephen Harper. (They might be. They just won't say.) Hey, why not throw in some other folks who have also been tight-lipped on their voting intentions in this election: babies, the unborn, citizens of Estonia? The deceased? Wow, if we unite this left, Pauly's gonna win a landslide!

And don't get me started on Buzz Hargrove. Let me see if I have this right: On account of the fact that the separatists would be buoyed by the decentralist tendencies of a Conservative government, Quebeckers should defeat the separatists... by voting for separatists. Way to show those secessionist bastards, eh? Every vote for them will be a nail in their own coffin.

That's kinda out there. Really, I might as well get voting advice from Buzz Lightyear. Or maybe Buzz Aldrin. You remember him: second man on the moon, has a haircut named after him. (Actually, turns out his advice might involve punching out anyone who disagrees with me. We can only hope this isn't a lesson he teaches in his new children's book.)

Mind you, it might feel good to punch somebody. I'm not making any threats here, but let's just say that Harper, Martin, Duceppe and Layton are all lucky that I've started taking yoga again. But don't get in my aura.

And on that not completely negative note, I should leave it. I think I have an idea of what I have to do.

And, no, it doesn't involve eating my ballot. Thought crossed my mind, but apparently "the law" says I can't do that. And, anyway, there's the carbs thing again. (I'm not obsessed or anything, but as it is, the Dream of 6-Pack Abs gets further away the more I sit at this computer. At present, I'm about a 2-pack, assuming that a roll of fat counts as a "pack").

Nor will there be any gouging of eyes with a spoon, grapefruit or otherwise. That, of course, was just an expression. I'd never actually do it. (And if I did, I'd use a melon baller. Er, not that I've really thought about it.)

No, I'll work it out and just...vote. And what will be will be. And the sun will come up the next day. Well, probably not here, but somewhere.

And I'll have some Honeycombs, and it will all be...okay. Okay?

Yes, yes, it's definitely still the Day Before...

2006-01-22T13:35:00.000-08:00

Alternate title: For A Guy Who Is Supposed to Be Agonizing Over His Vote, You Sure Are Jokey, Dare I say - Prolific?

Picking up from where we left off last time (not to be confused with the time before that, which was also good, but in an earlier, deja vu kind of way)... I was all like: "I don't want to vote Liberal." And you were all like: "Is that a RonCo Food Dehydrator? Cool." Then we were both ate turkey jerky for, like, a really long time. And then...

Thought 3: Some options

So, not Conservative. And not Liberal if I can help it. Which leaves me with the NDP or the Green Party.

As for the NDP, I like many of their policies. The whole "Help for people" theme is appealing, since I happen to be people, and I could always use a little help. And Honeycombs. (I've moved on from the Cheerios. A guy has to grow up sometime.) Not that they have a specific "Honeycombs for People" policy, but they do go on about spending tax dollars on things that matter, and what matters more than a really good breakfast cereal -- particularly, one with a big big taste and a big big bite?

And, speaking as somebody who thinks that society is way too sexually repressed, I feel that voting for a party whose leader so unapologetically sports a porn mustache sends a sex-positive message. The other parties, not so much.

And the Greens? I'd like to vote for them. I really would. I know I haven't mentioned this before, but rest assured, I'm real big on windmills and clean water and cars powered by bio-fuel. (I'm a little unclear on how the chicken poo gets through the intake valve, but I'm sure Jim Harris is on top of it.) And I'm all about taxing the shit out of the big oil companies. (Well, so long as it doesn't affect the price of gas. Hey, I didn't say I would use bio-fuel. Have you ever smelled chicken poo? Exactly.)

Lofty ideas, to be sure. But they haven't got a chance of winning my riding, or anywhere else. And as my grandmother always said: you might have the best waltz of any man at the ball, but nobody will ever know this if you tragically lose both your legs in an industrial buffer accident on the way to dance floor. She didn't like dancing. Or janitors.

I'm going to need some help with this one.

STILL The Day Before the Day Before the Day After

2006-01-22T06:43:00.000-08:00

Alternate title: It's Almost Like Today Doesn't Want it To Be Tomorrow, Either.

Picking up from where we left off, I was saying "Canada is my nation; it is not my navel," in response to which you were chuckling, nay guffawing, almost choking on your Ovaltine. Some even came out your nose, which was cute. And nutritious. Then there was a stark, humourless silence across cyberspace for what seemed like nanoseconds. Until, this...

Thought 2: I'd rather not vote Liberal

Okay. So as we learned last time, no Conservatives (on account of the Clark-Spohr factor and the abs). But, then, who?

As a young child, I was, like most young children, a New Democrat. I was an often very vocal proponent of the redistribution of wealth (Cheerios, candy, toys) from those who had it (my sister, that man at the corner store, that ungrateful Kirk kid from down the street) to those who didn't (invariably, me). I supported quality child care, especially when the caring involved the distribution of the aforementioned wealth to the child (again, me) . I supported environmental stewardship (bugs in jars) and funding for the arts (so long as the arts were cartoons).

As a teen, I was a Young Liberal. I have nothing witty to say about that, I just was. Then, circa 1990 (circa being Latin for, Christ I'm old), I became a YL for PM -- the PM, of course, standing for Paul Martin. (Or, in my case, possibly "Pimple Medication". Man, was I a greasy kid.) Sadly, my button-wearing, meeting-stacking, underage-drinking efforts notwithstanding, Pauly's first leadership campaign fell way short.

Dejected, I boxed up my PM t-shirt, PM bandana and PM sunglasses ...and PM shoelaces, shoe horn, watch, wallet, bottle opener, toilet brush and novelty condoms. (Somehow I missed out on the replica Liberian-flagged steamships.) I let my party membership lapse in '91, then finally succeeded in getting my name removed from their mailing list in -- well, I'll let you know after I check Monday's mail.

From there, my partisan affiliation slowly faded -- thankfully, as did my zittage. I'm a bit embarassed to say that, off the top of my head, I can't recall with certainty who I voted for in '93, '97 and '00. I happen to be much clearer on who I slept with over the same time span. Booty tends to be more memorable than ballots. Also, the list is shorter. I know I voted Liberal at least once. And NDP. And then there was this girl who liked to do it... Wait, I'm getting confused.

Anway, 2004 I do remember. Ballot: Liberal. Booty: my wife. Canadian Idol: Kalan Porter. (The lad reminds me of myself at his age. But with a better voice. Better hair, too. And fewer zits. Actually, why did I vote for that little bastard?)

Anyway, the Libs got my vote last time around for a number of reasons. First, there was my leftover nostalgic admiration for the Paul Martin of a decade and a half ago: forward-looking, articulate, less likely to consume large doses of Geritol. Second, there was a chance that the Conservatives and their decidedly non-Clarkspohresque leader Stephen Harper could actually win - a scenario that something a guy like me who leans left (and, not that it's relevant, dresses right) cannot tolerate.

Third, I was in Ujjal Dosanjh's riding. All else being equal, I'll usually vote for the brown guy. Call it my way of sticking it to Whitey. And "the Man". (True, I myself am a whitey, but only in the small-w sense. I'm also a man, but not the Man. And until I am him, "it" should be stuck to him at every opportunity, assuming "it" is not a delicious caramel apple, in which case, I am your Man.)

But that was then. This time is a problem.

I don't know if I can vote Liberal. It's not that I don't think they've done a good job. On the whole, they have. The economy is humming. Budgetary surpluses abound. George Bush has his chaps in a knot. All good in my books. And it's not that I think Martin or his candidates are corrupt. They may know some guys who know some guys who are corrupt, but there's a difference. Hey, I watch movies: The corrupt guys say "faggedabowdit" and then go medieval on your ass. Martin and his team says "Idunnoabowdit" and, at worst, would go circa 1964 on your ass.

But in this campaign, Pauly and the Libs (not to be confused with the folk group of the same name) have looked, well, pathetic. I can overlook the strategic gaffes like letting Harper dictate the flow of the campaign, or not putting tighter pants on Stephen Owen. But crap like the "guns in our cities" ad and playing cheap politics with the Charter, well, that's (a) sad and (b) an insult to my intellajins intelligence.

There's quite enough "sad" in this life as it is. Case in point: the heartbreaking lack of quality chocolate bars in this country in general and in my home in particular. And folks who want to insult my intelligence are a dime a dozen. I have the garage full of As Seen on TV products to prove it.

So there's all that. Wherever that leaves me. This will take some more thought. Maybe some chocolate.

The Day Before the Day Before the Day After

2006-01-22T01:01:00.000-08:00

Alternate title: Not a Movie About Our Impending Vaporization in a Mushroom Cloud of Doom But it Feels Like it.

Alternate, alternate title: Yeah, About This Election Thing Tomorrow? I'm Feeling Kinda Pukey.

Early on this All Electors Eve morn, I'm doing a lot of thinking. Some of it is right-brain thinking (just now: "Is 'eve morn' an oxymoron?"). Some is left-brain thinking (just after just now: "Who is Eve, and why does she mourn?"). And some is no-brain thinking (enjoying a bowl of delicious and nutritious fruit salad: "Fruit is delicious and nutritious. What was that Feschuck guy going on about?")

But as the pained expression on my face suggests (apart from that I should eat less fruit), mostly I'm doing some gut thinking. Future of This Country thinking. Election thinking. So far, I have this...

Thought 1: I'm not voting Conservative

This will be no surprise to anyone who has had occasion to hear, read (or, in the case of those nosy bastards at CSIS, subpoena from my ISP) my relentless (and by some accounts, sorta kinda amusing) criticism of Stephen Harper's policies on key issues like same-sex marriage and crime. And turtlenecks.

And as my friends well know, I almost always position myself a little to the left of centre on matters of political importance. (Ironically, when it comes to one matter of personal importance, I happen to position myself to a little to the right of centre. But that's nobody's business but my wife's and my tailor's. Well, and now yours. Sorry about that.)

Notice I didn't italicize, underline or otherwise decorate the "not" in "I'm not voting Conservative". This is because, well, I could vote conservative (note the decoration just there). I really could, in the right circumstances.

Those circumstances? Well, the party would have to have as its leader the (as yet only hypothetical) amalgam of Joe Clark and my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Spohr. Clark for his red-Tory sensibilities and the effortless grace with which he carries a set of jowls. And Mr. Spohr because, man, was he cool. Granted, he had kind of a odd name, but dude drove an El Camino. An El Camino. Need I say more?

Oh, and beer. I'd need a lot of beer -- before, after and during the casting of my ballot. Before for the courage, after for the guilt, and during -- well, the during is just to mess with the old ladies running the polling station.

[And as for the "during" part, should you try it, a caution: exposing folks in the act of voting to the label on your can or bottle might be misconstrued as displaying campaign material at a polling place -- an Elections Act no-no. You'll want to avoid brands that can be seen as touting a party or candidate - such as Labatt's Blue (Conservative), Rickard's Red (Liberal) or Mongoose Malt (Layton).]

Anyway, it's not going to happen. Not this time. I knew Joe Clark-Spohr, and Stephen Harper is no Joe Clark-Spohr.

Also, there's the beer. I fear so many liquid carbs all in one day would force me to postpone, yet again, the launch of my long-promised third blog, justphotosofmyrockhardabs.blogspot.com. I love this country, but I'm not prepared to sacrifice my gut -- and your six-pack viewing jollies -- in the name of good government.

Canada is my nation; it is not my navel.

Do I hear fourteen cents? ...Anyone?

2006-01-20T14:00:00.000-08:00

As reported here, the adult-only domain name sex.com has been sold for $US14 million.

Worth considerably less: sexwithmyronthompson.com.

More attacks planned, but truce offered

2006-01-19T12:36:00.000-08:00

...Says Osama Bin Laden to America -- not Paul Martin to Stephen Harper as originally thought.

As a result of this correction, Hell has cancelled the public skate that had been scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

Moi, un bloquiste? Qui savait?

2006-01-16T17:33:00.000-08:00

I wonder how much it costs to have a Duceppe lawn sign FedEx'd from Laurier-Sainte-Marie.

http://www.saplin.com/vote2006/

None too clever

2006-01-16T01:13:00.000-08:00

More proof that, if you think you have a really good idea, chances are somebody else has probably already thought of it:

insert witty title here
(insert name here)
Clever Title Goes Here
[insert clever name]
(Insert Something Clever Here)

I don't like this. True, these folks may have had blogs before I did, but I've been using the stupid non-name name gimmick for years. Cases in point: 1983 -- my first book report ("I haven't read this yet"); 1991 -- my first university paper ("The Guy Who Wrote This For Me Wanted an Extra $20 for a Title"); 2004 -- my wedding vows ("...take you, State Bride's Name, to be my wife").

For a nanosecond, I contemplated challenging these pretenders to a thumb wrestling tournament where everybody but the winner has to change his or her blog's name. But with my luck, one or more of them would have a freakishly muscular thumb. ("Roger Ebert, Henry Winkler! No, I had no idea you guys blogged. And on Blackberrys? You don't say.")

Sigh. It's almost enough to make me give up on blogging altogether and devote all my time to this revolutionary invention I'm working on. It's like a DVD, but boxy and more scratch resistant. I call it... Betamax.

10 things the Liberals can still do to win this election

2006-01-15T11:06:00.000-08:00

There's a lot of responsibility that goes with writing a blog as popular as mine. If recent traffic stats are correct, tens - if not dozens - of people are hanging on my every word. In such a position of power, it is incumbent on me to take pause now and then to consider what message I'm sending out to my public.

Take my recent Open Letter to Paul Martin post. In retrospect, I fear that certain comments (like, say, "you were in the race" or "something to think about during Harper's swearing-in ceremony") may have left the impression that I feel that this election campaign is a done deal, that there's nothing the Liberals can do to turn this thing around.

I can only assume these comments were behind the obvious decline in Liberal morale in recent days. Once funnier than a singing mechanical moosehead, Liberal blogboy Scott Feschuck has taken to posting about fruit. Belinda Stronach, I'm told, wore the same powder blue power suit twice last week. Even the Prime Minister's trademark verbal preamble "let me be clear" has been downgraded to "let me be... employed."

To the cogs in la machine rouge, and to Canadians everywhere who are dismayed at the prospect of being governed by people with worse haircuts than themselves, I say this: Not all hope is lost. Granted, most hope is lost, but not quite all hope - maybe if you look in the pocket of a jacket you haven't worn for a while, or dig behind the cushions on your couch, there might be some hope there. Try that shoebox on the top shelf of your closet (no, not that one -- this is one of the very few situations in life where porn will not make things better).

Okay, you are taking too long. (You did go in that other box, didn't you?) Well, let me help you out. With the hope, I mean.

TEN THINGS THE LIBERALS CAN STILL DO TO WIN THIS ELECTION

10. Sex it up a bit: shorter skirts on Anne McLellan, tighter pants for Stephen Owen.

9. Forget handguns -- reach out to the underestimated anti Casey and Finnegan lobby by banning hand puppets.

8. Promise Canadians universal publicly-funded access to Pierre Pettigrew's hairstylist.

7. Cut the GST to negative 7 percent. Campaign slogan: "Buy shit, get cash from the feds!"

6. Sex it up even more: have PM attend a Make Poverty History event, stage an open-mouth kiss with Bono.

5. Offer to provide Canadians with quality, low cost child care -- at 24 Sussex. (No sweat: Chef Drache could whip up some kick-ass mac and cheese, Sheila could pop in a Madagascar DVD. Storytime with Uncle Ujjal...)

4. Change party name to i-Liberal.

3. Well, let's just say... if a number of prominent Tories were to, you know, "take an unexpected vacation" until after the election.... I'm not advocating anything, but I know a guy who knows a guy...

2. "And starting in goal for the Vancouver Canucks, number 29, Ken Dryden!"

And the number one thing the Liberals can still do to win this election....

1. Release the Harper-Coulter Motel 6 photos.

New Liberal attack ad?

2006-01-13T11:39:00.000-08:00

Poker, Aniston, Porn, Viagra, Vegas

2006-01-13T08:22:00.000-08:00

Are, in all probability, really good keywords to direct readers to your blog.

Not as good: Tiddliwinks, Goldberg, Scrapbooking, Saltpeter, Regina.

Lost in translation, part deux: less Scarlet Johanson, more Jack Layton

2006-01-11T00:00:00.000-08:00

According to an e-mail from "T", a gal who is obviously as sensitive as she is gifted in her ability to appreciate way wicked humour, she actually "cried a bit" reading my first Lost in Translation post. Le shucks.

Alors, with the second installment of the federal leaders en français now a wrap, let's roll out some more mis-translations and see if we can't make T, how you say... pee a bit?

* * *

Civilized - In an attempt to present his party as more moderate than the Harper Conservatives, Paul Martin setting clear limits on how far he'd go in punishing criminals:

«Le Parlement ne devrait pas avoir le droit d'enlever des droits individuels aux Canadiens.»
"Parliament should not have the right to remove the fingers of individual Canadians."

Voluptuous - Conservative leader Stephen Harper admitting that, as PM, he'd surround himself with buxom French-Canadian women:

«J'ai besoin de vrais Québécois au sein d'une table de cabinet»
"I need some real Québécois breast at the cabinet table."

Resourceful - Jack Layton, linking the environmental issue of waterfowl overpopulation in urban centres with the plight of low income seniors, calling on the government to:

«... fournir les soins aux personnes âgées»
"...cook swans for the elderly"

At last - Paul Martin admitting for the first time that his office was directly involved in directing dirty sponsorship money into Liberal coffers:

« Nous avons placé le pays avant le parti »
"We placed the payments in front of the party"

Cocky - Layton, questioning the political courage of Quebec's provincial politicians and promising that the NDP will promote national unity by pressuring:

«... l’Assemblée nationale puisse, en fait, ratifier la Constitution. »
"...the National Assembly pussies, in fact, to ratify the Constitution."

* * *

And if that didn't quite make you rire à pisser, T, what can I say? Try another bottle of Trois Pistoles.

An open letter to Paul Martin

2006-01-10T11:01:00.000-08:00

Dear Prime Minister Martin (while I can still call you that):

Re: last night's debate

This will be short. It's hard to type when you're banging your head against the wall.

What in the name of all things good and holy (and a few that aren't) were you thinking? A constitutional amendment to delete the notwithstanding clause? When exactly did you come up with this little brainwave - on the campaign bus on the way to the studio? During make-up?

Or maybe while you were 'draining the little liberal' one last time before going on air? Granted, some truly inspired ideas were conceived while standing at the pisser. (Tile-grout grafitti gems like "So this is where the all the dicks hang out" and "Why are you looking here when the joke is in your hand?" come to mind, as does the late Ronald Regan's theory of "trickle down economics". Damned ornery prostate.) I mean, there's thinking on your feet, and then there's thinking on your feet.

But perhaps some matters like, oh, I don't know - changing the fundamental law of the land - warrant some more thorough reflection, away from the distracting scent of a deodorant cake.

And speaking of smells, seeking election is a lot like playing the single's dating scene, a well-known principal of which is as follows: you won't score with anyone if you reek of desperation. Which your campaign now does.

Too bad, too, since you were still in the race. You had game. The 'older man' thing - very distinguished. And a fat wallet and a yacht never hurts. Canadians were flirting with bad boy Stephen Harper, but they would have overlooked that Gomery-sized zit on your nose, swallowed their pride, and come home with you at the end of the night. You were no prize, but you'd have been the best thing around at last call (much less annoying than the little used car salesman with the white mustache).

But when Steve started picking up a few more numbers than you, you panicked and blurted out something foolish. The "C" word, no less. Not sexy.

Something to think about during Harper's swearing-in ceremony. After you've taken a leak.

Sincerely,
Havril

As if watching the debate isn't punishment enough

2006-01-09T08:04:00.000-08:00

The second round of leaders' debates starts tonight. Given the flurry of 'Tough on Crime' policy announcements in recent days (more accurately, 'Tougher Than Them on Crime', policy announcements, giving rise to 'They are Complete Pussies on Crime But We Favour Beating Criminals With Sock-Wrapped Cue Balls' policy announcements), one topic sure to be on the agenda is crime and punishment. Heavy emphasis on the punishment.

One theme that keeps coming up is automatic minimum sentences for crimes committed with guns. Now, I'm against crime in general (the hilarious, slapstick Home Alone variety excepted). And I'm all about banning guns and everything associated with them - bullets, those little paper bad guy targets, small penises. But I don't quite get the minimum sentence thing. I mean, why for guns but not for other weapons?

Okay, I do grasp that guns are an inherently greater risk to the public at large. Rarely does an innocent bystander get cut in a botched drive-by knife throwing - and when it does happen, the perp is usually easily tracked to a nearby circus where he goes by the name of the Amazing Stabini ("Let the blindfolded lady go and step away from the Wheel of Death!"). Rarer still are incidents where somebody gets choked by some stray piano wire during a drive-by strangling. And when this happens, the assailant is invariably dealt with (that is, politely reprimanded then sent to 'sleep with the fishes') by embarrassed fellow mobsters.

But when you are the intended victim, a gun is not necessarily less dangerous or less terrifying than any other weapon of choice. Just ask anyone who's been on the business end of a shoulder-carried anti-tank missile launcher, or mugged at chainsaw-point.

My problem with mandatory minimum sentences is that their inflexibility inevitably gives rise to injustice in certain cases. For example, is it fair to give a kid 10 years for shoplifting when he happened to have a handgun in his waistband? He might have forgotten it was there. A Guardian 32 ACP Double-action Semiauto measures a teeny 4.4 inches in length, and kids' pants these days are notoriously baggy. Aight, Holmes?

And longer jail terms are not a deterrent, since most would-be criminals don't weigh in advance the consequences of what they are about to do. (As an aside, this is also a common, but in my view misguided, argument against capital punishment. Capital punishment is a huge deterrent. Unfortunately, it deters people, some of them innocent, from living. But that's an issue I'd rather not get into until a future Prime Minister Harper says we have to.)

It's also argued that, at least for the length of his jail term, an offender is off the street and not committing more crime. Obviously true, but that's a slope more slippery than dew on snot. By that logic, why not give all criminals life sentences right off the bat. Or, better yet, incarcerate folks before they offend - Minority Report style. As a rule of thumb, public policy should never resemble anything connected to Tom Cruise.

And anyway, assuming that 'precog' technology is a few years off (and judging from the quality of debate in this election campaign, Canada is a tad short on visionaries of any sort) , how would you predict who is a future pistol packin' ganstah? The Charter would likely prevent us, and rightly so, from using race and socioeconomic status as indicators. But it would not preclude preventive intevention based on appearance - i.e. the arrest and permananet incarceration of anyone who looks 'sorta shifty'.

If that's the standard, some of us should start packing around a toothbrush, just in case.

Are we there yet? The electorate has to go pee, and Layton is poking me

2006-01-09T07:21:00.000-08:00

It's true, despite my uncharacteristic silence on the topic for the past few weeks, there is still a federal election campaign going on (and on, and on). Frankly, it's the recent upturn in Conservative poll numbers that has shut me up. Try as I might, I can't think of anything funny about the prospect of Stephen Harper's Conservatives forming government. Gun violence, religion, physical disabilities - all hilarious in the right context. But Stephen Harper as PM? No laughing matter.

But wait a minute. Oh, yeah - the haircut. Now that is funny. (Cheap and unsophisticated yes, but so were a couple of my ex-girlfriends, and they were fun for a while.)

Try this: do a Google image search for "Stephen Harper", then one for "Howdy Doody". 'Nuff said.

And save the orange jumpsuit for Conrad Black

2006-01-08T19:19:00.000-08:00

Last week a 55 year old Nova Scotia man was charged with attempted murder for allegedly trying to hit a man with his car on New Year's Eve. Now, for anyone from small town Canada, this is hardly news. In my home town, unofficial First Night festivities seemed somehow incomplete until Buddy tried to run Buddy Other down with his ride (inexplicably, almost always a 1974 Buick Riviera).

But what makes this one interesting and quite possibly ironic (at least in the Alanis Morisette 'Isn't it Ironic?' sense) is the fact that the alleged driver is none other than Donald Marshall, the Mi'kmaq man who spent 12 years in prison after being wrongfully convicted of murder in 1971.

Which leads to an provocative and quite possibly never-before-asked (at least in the any-two-women "Havril, will you have a threesome with us?" sense) question: shouldn't Donnie get a freebie on this one?

As in, get-out-of-jail-free. As in, time already served. As in, been there (prison), done that (hard time for something I didn't do). Let's say that trying to give somebody a hood ornament tattoo would normally get you, oh, I don't know, 11 years in the clink. Well, perfect. Don's done 12, so let him grab an old-fashioned glazed from the chief constable's desk on his way out, and we'll call it even. It's only fair.

Or is it? If the present charges are only worth, say, 10 years, then not only should this poor bugger walk - but he's still owed another two years. By rights, he should be entitled to such additional consequence-free crime as necessary to use up the credit. Not unlike how accidentally overpaying on your credit card entitles you to the guilt-free purchase of a garden gnome. The bonus offence is his choice of course, but to me both Public Nudity and Theft of Cattle sound fun (and in the latter case, tasty).

It may not make up for spending the entire disco era behind bars but damn if it isn't a good start.

8 reasons, as in more than seven reasons but not quite nine... the french would say 'huit raisons'...

2006-01-07T22:52:00.000-08:00

I just re-read my last post. Well, re-skimmed. Wow, I do go on, don't I? Ironic that I write so much, considering that when it comes to reading anything longer than the Canadian Tire flyer, I tend to bog down like a undercharged Philishave in pubic hair (er, I guess) .

If I tried - if I really, really tried - I wonder if I could succinctly state...

EIGHT REASONS WHY MY POSTS AREN'T SHORTER

8. Four months ago I got an anonymous note that said "type or die," and it's got me really freaked out.

7. I didn't blog enough as a toddler.

6. They are short. You need to ease up on the weed.

5. Still trying to get my army of blogging monkeys to switch to decaf.

4. Special secret item (highlight with cursor to read): To me, words equal love.

3. "Brevity" isn't in my dictionary. Oh, is that how you spell it? Shit. There it is. Nevermind.

2. In a sinister plot to undermine the productivity of North American workers, the Chinese Government pays me, by the word, to waste your time. Also, in a sinister plot to undermine the productivity of North American workers, the Chinese Government pays me, by the word, to waste your time.

And the number one reason my posts aren't shorter...

1. You know what they say about guys with long posts.

This holiday needs a rodent!

2006-01-03T23:22:00.000-08:00

What you are reading now is an edited version of my orginal post under this title. Now, editing the crap out of posts after you publish them is probably frowned upon in blogging circles. But as I've said before, I also pee sitting down, so your rules mean nothing to me. Most of the original post survives, but I've deleted a confusing (and in retrospect apparently delusional) discussion about what I claimed was an early-1900's New Year's Eve tradition in northern Ontario that involved catching river otters in festive sacks and then releasing them into a champagne-filled bathtub at the stroke of midnight. If you caught that original post, I'm sorry. Your grandpa from Timmins is telling you the truth. And I'm sorry for calling him a senile old otter-dumper. Anyway, we'll pick it up from there...

I've never been big on New Year's Eve. Good excuse to get wasted, yes, but we have plenty of those (stags, baby showers, Grandma's 92nd birthday) . And beyond the booze, New Year's Eve doesn't have much else to offer.

Take this nonsense of counting down to midnight. In the absence of a well-timed asteroid strike, it's bound to be anti-climactic. (Me most years: "Three... Two... One... Happy New Year! ...Um, so you wanna go write some cheques?") Really, the only possible value in the counting out those last 10 seconds backwards is as practice for the roadside sobriety test that is likely to follow a few hours later. Ditto those little party favour noisemakers and their uncanny resemblance to a handheld breathalyzer.

Then there's the New Year's kiss. Nice enough, but if it's in public, it almost never involves tongue.

And and don't even get me started on that often mumbled but rarely understood ditty: "Auld Lang Syne". Should old aquaintence be forgot? If they sing that stupid song, yes they should!

And the whole concept of the "New Year" is arbitrary and meaningless anyway. In and of itself, January 1 is sweet frick all, astronomically speaking. It doesn't mark the longest day. Or the shortest day. In Canada, it may be the day of the year that you will get the longest stares if you wear shorts, but that is a socio-meterological coincidence. All that happens on January 1 is that the Earth completes its first full revolution around the Sun since, well, last January 1. Long ago, January 1 was chosen as the Date to Measure These Things By due to a series of complicated political and religious factors. And something to do with the timing of Julius Ceasar's bowel movements.

Groundhog Day, on the other hand, I can get behind. It means something: February 2 is the mid-point between the winter solstice and spring equinox. In pagan religious traditions, this is a "cross-quarter" day of heightened connectedness to the spiritual world.

That, and there is a rodent involved. If you think about it, pretty much any occasion is more fun when a rodent shows up (stags, baby showers, Grandma's 92nd birthday). The entire Disney empire is premised on this assumption, so it must be true.

And that's why next month I'll be having a Groundhog Day's Eve party. There will there be drinking. Bevy of choice: rootbeer and Southern Comfort. And a drinking game played while watching (what else?) Groundhog Day - one shot for each time Bill Murray's character dies, two for each time they play "I Got You Babe" and three for each scene in which Andy McDowell isn't adorable. (Okay, I threw that in there just for fun. She's never not adorable in this movie.)

At midnight there is no countdown. Instead, somebody says "hey, it's midnight". At this point, in lieu of a public peck, the host turns the lights out for 1 minute (representing the darkness of a groundhog's den), during which time partygoers are encouraged to grope their dates heartily.

Lights back on, the festivities conclude with the making of "shadow/no shadow" wagers and the exchange of stuffed groundhogs. (In recognition of Canada's multicultural makeup, celebrants born in non-groundhog countries may bring any non-rat rodent native to their homeland.)

Oh, and no Ryan Seacrest. Invitations to follow.

Not that he or anyone else reads this but...

2006-01-01T10:33:00.000-08:00

Okay. I'll make this quick. Saw part of Dick Clark's New Year's from Times Square show on TV last night. Very moving to see to see him struggle through the show so courageously as he did.

And (picture the Grinch, mid heart-expansion) I felt a little bad about making a crack about him in my 12 Things post. I've joked about Dick Clark's age (and apparent lack of aging) for years but it was in especially poor taste to do it post-stroke.

So, a New Year's resolution: No more Dick Clark jokes. At least until he's fully recovered. (I will however, continue to poke similar good-natured fun at the not-so-age-defying Lloyd Robertson and Craig Oliver at CTV News, their continued good health allowing.)

And, one more non-Dick Clark alternative #7 to my 12 Things post:

7B. Do a double take. (Possible motivation: Mariah Carey's cleavage deserves no less.)

12 things to do with your leap second

2005-12-29T17:10:00.000-08:00

No lie. A leap second. Kinda like the extra day in a leap year, only shorter, and without a page in your kitten-a-day desktop calendar. In case you haven't heard, the People That Decide These Sorts of Things (my theory: a star chamber comprised of Oprah and my wife's Aunt Liz) are adding an extra second to 2005. Yes, Virginia, an extra second. Right before the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve, "time" will just hang there for a bit. Time will no doubt uncomfortably shuffle its feet, unsure of what to do with itself.

You don't have to. That's right, here they are (arranged in reverse order, much like the lists popularized on an unnamed late night TV show, but completely different because there are twelve of them)....

TWELVE THINGS TO DO WITH YOUR LEAP SECOND

12. Type this: alksdjflasdjflksadjflsadjflksdjfokanmdfs.

11. Say any one syllable word, followed by "mississippi".

10. Same as number 11, but with "one thousand".

9. ...or "steamboat".

8. Wonder, but just for a second, how I get off calling this a 12 item list.

7. Do a double take. (Possible motivation: Yes, Dick Clark is still alive.)

BONUS ITEM (To make up for number 9. I stand by number 10)... Do one of those "I'm so surprised I'm spray-spitting my drink" things with your champagne. (Possible motivation: Yes, Regis Philbin does still have a New Year's Eve show.)

6. Do any two of the following: (a) shake (b) rattle (c) roll.

5. Solve for x where x-1 =1 (or, in Moosejaw, where x=1).

4. Write a newborn's c.v.

3. Recite the list of weapons of mass destruction found in Iraq... then see any of the above.

2. Reinact your first sexual encounter. Repeat.

And, here it is. The number one thing to do with your leap second. Ready? Take a deep breath.....

1. No, that was it: take a deep breath.

Couldn't resist

2005-12-29T12:02:00.000-08:00

Associated Press headline: Ukraine Says It Has Enough Gas for Winter.

My thought: It's got to be the cabbage in the borscht.

More Christmasy thoughts

2005-12-25T10:44:00.000-08:00

Christmas traditions

Christmas - the time of year when we find a beautiful living thing in the forest, hack its legs off with an axe, then drag it back to our living room where we gather around it and sip mulled wine as we watch it slowly die. Peace and joy, unless you happen to be a conifer.

Botanists tell us that Mistletoe is a parasite. But it must be a very a special parasite. People don't tend to feel kissy when they look up and see a tapeworm dangling over their heads.

We limit our political incorrectness at this time of year. Candy canes are still quite popular, but not candy prosthetic limbs or candy wheelchairs. It seems some disabilities are more minty fun than others.

Christmas dinner

The tryptophan in turkey is what makes you sleepy. I don't know if turkeys engage in foreplay, but if they do, and it if it includes oral sex, that must make for a short night.

Brussel sprouts: If you plant one in the garden, does it grow into the capital city of Belgium? Or just a Jean-Claude van Damme tree?

Christmas cheer

Back in the days before pasturization, making traditional egg nog (rum, sugar, milk and raw eggs) must have been tricky. Not enough rum and you risked salmonella poisoning if you over-indulged. Too much rum and you risked alcohol poisoning. Christmases were pukier then.

The first noel

2005-12-25T00:00:00.000-08:00

Don't believe that Christmas was a miracle? Try following a "yonder" star sometime. And give it a whirl in the dead of winter, with a couple of pals, everybody on camels. In such trying circumstances, the real miracle would be arriving at the manger without at least one of your trio having been left bloodied and unconsious on the shores of Galilee. (Surviving two wise men to Bethlehem police: "Damn accidental, tragic, accidental camel trampling. Did we mention it was an accident?") Actually, do we know that the Magi didn't start out as a group of four?

As for the gifts of the Magi, gold makes perfect sense. Goes well with swadling, holds its value over time. (And what did Mary and Joseph ever do with that gold? The New Testament makes no mention of the Christ child being the beneficiary of a college trust fund. A question to ask the Virgin Mother next time she appears to you on a grilled cheese sandwhich.) But what in the name of, well, you know, is a newborn supposed to do with frankinsence and myrrh - essentially, potpurri?

Oh, now I get it. (Cue heavenly chorus.) Potpurri... because they are in a manger. With all the smelly goats. And asses. Very wise.

Retro night in Canada?

2005-12-22T12:12:00.000-08:00

Wednesday night. Canucks vs Oilers at the Garage. $50 for my seat. Sherpa guide extra.

As promised, it was an entertaining affair: end-to-end action and goals by the baker's dozen. Think of the freewheeling flow of a heated Smythe Division contest of the mid 80's. Just like that, but with fewer mustaches.

And an apparently diminished tolerance for drunken rowdies. In a 10-minute span in the 3rd period, I watched a batallion of yellow-jacketed security goons drag off no fewer than five over-malted sots from a single row of the Molson Fan Zone. I don't know what these poor bastards did (I assume they were loud and possibly spitty), but in the good old days, nothing short of murder would get you tossed from any self-respecting building in the league. And even then, provided that the guy you killed was wearing the visiting team's jersey (and that you didn't spill anyone's beer in the process) you could at least stay to the end of the period.

And speaking of tossing folks from the building, I nominate those sleeveless, shovel-toting GM Place pixies that scoop skate snow from around the goal nets with ridiculous frequency. (Including during the play, I think. A confused me: "Hey, that Richard Park sure has wheels. But why is he wearing spandex?") Thank heaven for you, shovel girls on skates! Only God and Harold Snepts know how were goals ever scored before you were birthed from the belly of the Great Zamboni - what with the vertiable snow banks, sometimes milimetres high, that used to clog the goal-crease. And how did Canucks fans of yesteryear even see King Richard Brodeur, tall of heart but short of stature, behind that wicked wall of white? You have saved us, o goal-crease snow pixies, you and your sweet shovels of mercy!

At least the hockey chants haven't changed. Can't beat the We Good Them Bad simplicity of perrenial faves like "Go Canucks Go!" and "Oilers suck!". Considerably less popular: "The Oilers are worthy opponents but with dedication and solidarity we will prevail this fact notwithstanding!" More sophisticated and generous in spirit, yes, but suffering from a lack of clapability. Just like me. Which is probably why I was the only one chanting it.

Somehow, I manged to make it through the game without getting my ass kicked. (Add one to the 'different from the 1980s' column.)

In the result, the hometown (if your hometown is Ornskoldsvik, Sweden) Canucks lost 7-6. Hmmm... Oilers sticking it to the Canucks? This is old-time hockey.

Chief Wiggins would have been proud

2005-12-20T12:20:00.000-08:00

The VPD announced today that its officers will again personally attend all break and enter complaints, reversing their policy of the past three years where complainants were directed to an internet site to file a report. Apparently, B&E victims were having a bit of trouble accessing the website... seeing as how their computers had just been stolen!

Returning to a lectern near you

2005-12-17T16:22:00.000-08:00

Oh yeah. The English language leaders' debate. Here's a random sampling of my thoughts, accurate to within 3.5 neurons, 19 times out of 20...

It was great to see the leaders getting comfortable with the new format. Each of them seems to have learned the tactical advantage in using your time to face your opponent, attack him savagely, and challenge him to respond... when (ha ha) he's not allowed to! Guerilla debating. Sweet.

But the jab-and-cover format also favoured the attackee at times. I doubt Harper's voodoo constitutional law approach to revisiting the definition of marriage without using the notwitstanding clause ("I'd hold a free vote...then behead a chicken") would have survived a round of rigourous cross examination at the hands of even the most mediocre of high school debaters. Or even Paul Martin.

Speaking whom, that whole "My children were born in Quebec, and I won't let you take my country away" barrage directed at Gilles Duceppe was very dramatic. Man was Pauly wound up. I think I saw Duceppe get hit with some stray spittle. I thought the PM was about to pull out Paul Junior's Quebec-issued Permis de Conduire and rip it up on camera: "Make no mistake. This... this is what the Bloc wants to do! What? You'll have cars in a soveriegn Quebec? My bad."

And last ('cause that's where he is), Jack Layton. Was it just me, or did he really spend the whole two hours just making monkey sounds interspersed with the phrases "Ed Broadbent" "hypocrisy" and "help for people"? Actually, each time repeated that last one, I couldn't help but think of that Seinfeld episode where George invents a charity, the Human Fund. It's made up slogan: "money for people". Which, let's be honest, is what Jack is talking about.

There. How was that for brevity? Better, I think. But I want to be careful not to be too quick and dirty. This is a blog, after all, not sex.

Short and sharp, just like Jack Layton

2005-12-17T16:05:00.000-08:00

Lord, I was born a rambling man. Good song, better description of me-as-blogger. But then, you already knew that.

So we're gonna try something new, kids. Inspired by sound-bite journalism and the snappy blogism of Scott "It's hip to be Lib" Feschuck that my friend JJ is so gaga about, I'm gonna tighten this thing up a bit. Short sentences. Small ideas. uppercase letters and punctuation optional

This works just fine for me, since I do have other more mundane things to do than wax ironic. Why, at this very moment, I'm dealing with the prospect of erecting a bastard of a balsam fir Chirstmas tree that's as crooked as Jean Brault (is alleged to be).

That and I have the attention span of a fruitfly. No, really- I've forgotten what else I was going to write. Shit. Later.

Le débat: lost in, how you say, translation

2005-12-16T14:44:00.000-08:00

My French is far from perfect. It seems about half of the four French courses I took in univeristy were wasted hitting on a brunette named Sylvie. And, as certain photographic evidence implies, for about half of a subsequent six-week French immersion stint in Jonquiere, I was wasted (and hitting on a blonde named Kate).

So I'm no Jean Chrétien when it comes to mastery of Canada's other official language. But I'm fluent enough to follow basic current events and politial discourse. And foolishly, I made use of this unfortunate ability last night and watched the French language federal leaders' debate.

Le yawn. It was, as the French would say, fatigant -- from the roots fati and gant, meaning "having the qualities of an overstuffed boxing glove". Frère Harper, Frère Martin. Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?

But I might have found it more entertaining if I had a slightly worse comprehension of French than I do. Some missed opportunities for mis-translations...

Cryptic - NDP leader Jack Layton, with an obscure but probably class-based snipe at Liberal leader Paul Martin:

M. Martin est un grand parleur, petit faiseur.
Mr. Martin is a big sitting room, with a small sofa.

Scandalous - Conservative leader Stephen Harper alluding to the sexual proclivities of unnamed Liberals as he invites voters to:

...changer de gouvernement pour faire le vrai ménage à Ottawa.
...change the government for having actual threesomes in Ottawa.

Fashion-conscious - Liberal leader Paul Martin, apparently decrying the decline of wardrobe coordination in Parliament:

C'est le temps de travailler ensemble.
The time has come to work on our outfits.

Controversial (and a real good reason for gun control) - Harper's rather severe response when asked what he would do if his child told him he or she was gay:

Notre devoir de parent est d’aimer nos enfants.
Our duty as parents is to aim at our children.

Just plain rude - Bloc leader Gilles Duceppe flinging some merde over the sponsorship scandal:

Les libéraux ont tenté d'acheter la conscience des Québécois.
The Liberals have attempted to shit on the beliefs of Quebeckers.

But alas, I understood all too well. I understood that we'd all better hunker down with a plate of steaming poutine and bottle or two of Trois Pistoles, because, tabernac, this is going to a long winter.

Election Week 2: ban popcorn, buy beer and handguns for your kids

2005-12-12T22:44:00.000-08:00

Two weeks down, just six (or as they say in French, six) to go. Just shoot me now.

And "now" is the operative word, 'cause if the Liberals are re-elected, busting a cap in my ass or anyone else's is gonna get a whole lot harder to do.

Or that's what we're supposed to beleive. Actually, if you read the fine print of the Liberal handgun ban policy (well, the fuzzy print that will become the fine print if and when there is fine print), you'll see that the plan is not quite to ban the little bastards. Rather, it's to "amend the criminal code to allow the provinces" to ban them. Not pointing any fingers (say, to the oily rich kid in the cowboy hat one province to the right), but we all know that's not going to happen.

And just how, apart from my decades-old dream of a concrete and barbed wire wall blocking all mountain passes, would the government stop the East to West movement of handguns if BC bans them and Alberta doesn't? Exactly. Did I mention that the concrete would be impregnated with shards of broken glass?

And this little practical oversight is quite apart from the fact that the proposal -- handgun possession would be illegal except for law enforcement and legitimate target shooters -- pretty much describes the state of our gun laws now. Quite the coup of political marketing that is. Promise the people something they already have and pretend it's new. Next week's announcement: A Liberal Government will ban the annual New Brunswick puppy hunt.

Speaking of young pups, the other big issue this past week was daycare. If you're counting issues, that's guns and daycare. Or was that guns in daycares? No, but it's still early in the campaign, and the Conservatives haven't released the full details of their law-and-order policy yet.

But I digress. On daycare, Martin wants to extend the deals he negotiated with the provinces earlier this year (see "New Brunswick puppy hunt", above) . Harper, on the other hand, wants to give parents 1200 loons a year to spend on the daycare service of their choice, be it subsidized, private, or Playstation.

Or Pilsner, if you believe the Liberals. The biggest gaffe (or as they say in French, phoque-coupe) of the campaign so far came late in the week when Liberal communications guru Scott Reid attacked the Conservative cash-for-kiddies policy as amounting to giving people "25 bucks a week to blow on beer and popcorn."

The Conservatives and a whole bunch of indignant parental types jumped all over this. And rightly so. Some holier-than-thou politco has no right to imply that average Canadians can't be trusted to spend money wisely... as I'm sure the 31% of Canadians who have no retirement savings but still spend $20 or more per month on lottery tickets would agree. (Can I get a "hell yeah" from all the univeristy students blowing their student loans on weed? Perhaps a "damn straight" from the dude who stops for a $4 latte on his way to the EI office?) Exactly.

And anyway, that's a lot of carbs to impute to folks. Shame, shame.

See the controversy we get into when we try to discuss policy? The good news is that Week 3 is upon us, with the first leader's debate scheduled for Thursday. No risk of a rational discussion of ideas there!

Maybe I'll crack a cold one, perhaps fix me some Jiffy Pop -- and try to not put a bullet through my TV screen.

Election Week 1 : This campaign needs a block heater

2005-12-03T11:53:00.000-08:00

I know it's early, but I must say I'm more than a little disappointed with the tone of the election campaign so far. That tone? Monotone. (I think I just heard a snowflake drop.)

Where are the cheapshots? Where's the vitrol, the venom? The spit, the vinegar?

In the days leading up to the fall of the Government there was name-calling, with Tory MP John Reynolds referring to Immigration Minister Joe Volpe as a "scumbag". Nice. And the Tories stood up in the house and boldly accused the Liberals of being cozy with organized crime. (Now, that might have been more damning if it was an alleged association to Tom Green's 1990's Rap trio Organized Rhyme, but it was a provocative jab all the same.) So it was no surprise that all the pundits promised that this would be the most bitterly fought campaign in recent memory.

Not quite. So far, it's been about as "bitterly fought" as a pillow fight between scantily-clad coeds in one of those spring break boobie videos.

Things did look promising on Day 1 when Martin speechwriter Scott Feschuck's blog entry about UFOs and socially awkward subscribers of the old sci-fi mag Omni was misinterpreted by Conservative MP Jason Kenney as a shot at viewers of the multicultural TV network by the same name. Kenney intitally pounced, accusing Feschuck of demeaning ethnic minorities. But then things took a turn for the wuss when, his gaffe pointed out, Kenney made a public apology later the same day.

Apologize? That's not the rampaging Killer Kenney that fans of political wrassling love to hate. What he should have done was yank his Floorsheim from his conservative cakehole and, without missing a beat, attack Feschuck for demeaning geeks: "The Liberals and their well connected friends may not be introverted losers, but a lot of upstanding Canadians are. This is a slap in the face to them, not to mention Canada's cultural gift to the world, William Shatner. As the Klingons would say, Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam!"

No such luck. He caved like a deflated Yorkshire pudding, and this campaign thing started to look less like a battle for the guts and gizzards of Canadians and more like a suburban candle party.

And so it continued. Last campaign, the Tories came out with that gem of a news release headlined "Paul Martin Supports Child Porn?". By contrast, in announcing their drug crime policy this morning, the best they could do was "Restoring Safe Streets and Communities". So uninspired. And talk about a missed opportunity. The news is full of reports of gang shootings in the cities, and the PM has long ago admitted to having smoked weed. So if you're calling the shots in the Conservative war room, why not go big with something like: "Pothead Paul Wants Druglords to Shoot Your Children?". That would certainly rev up this tundra bus of an election campaign.

And the Libs have been no tougher with Harper. Through week one of the campaign, he's been allowed to cruise along with about as much resistance as Gretzky at an allstar game. Harper's cut-the-GST announcement was the perfect opening for a demeaning cheap shot pointing out that a 1% drop in the tax would save him less than a cent on his $6 Howdy-Doody haircut. Or, instead of suggesting that Harper would use the Charter to ban gay marriage, why not reach a bit and suggest that Harper would use the Charter to ban something dear to hetero voters, like the Home and Garden TV network - which, let's be honest, is pretty gay.

Nothing of the sort. The dialogue has been, for the most part, understated, safe and (ugh) respectful. YAWN!

We can only hope that as this thing progresses to its predictable end, the party leaders will stop worrying about offending the warm and fuzzy sensibilites of a sleepy electorate in this Season of drunken uncles and claymation reindeer, and take this opportunity (it only comes around every four... er, make that two, years) to kick one another in the cranberries.

While "oops, my nightie came off" is just what I look for in softcore porn, it's the gloves that need to come off in this election campaign.

It's winter. We're bored.

January election, eh?

2005-11-30T16:20:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-10T01:07:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-10T00:04:00.000-08:00

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.