Update:

~ I am playing a lot of soccer lately, both indoor and in a dome on turf. Endorphines are good. My teams are doing well.

~ Kumis!

~ Have you ever ridden on an accordion bus in the accordion part and imagined the bus suddenly splitting in two and contemplated whether you would stay with the front or the back section of the bus? You have? Really? . . . You’re weird.

~ A lot of snow, followed by a lot of rain and warm weather = hopscotch through the puddles.

~ When I was a child I would deliberately jump in puddles during recess. Now? Not so much.

~ I don’t have recess anymore, that’s the main reason.

~ The Endorphines is not the name of my soccer team, although it should be.

~ I watched “the Treasure of the Sierra Madre” recently. I highly recommend this film. If they were to do a remake, they would botch it.

~ The Coen Brothers might be able to do something cool with it, though. They could cast Denzel Washington as Dobbs, Don Cheadle as Curtin, and maybe Al Pacino as the old man. I’d watch that.

~ Dear Treasure of the Sierra Madre,
There are no tigers in Mexico.
Sincerely,
Boerishbwoy.

~ Yurt!

~ I could be a hand model, that’s how awesome my fingernails are now.

~ John = currently obsessed with Westerns.

~ Rule # 231. If you believe that all of the demonstrations in North Africa and the Middle East are the machinations of a vast Zionist conspiracy, you are not allowed to look at me as if I’m naïve when I express a differing opinion.

~ The best Western is a hotel chain.

~ When you miss someone who has passed on, it makes the memories of them that much more valuable.

~ Dear Boerishbwoy,
You’re a little late, and our movie is still more awesome than your blog.
Sincerely,
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

~ Ulan Batar!

~ Note to self: do not talk to yourself in public places, even if you think no one can hear you.

~ Here’s a tongue twister that I recently made up: How much phlegm would a phlegmatic Flemish flamingo phlegm if a phlegmatic Flemish flamingo had influenza?

~ I tried to watch an episode of “Mike and Molly” the other day. I made it three minutes in before I ground my teeth to the gumline. Also, the laugh track caused my ears to wilt.

~ I recovered, though.

~ This sitcom is so bad, I think it will fill the void left by the absence of “Two and a Half Men” - which I had a similar reaction to.

~ Dear Treasure of the Sierra Madre,
You are no longer on my favourite movies list. My blog is awesome.
Sincerely,
Boerishbwoy.
P.S. Humphrey Bogart had a gigantic head.

~ Note to man on bus that I sat beside: I did not move because of your ugly hat, I moved because you smelled like the rotting carcass of a fish in the Hamilton Harbour.

~ I like the way tumblr blogs look, but it seems like most people on there just post funny pictures.

~ Genghis Khan!

~ I want to know how to play guitar. I don’t want to learn, though, that would take too long.

~ Dear Boerishbwoy,
Your head is more gigantic, your list will suck without us, and Humphrey Bogart is three times more awesome than the most awesome thing you ever posted on your blog.
Sincerely,
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
P.S. the most awesome thing you ever posted on your blog was the phrase “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.” Everything else is just okay.

~ I have a pineapple to cut up.

~ Jebtsundamba Khutuktus!

~ Dear Treasure of the Sierra Madre,
I am crying right now. Would you cut some slack if I said that there are tigers in Mexico?
Sincerely,
Boerishbwoy
P.S. Just kidding, I just put you below any “Mike and Molly” movie that is ever made in my film ranking system.

~ Note to stranger: you're welcome for humouring you.

~ Dear Boerishbwoy,
We won. That is all.
Sincerely,
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

"Protest however you want, but do not go into the streets and squares."

~ Moammar Ghaddafi

Buster Keaton

Buster Keaton is my favourite comedian of the silent era. The man was a genius of physical comedy, performing stunts that would cause the bravest of modern-day risk assessors to succumb to paroxysms of fear. The next time Tom Cruise brags about performing some of his own stunts (i.e. climbing a wall while wearing a harness), think about Buster Keaton nonchalantly falling three stories onto the ground or impassively passing in front of a moving locomotive. Buster not only performed all of his own stunts, he would often perform the stunts of other characters in his movies.

I love Charlie Chaplin, he had a great talent for pantomime and an ability to create deeply moving films. The humanization that Chaplin brought to his films has stood the test of time. Audiences continue to be enthralled by the humorous little guy, who despite being buffeted by misfortune, would dust himself off and keep trying. Harold Lloyd’s films were more profitable than Charlie Chaplin’s and Buster Keaton’s as their spirit matched the heady optimism of the twenties. It’s easy to relate to Lloyd’s happy, bumbling character and how can you not admire his daring climb in “Safety Last” (1923)? (Especially since he performed the stunt wearing dress shoes and sporting partial prosthesis on his hand). I believe Buster Keaton was best, though. Roger Ebert put it very well:

The greatest of the silent clowns is Buster Keaton, not only because of what he did, but because of how he did it. Harold Lloyd made us laugh as much, Charlie Chaplin moved us more deeply, but no one had more courage than Buster. I define courage as Hemingway did: "Grace under pressure." In films that combined comedy with extraordinary physical risks, Buster Keaton played a brave spirit who took the universe on its own terms, and gave no quarter.

Although likely apocryphal, the story is told that Keaton got his “Buster” moniker from the great Harry Houdini. Houdini, who toured with Keaton’s vaudeville family, witnessed the six-month old slip down a flight of stairs and remarked “what a buster!” However it was obtained, the name stuck, and Keaton’s talent for taking falls grew. Young Buster toured the vaudeville circuit with his family in a popular act that saw the straight-faced child tossed all over the stage by his father, with Buster miraculously escaping injury. When Buster began in movies, he retained this incredible sense of physical comedy as well as his trademark stoic expression. Buster’s first films were with his friend, the great Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle. Buster played supporting roles to his mentor and, when Arbuckle was embroiled in scandal, he remained steadfastly loyal.

Buster’s golden period was during the twenties, where he produced his greatest work including “Sherlock Jr.” (1924), “The Navigator” (1924), “The General” (1926), “Steamboat Bill, Jr.” (1928), and “the Cameraman” (1928). The thirties, however, were difficult for Keaton, who lost much of his creative control when he left his studio to join MGM. His marriage to his first wife ended in divorce, he was forced to file for bankruptcy, his friend and mentor, Fatty Arbuckle, died of a heart attack, and Keaton spiraled into an alcoholic haze. It was a dark time for Buster, but he managed, with the help of his family, to bring his drinking under control. He married his third wife, Eleanor in 1938 and their happy marriage lasted until Keaton’s death 26 years later. Throughout this time, he continued to work in entertainment, on television, in film, and on stage.

Keaton was rediscovered by critics and audiences after a Life cover story in 1949. His popularity resurged, and he managed to make as much money in the last ten years of his life as he had during his golden period. Shortly before his death in 1966, he remarked: “I can’t feel sorry for myself. It all goes to show that if you stay on the merry-go-round long enough you’ll get another chance at the brass ring. Luckily, I stayed on."

Dear Readers,

I have taken the time to translate the great poem, "My Humps", by the Black Eyed Peas from its slang form into pretentious paraphrasing.

For those unfamiliar with the original words of this epic, you can find them here: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/blackeyedpeas/myhumps.html

This classic work opens with a male putting forth a question to his female companion. The Peas' use of repetition, chauvinism, and simplistic plot development was peerless. "My Humps" stands along other monumental works like Fergie's "Fergalicious", Gwen Stefanie's "Hollaback Girl", Kelis' "Milkshake", and everything that Ke$ha has ever done. Without further ado, here is the Black Eyed Peas' Legendary Work, "My Humps."

Male:
Excuse me, ma’am, but I notice that your figure has rather sleek and generous bulges. May I inquire as to what you intend to do with this voluptuous shape?

Female:
To answer you, good sir, I intend to behave in such a manner as to induce a state of inebriation through the round contours of my body, a metaphorical intoxication brought about by my feminine form. I think it bears repeating – round contours, round contours, round contours, round contours, round contours (Please do regard my curvaceous figure).

Many men are driven to irrational acts by me. This is a regular occurrence.
These men conduct themselves most generously, frequently buying me expensive jewelry and name-brand apparel. It is true that the generosity of these men has allowed me to dress myself both fashionably and extravagantly.

Although I have not requested it, men commonly refer to my hind parts most affectionately. They buy the finest denim trousers for me despite my protests. Because of their insistence, I am left with little choice but to accept these gifts.

I must offer my most hearty and staunch protests at this point to any suggestion that I am somehow stealing from these men. After all, I continue to see these men on a romantic basis and manifest my amorous appreciation, my amorous appreciation, my amorous appreciation, my amorous appreciation (appreciation).
I am, good sir, aware that you yourself have an amorous appreciation toward my rounded proportions.
My rounded proportions, my rounded proportions, my rounded proportions (appreciation),
My rounded proportions, with all due respect, have complete control over your person.

Male:
Oh dear me, this woman has me investing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . You are investing all of your money and time on my personage.

Male:
Yes, this is correct, she does indeed have me investing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . all of your money and time on my personage.

Male:
Yes, correct. I realize I may have asked this earlier, but for the sake of clarity, what exactly do you intend to do with your most robust and ample curves? I am particularly curious about the robust and ample curves of your bottom.

Female:
Good sir, my answer remains the same: I intend to induce you into a state of inebriation through my curves, a condition that would be comparable to being intoxicated by curvaceousness.

Male:
Again, for the sake of clarity, what precisely are your intentions regarding the excess fat, particularly the excess fat contained within the confines of your denim trousers?

Female:
I aspire to induce you to emit a loud piercing sound, a sort of piercing cry inspired by my curvesome figure, if you will. This will all occur because of my curvesome figure, my curvesome figure, my curvesome figure

Male:
Pardon me?

Female:
My curvesome figure, my curvesome figure, my curvesome figure, my most rounded characteristically feminine attributes (please do witness their proportions).

Male:
This may be a bit of non-sequitor, Ma'am, but I had the experience of encountering a young woman at a nightclub specializing in dancing.
She related to me that she would be agreeable to commencing a relationship of a romantic capacity in which pet names would be exchanged. Furthermore, she explained that she was not searching for financial gain, but a sharing of temporal experiences with one another. I responded agreeably by alluding to our differing allocations of melanin through the use of a crude metaphor involving homogenized dairy and chocolate cereal.

Female:
Interesting story, sir. Many people have gone on record as saying that I am very seductive. Many young men desire intimacy with me, so that they are constantly in my vicinity. For example, when I am dancing, these young men consistently dance in my proximity in an attempt to grope my rounded rump and leer at me.

However, I would be remiss if I did not warn that, while I am more than willing to be ogled, I draw the line at groping. In fact, if you were to attempt to frisk me, I would create the sort of spectacle you would not desire. No, you would not desire this spectacle. Therefore, I ask that you do not pull upon my hand. After all, you are not romantically involved with me, and I am only attempting to move rhythmically to this music and manoeuvre my curvaceous posterior. My curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, My curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior.

My rounded globules of fatty tissue (fatty tissue)
My rounded globules of fatty tissue (fatty tissue)
My rounded globules of fatty tissue (fatty tissue)
Both the rounded globules of fatty tissue at the anterior and posterior.

My amorous appreciation has resulted in . . .

Male (interrupting):
Yes, it has resulted in me lavishing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . lavishing all of your finances and time on me.

Male:
Correct, she has induced me to lavishing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . lavishing all of your finances and time on me.

Male:
Once again, ma’am, I realize we may have covered this ground earlier, but I must ask what your intentions concerning your curved protrusions, particularly the curved protrusions that are so prominent in you hind parts?

Female:
It bears repeating that I aim to intoxicate you with my hind quarters, induce you into a metaphorical condition of drunkenness brought about by my rear end.

Male:
Yes, but what do you intend to do with the generous proportions of your bottom that are currently confined to your denim pantaloons?

Female:
I am going to force a high-pitched shout from you using only my buttocks.

Male:
What was it again that you were going to do with your curved protrusions, particularly the curved protrusions of your posterior segment?

Female:
My aim, good sir, is to inebriate you with my posterior segment, make you inebriated with appreciation for my posterior segment.

Male:
And what is it you will do with your mammary glands, the mammary glands that are currently furnishing your shirt?

Female:
I intend to create tasks for you, sir.

Male:
She has made it so that I am investing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . You are investing all of your money and time on my personage.

Male:
Yes, this is correct, she does indeed have me investing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . all of your money and time on my personage.

~ Fin.

Almond Slices

- J. den Boer

In Hartman’s grocery store in the baking aisle
Checking for sliced almonds proves quite the trial
I finally locate bags of cashews and pistachios
but I only see regular almonds, with the skinless ones below
I hover for some time, scanning the shelf with utmost care,
When fortunately for me, a worker happens there
“Excuse me sir, I hate to be a pest
but I have a recipe for which sliced almonds are best,
kindly tell me where I can find this prize.”
He scans the shelf with sharp youthful eyes,
“I see them not,” he points to an empty part of the rack
“Hold on please sir, I’ll check for these almonds in the back.”
I thank him as I gaze forlornly at the shelf
Pondering the time it would take to slice the almonds myself.
A gentleman slowly ambles through my section
Searching the shelves for some unknown confection.
His eyes stare intently past where I stand,
I move and look to where his eyes have scanned.
“Are you seeking sliced almonds?” I point to the empty spot,
“he should be back soon to let us know if they have them or not.”
He thanks me with a smile and a nod of appreciation,
And I grin to myself at this coincidental situation.
For what are the chances that both of our prey
Happens to be sliced almonds at this time of this day?
The worker returns shortly carrying nothing with him
He shrugs his shoulders, “the warehouse is full to the brim,
And I could not locate the sliced almonds anywhere.”
I smile warmly, “Thanks for trying, I appreciate your care.”
I grab a bag of skinless almonds from their perch,
And say, not wishing to leave my fellow almond seeker in the lurch,
“I can grind these up, no, it won’t be as pretty to view.
The chunky almonds are not the same, but it will have to do.”
I tried my best to get those almond slices, no jest.
Some would have given up, but I did my best.
So I am honest when I say that I did not mean to provoke
with the chunks rather than slices of almonds in the boeter koek.

“It is an honour to meet you, sir. Read your screenplay and, I must say, I loved it.”

“Thank you, I’m happy to hear that.”

“Now, you might not be familiar with the way the movie industry works, but I have a few suggestions for the screenplay that will make it, shall we say . . . a little more marketable.”

“Alright.”

“The, uh, protagonist, what’s his name?”

“Victor.”

“Yeah, interesting character - needs a friend - can you write black humour?”

“You mean dark humour? There is some of that in there.”

“No, I mean black humour, like Eddie Murphy-type humour. We need a wild and crazy black friend for Victor.”

“What?”

“A black friend, you know, to appeal to the urban audience. Can you write black humour?”

“Victor wouldn’t be the type to have a wild and crazy friend, though. Plus, I wrote him as a slight racist.”

“Yeah, maybe nix the racism.”

“But he’s supposed to be unlikable.”

“Yeah, about that, maybe you could give him better manners, make him interact with people more positively?”

“But the point of the screenplay is how this ugly character finds redemption through Lisette.”

“Yeah, Lisette, great character, can her friend, Dolores, be a little more quirky? I was thinking of maybe an Ellen Degeneres type . . . except really fat. Fat people are funny. Maybe we can have Ellen Degeneres in a fat suit?”

“Um.”

“Better yet, a black Ellen Degeneres in a fat suit?”

“ . . .”

“Alright, we’ll leave that on the table maybe.”

“I don’t think so.”

“On the table.”

“No.”

“Alright, I’ll put it down as a possibility then.”

“I don’t . . .”

“Also, sorry for interrupting, but not a whole lot is happening in this screenplay. Maybe we could introduce a side-plot to liven things up a bit.”

“What do you have in mind? I think the minimalist tone of this screenplay is key.”

“Aliens.”

“Well, yes, Dolores has immigration issues, but it’s not really stressed in the screenplay.”

“No, no, I mean aliens invading from outer space. We could have Victor and Lisette working out their issues while running away from the invading aliens.”

“No aliens.”

“You’re right, that’s ridiculous.”

“Thank you.”

“It will fit in a lot more to the underlying theme of life and death if we have zombies.”

“There’s no underlying theme of life and death in the screenplay.”

“You can add that, though, right? No sweat. It’ll be a sort of post-apocolyptic art film, the critics will eat that up.”

“No zombies.”

“Zombies are in right now.”

“No zombies.”

“Vampires it is then. We’ll milk this Twilight thing for all it’s worth.”

“Vampires? No. This isn’t science fiction or horror, it’s a drama.”

“Well, vampires are more of a romance thing now and, of course, Victor and Lisette have quite the connection. Victor can be the ugly vampire character who is redeemed by the charm of Lisette. Sound good?”

“No, that’s horrible.”

“You’re right, you’re right, too close to the Twilight thing. Lisette can be the vampire and Victor finds redemption through her.”

“No vampires.”

“Genetic weapons that wreak havoc on the population?”

“No. Out of the question.”

“Alright, alright. I get it, you want something more realistic.”

“Yes, thank you for recognizing that.”

“We’ll go the Day After Tomorrow or 2012 route and have a massive global disaster.”

“That’s not realistic.”

“We’ll tone it down, of course.”

“No.”

“Alright, alright . . . but what if Dolores isn’t a fat black lesbian?”

“She’s not.”

“What I mean is, what if she’s a psychopathic killer?”

“No, that wouldn’t work.”

“Yeah, we need her humour.”

“She isn’t . . .”

“Unless, unless she’s a fat black lesbian psychopathic killer!”

*sigh*

There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.

~ Leonard Cohen

His dirty hands were tanned and dotted with small scars, veins bulging and crisscrossing their backs. His fingers were thick and creased with wrinkles and marked with callouses. They gripped the handle of a sturdy spade as he churned the soil from the hole. The land around him was a monastery, dark and empty, and the strange meditative silence that enveloped him was somehow appropriate. The only sounds were the blade of his spade scuttling through the earth and the rhythm of his heavy breaths.

“Why do you dig in this rolling wasteland?” I asked him, my voice rasping through the calm like a rusted dagger.

He glanced up, his shovel never ceasing its motion.

“I search,” he grunted. He stopped, only for a moment, to wipe the sweat from his ancient dirt-streaked face. He returned to his work, his seemingly aimless hole widening. The silence, only broken his exertions, returned.

I observed his digging, hoping to divine his purpose. He would dig intently in one place and then suddenly abandon the area and begin to dig somewhere else. His hole was a snake-like maze of trenches of varying depths.

Bemused, I broke the quiet again, “What do you search for?”

“I search,” he repeated, the words coming out as a curse.

“Did you lose something?” I queried.

His knotted arms continued their interminable motion, as soil flew into a section of the hole he had previously dug so intently in. “Yes,” he spat, “I know it’s here.”

“You lost it here?” I ask, “what is it that you lost?”

One hand continued to grip the spade and redistribute the dirt, as the other hand gestured with gangly nonchalance toward a distant hill. “Over there, outside the city wall.”

I gazed at the far off green hill, “why do you search here if you lost it over there?”

He laughed grimly, “it no longer suits my purpose, I need another.”

“And you know the other one is here? What does it look like?”

His shovel ceased, and he turned to me, his eyes betraying a hardened sorrow, “I don’t know.”

The shovel scraped against the soil once again as he returned desparately to his labour.

Rule # 342

If you are carrying a small child in some kind of tote bag in front of your chest in a blizzard during rush hour, you are not allowed to jay walk.

New Years Resolutions 2011:

~ Read more. This will in entail going to the library more. Sidenote: Terryberry Library has got to be the coolest name for a library ever.

~ Blog regularly.

~ Keep in contact with the family more.

~ Keep a tidier home. This will involve folding laundry.

~ Watch the King's Speech and True Grit. This will be a tough one to keep, but I'll do my best.

~ Discover new music.

~ Maybe I'll run? I don't know. There is no resolve behind this resolution.

~ Eat more vegetables, except for cucumbers. Sidenote: Pickles are fine.

~ Eat less pizza. Sidenote: vegetarian pizzas are only half a pizza.

~ Become proficient enough at FIFA to defeat my two brother-in-laws with ease. Or at least win against them fifty per cent of the time.

~ Smile more.

~ Stop balding.

~ Go to church.

~ Write something here so that I have an even number of resolutions.

At one of the central bus stations in Ottawa I had a strange yet profound experience. As strangers bustled past me, I became acutely aware of the fleeting nature of life and the imperminance of the scene around me. I've had this feeling before, but this time it was incredibly strong. Every person walking past me seemed to belong to a moment that would soon be lost. I stood, gazing over the edge of the exceedingly vast chasm of all the preceding time before this moment, and the moment was overwhelmed and swallowed - insignificant yet so precious.

I felt as if I were an observer from the future - as if I knew that all the people around me would soon be gone. I was fascinated by the faces moving past, I could almost see them in the sepia tones of a crinkled nineteenth century photograph. It was as though everyone was just a fleck of foam on a wave in the ocean, just here for a moment and gone in an instant. All of the hurrying seemed meaningless, all of the people seemed beautiful. The feeling was indescribable . . . but I thought I'd try anyways.

Arcade Fire - No Cars Go

The Horrid Little Article Called "The horrid little game called soccer"

David Warren is an entertaining Ottawa Citizen columnist. Sadly, this entertainment doesn't come from well-constructed columns, but from an incredible ability to be consistently wrong while maintaining a flare for absurd arguments. Warren recently decided to grace the world with his opinion on the game of soccer, entitling a recent column "The horrid little game called soccer." Now, the article was somewhat tongue in cheek (I hope), but it nevertheless contains Mr. Warren’s actual opinion of the great game.

The column opens with Warren readily admitting that he knows nothing about soccer. Does this slow him down in the least? Absolutely not. He opines that journalists should not be slowed down by ignorance. He fails to mention, however, that a journalist of any quality who was admittedly ignorant on a topic would engage in some research, perhaps talk to some experts. Does Warren do any such thing? Absolutely not. Instead, he readily admits hating soccer despite his admitted ignorance. Here is a list of his reasons:

1) At the age of seven poor little Mr. Warren was tackled in a game of soccer. He was humiliated because people were watching and goes on to say, misplaced comma and all: "Like any red-blooded Canadian, I cannot remember having played, since, except under compulsion."

2) In what sounds as if it had been a high school gym class, Mr. Warren scored three points. He found scoring to be a simple task of aiming at a "ridiculously large" net.

3) Subsequent to scoring his third goal Mr. Warren was mobbed by his teammates. Once again, he was injured and claims to have limped for weeks afterwards.

4) Soccer is not a sport for free men (?) and growing enthusiasm for it in the United States is "symptomatic of Eurosclerotic socialism." He further argues that "soon Canada may find herself alone in defending the values of western civilization."

5) Poor Mr. Warren was subject to soccer on the television whenever he tried to get a beer at a bar in Canadian cities.

6) Mr. Warren is dismayed at the traffic delays that were caused by celebrating fans.

7) Mr. Warren was further dismayed by "the triumphalist displays of 'multicultural' chauvinism" in said traffic delays.

8) Mr. Warren has a Swedish acquaintance who was of the opinion that ice hockey is superior to soccer because a scoreless draw in ice hockey is more exciting than a scoreless draw in soccer. A scoreless draw in soccer is boring and "quite possibly fixed."

9) A German octopus correctly predicted the results of eight World Cup matches, so why should anyone watch?

10) The final match was ugly and would have ended in shoot-outs if the referee had not given a red card and ensured Spanish victory. We should just watch the referees, argues Warren.

I’ll deal with each of Mr. Warren’s contentions one by one.

1) Perhaps more detail is needed as to why, at the age of seven, it would be so humiliating to get tackled. Is Mr. Warren so sensitive that having the ball taken from him was so completely embarrassing that he would not willingly attempt the sport again? More importantly, however, is the strange contention that any red-blooded Canadian would cease playing soccer after being tackled. Perhaps Mr. Warren was arguing that red-blooded Canadians don’t play soccer? If so, he should know this is false, we happen to have many people who play soccer (even after being tackled) and we have our own national team. And yes, they all have blood that happens to be red.

2) The argument here seems to be that soccer is very easy to score in. So easy, in fact, that a less than athletic looking windbag can score without trouble. With all due respect to Mr. Warren’s hat trick from his high school days, scoring against a team with a respectable defence and goalkeeper is quite difficult. Hence, soccer often has low-scoring matches.

3) This isn’t really an argument against soccer, I guess. It’s more of an argument against over-enthusiastic celebrations and the delicate men who can’t handle them.

4) If soccer is not a sport of free men, what is it a sport of? Is it the sport of the oppressed men? Are free women allowed to play soccer? Can oppressed people play the sports of free men? What about oppressed women? What are the sports of free men? What’s happening here? What possible linkage is there between socialism and soccer, never mind the “Euroclerotic” variety of socialism? Like it or not, Mr. Warren, soccer is the most popular sport in the world, not just Europe. Canada is part of this world and soccer is just as popular here as in the United States, if not more. Forget defending the values of Western civilization, which, incidentally, soccer is a byproduct of, and start thinking about a global world where everyone can appreciate a beautiful game.

5) True, that’s a very legitimate complaint. It’s so uncomfortable when I’m trying to enjoy a beer and a sport I don’t understand is playing on the television.

6) I think it’s more dismaying in Ottawa when everyone is trying to get to and from the Scotia Bank place way out in Kanata. Any traffic delays caused by flag-waving fanatics speeding up and down the road pale in comparison to that.

7) So members of Canada’s cultural mosaic celebrating the victory of the nation of their cultural background is the equivalent of ‘multicultural’ chauvinism. Does this mean that when, say, Leafs fans celebrate a win this an example of ‘municipal’ chauvinism? Are Leafs fans somehow disrespecting the fans of other Canadian teams by their fervent celebrations? I’m sorry that the fact that many Canadians have origins in other lands offends Mr. Warren so greatly, I think this diversity is one of the things that makes this country great.

8) Shoot, I don’t have any Swedish acquaintances to counter Mr. Warren’s. I think, if I had one, he or she would say that soccer and ice hockey are completely different sports and should be appreciated for their own qualities. He would also say that a scoreless draw is not necessarily boring and, at World Cup level, definitely not fixed. The joy of watching soccer is not just the scoring, it’s the passing, the movement, the back and forth, the close goals, and the amazing skill these players have with a simple ball.

9) As far as sports go, octopuses should only be brutally thrown onto rinks by Red Wings fans. I nominate Paul for this duty.

10) The match was ugly. The Dutch certainly were asking for a red card, not that particular red card, but a red card nonetheless. The card didn’t guarantee Spanish victory as teams sometimes come back with a goal after losing a player. The refereeing of the final left something to be desired, and the game would have been (a little) better if the referee had been better. Although that particular game was far from the best example of the beauty of soccer, soccer remains a beautiful sport.

Almost

Things I Don’t Understand . . .

- People crying when celebrities die.

- Those weird sandals that are half boot and half sandal.

- The dream I had last night where I had a huge goiter on my face.

- Why people bother yelling from their balconies for drunk people to shut up. These drunks think they’re talking at a conversational level until you tell them to shut up. Basically you’re actively encouraging a louder volume of the yelling that they didn’t realize they were even doing.

- Fergie fans. The fact that they exist.

- Vampires that twinkle and the girls who love them.

- Vuvuzela enthusiasts.

- Crotchety bloggers that complain about everything, even when their team makes it into the final.

- Advanced physics.

- How expensive pop corn is at the movies.

- Paying to advertise a clothing company on your chest.

- How in some places pop is called coke so that if you say that you want coke they ask you what kind of coke. Sprite is coke, make sense?

- Why cookie monster had to stop eating cookies. How can he even be called cookie monster anymore?

Facing It
Yusuf Komunyakaa

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

World Cup Final Reflections

I was disappointed in the way the Netherlands played the final yesterday. Don’t get me wrong, there were flashes of brilliance by the talented Oranje. Nevertheless the free-flowing Total Football was showcased not by the Dutch, but by the Kruyff-influenced Spanish side. The Dutch seemed intent on fouling their way to a World Cup victory, with the Spaniards content to take advantage of this aggressive intensity to rival Robben and the great Ronaldo for theatrical diving.

I think the Netherlands had the capacity to play a smoother more beautiful game of soccer, but they cared more about winning by any means necessary than by wowing the world with their undeniable talent. This game will never be sold to new fans if the final is just a contest between mixed martial arts and community theatre. For me, the Dutch side that was eliminated in shoot-outs against Brazil in ’98 played a better brand of football. The Dutch side that shocked the world with their one-sided victories against France and Italy during last Eurocup is what I wanted to see this year. In South Africa, I never saw a full game of the beautiful free-flowing soccer that I have come to love and expect from this team. A team with such a rich legacy should have showed the world that they were made of better stuff than this.

Don’t get me wrong, this team was talented, they played with heart, and they had more than enough inspiring plays. This was a united team who had a remarkable run of fourteen victories, and who made it to the final despite all of the nay-sayers. With all respect to Van Marwijk’s grand accomplishment, I say that they should bring in Kruyff or Hiddink.

Yes, Hiddink, I forgive you for coaching Russia to victory over the Dutch in ’08.

But how can I argue with Van Marwijk’s success? Success, for me, would be a return to the beautiful game with continuing contention for years to come. Maybe it's just me though.

Hup, Holland, hup!

How to Prove Your Maturity with Lindsay Lohan

"I'm not that girl from Freaky Friday any more! I'm a real adult. In fact, I hate children! I hate them all!"

This has been another episode of how to prove your maturity with Lindsay Lohan.

The Earthquake

Here at Boerishbwoy, we place a high importance on keeping you informed on the latest trends and news items. In the words of your local news channel we "break the news as it happens" and "give you the latest news from around the world." For this reason, we would like to report on the recent earthquake that rocked Canada's capital.

Yes, we know what you're thinking: 'Uuuh, didn't that happen on June 23rd? Isn't it July 4th today?" True, but what does Independence Day have to do with our "up to the minute news reporting"?

Moving on.

Where was John when the earthquake that shook Ottawa occurred? He was at work at his desk. Suddenly there was a rumbling sound that seemed to emanate from the ceiling. John looked upwards, wondering if a group of people had perhaps started to stamp in unison on the floor above him. Then every loose item in the room started to rattle, the floor itself began to move, colleagues screamed. John wasn't actually sure if the loose items hadn't been rattling before the ceiling shook or the floor began moving, he just noticed everything in a very particular order. John pondered the possibility of ducking underneath his desk. He had vague memories of grainy videos of students huddling under their desks due to the threat of nuclear attacks - or was it tornadoes? He couldn't remember. He decided against cowering under his desk, but by the time he had made this momentous decision everything had stopped shaking. Workmates streamed toward the doors. John was instructed to do the same, but he was also quite sure that he should finish his e-mail. He sat for a few moments considering the importance of the e-mail versus the advice of his workmates. He decided that he would go out into the sun with his fellow workers.

People were running, some seemed far more unnerved than others. The range of emotions among those assembled outside were from jovial to distraught to non-chalant. John, because of his extreme talents, managed to display all three simultaneously. He waited outside for a few minutes before returning to work. He was allowed to leave early, though, which was cool.

Don't worry, he was also able to finish that e-mail he had been working on before that sudden seismic interruption.

The earthquake, apparently, was a 5.0 on the Richter scale and the epicentre was about thirty kilometres north of Ottawa. No one was hurt, although a few buildings crumbled a bit and a bridge collapsed.

Relativity
- A.H. Reginald Buller

There was a young lady named Bright
Whose speed was far faster than light;
She set out one day,
In a relative way
And returned on the previous night.

North American History: The 1st Three Intercontinental Wars

French and Iroquois Wars (encompassing King William’s War/ 1st Intercolonial War) (1642-1698)

The French and Iroquois Wars, or Beaver Wars, were a succession of bloody clashes fought by the Iroquois against the French and their Algonquin allies. The Iroquois relied on the beaver trade in order to obtain European goods and firearms from the Dutch. These firearms, in turn, had caused them to become so efficient at hunting beavers that they needed to expand their territory in order to find new hunting grounds. The Iroquois looked down on the other tribes who had edged in on their trade and they sought to displace the tribes who were growing rich through trade with the French. Initially, the Iroquois merely attacked those they saw as trade rivals, but eventually their brutal efficiency at waging war against the French allies led them into direct confrontation with the French. Armed by the Dutch and the English, Iroquois tribes drove rival tribes northwards and westwards, made raids on French homesteads and settlements, and blockaded Montréal. Finally, in the 1660s, France sent a small group of regular troops to New France to defend their settlers. These, combined with the Dutch loss of the New Netherlands to the English, helped lead to the pacification of the Iroquois. After a nearly twenty-year respite, the war resumed after the French began pushing aggressively into the western fur-trade, placing pressure on the Iroquois. The newly formed French militia was joined by regular troops and eventually became Canada’s first standing professional armed force. These French troops imitated the guerilla warfare of the Iroquois and became specialized in swift silent strikes against the Iroquois. They also carried out brutal raids against English settlements. The wars finally ended in 1698 when the Iroquois sued for peace with the French and signed the Great Peace of Montreal in 1701. The Iroquois now saw the English as a greater threat and saw themselves as holding the balance of power between the French and the English.

Queen Anne’s War/ 2nd Intercolonial War (1702 – 1713)

Corresponding with the War of Spanish Succession (1701 – 1714), Queen Anne’s War was fought in North America by the British against the Spanish and the French. Responding to the Spanish attack on Charleston, English colonists attacked and burned the Spanish-held city of St. Augustine, Florida. Later, in 1704, the Apalachee of Florida were massacred by the English, sold into slavery, and relocated. A second attack in 1706 by the French and Spanish on Charleston was also repulsed by the English. In 1703, in response to the destruction of the village of Beaubassin in 1696, Leneuf de Beaubassin, a French naval captain, led a few French troops and Abenaki Indians into Massachusetts. The deadly guerilla warriors laid waste to over 72 square kilometers (44 square miles) of colonial farmland and killed or captured nearly 200 colonists. In February of 1704, Hertel de Rouville accompanied by a force of Abenaki, Caughnawaga, and French-Canadian soldiers raided Deerfield, Massachusetts and killed over 50 settlers, capturing approximately 120. New England colonists responded in July of the same year by capturing the Acadian settlements of Minas and Beaubassin. Two attempts by English colonists to capture the Acadian fort of Port Royal failed in 1704 and 1707. Finally, Port Royal and all of Acadia were captured by British and colonial forces in 1710. A large British fleet floundered in their 1711 attempt to capture the French cities of Montréal and Québec. Finally, the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 brought a close to the war. The French were forced to recognize British control over the Iroquois and lost most of Acadia, Newfoundland and their trading posts in the Hudson Bay region to the British. The French retained their territory surrounding Montréal and Québec and the island of Cape Breton.

Dummer’s War/ 3rd Intercolonial War (1721 – 1725)

Dummer’s War was less of a war and more of series of clashes between the French and the English over competing land claims. Samuel de Champlain had explored the Kennebec River in Maine already in 1604 and the French considered it to be part of Acadia. Angered by the English settling along the Kennebec, the French supplied arms and ammunition and used their Jesuit missionary, Father Sébastien Rasle, to goad the Abenaki into launching raids on the encroaching English settlers. Finally, in July of 1721, a force of Abenaki delivered a letter addressed to Governor Samual Shute in which they demanded that the English settlers leave Abenaki land. The English responded in January of 1722 by launching a raid on the main Abenaki settlement of Norridgewock. The tribe was out hunting while their village was ransacked. The Abenaki, encouraged by their Jesuit father, responded by launching raids on English settlements on the Kennebec River. Governor Shute declared war on the Abenaki and offered £100 for every Indian scalp. In August of 1724, English troops snuck up on Norridgewock and launched a surprise attack, killing and scalping 26 Abenaki warriors. 14 Abenaki were wounded and the rest fled across the river. Refusing to capitulate, Father Rasle fought until he was shot through the head. The remaining Abenaki buried their dead and relocated to Québec. In December 1724, John Lovewell, a retired soldier, led a militia in response to an Abenaki raid. He and his men only managed to gain one Abenaki scalp. Another expedition launched in January of 1725, led to the killing and scalping of ten Abenaki in what is now Wakefield, New Hampshire. Lovewell, with a force of 46 men, launched his final raid in April. After killing and scalping a lone warrior, Lovewell’s force was ambushed by the Abenaki, resulting in the death of eight of Lovewell’s militia. In the resulting battle the Abenaki chief, Lovewell and twenty-six of the militia were killed.

Blackalicious - Make You Feel That Way

Paintbrush

Dear Fellow Tenant,

I hope this letter finds you well. I’m sure it does, you seem cheerful.

We don’t know each other. In fact, we’ve probably never spoken and it’s possible we’ve never even seen one other. If you’re wondering who I might be, I’m the tall ruggedly handsome gentleman with the dignified receding hairline and the rapier wit. You’ve possibly never experienced my rapier wit because I tend to hold back on it when travelling in the elevator with strangers. I’m not certain who you are, although I know you’re a male, you’re exuberantly cheerful, and you were on your balcony this morning.

This leads to the reason I am writing this letter. At 5:04 this morning when you decided to visit your balcony, I was sleeping. Then, when you greeted the entire city of Ottawa with jubilant abandon by loudly proclaiming “Good morning Ottawa,” I was awake.

I would like you to know that I had no desire to wish you a good morning in return. In fact, at this point, I was hoping something bad would happen to you. I was honestly wishing that you would stub your toe on your way back into you apartment, that your favourite team would lose their next important game, and that you would one day fall in a mud puddle on the way to the most important meeting of your life. I’ve reconsidered since then, and I only wish that you stubbed your toe.

I would just like to ask that, in the future, you address Ottawa with your cheerful greeting only after 8:00 am on weekdays and pretty much never on weekends.

Thank you,

Your fellow tenant.

Lawren Harris - Pic Island (1924)

The Reading

The microphone wavered in his trembling hand.

I should put the mic on the stand, he said to himself, so that it doesn’t shake so much.

He fumbled clumsily with the stand, holding the microphone awkwardly between his wrists. The stand did not move in the way he expected, the base was too heavy. As the pole slipped from his moist fingers, he juggled the microphone between both hands before clutching it to his chest, the microphone releasing a deep rasp as it rubbed against his shirt. He laughed self-consciously.

I should tell a joke now, he decided, it will release some of this stress. Quick, think of something funny to say.

“Aahm, butterfingers McGee,” he muttered into the microphone.

He grimaced, that was stupid. I heard someone laugh, though – but were they laughing at me or my joke? Me, must’ve been me. I hope my hair isn’t sticking up. He ran a hand over his head – everything seemed in place.

He slid the microphone into the top of the stand and then repositioned himself in front of it.

“Mohammed and the mountain, y’know?”

There was a twitter of laughter. Was that Islamophobic? No, it’s a common idiom. A common idiom, no worries. Funnier than his previous joke, butterfingers McGee, where does that even come from?

He blinked twice, his eyes were watering too much. People might think I’m crying, maybe I should pretend that I feel a sneeze coming on. He opened his mouth and wrinkled his nose, prompting a tiny tear to pop from his eye. He quickly wiped it off. The lights are too bright he reasoned.

“I have a poem that I wrote to share.”

That came out wrong. It should've been I'd like to share a poem that I wrote. Maybe they’ll think that I wrote the poem to share it? That makes me sound like I write in order to have people hear it, not for the art of it. Argh.

“I wrote this poem, but, uh, I didn’t want to share it.”

Shit. That was stupid, now they’re going to think it’s a bad poem. He adjusted his glasses and crinkled the paper in front of him.

“I, uh, wrote this poem . . . I wrote it from a place deep within.”

Yeah, that was pretty good. A place deep within. The pretty dark-haired girl at the front table with the horn-rimmed glasses and the flowery pantaloons might be impressed.

Don’t look at her, don’t look at her, don’t look at her, he urged himself as he glanced nervously toward her. She was whispering something to her blond friend with the hemp tam on her head. They were giggling.

“Ahm, um, well, here it goes.”

“Yeaaah, go for it bruh!” a voice of encouragement. It was the pale lanky man wearing the African robe.

He flashed the thumbs up in the direction of the voice. Ooooh, that was weak sauce. I shouldn’t have flashed the thumbs up, it’s like the international symbol of lameness. Or not? Hadn’t I seen that one soccer player, what’s-his-name, flash the thumbs up? Are soccer players cool? Yeah, definitely, definitely cool.

He grasped the paper in both hands, reading the words carefully. His voice shook slightly when he got to the line about the paper birds. He coughed, licked his lips. This is a good place to pause.

Don’t pause too long.

The pause was too long, he decided.

The next word out of his mouth emerged with an unfamiliar squeak. Like I’m thirteen again, he thought as the rest of the line spilled from his mouth. Just keep going, just keep going.

His eyes were watering again. He blinked heavily, lost his place momentarily and then promptly interchanged two words. He read the line over, stuttering slightly but righting the word order. His ears were heating up, hopefully they weren’t turning red. The more he thought about it the hotter his ears became, his cheeks warming now.

Maybe they wouldn’t notice his red face in this light. No, the lights were too bright. He rushed the next line. Bad idea, that was a pretty important line. He slowed for the next line again. Bad idea, that was the worst line in the poem.

Don’t think about your red face.

He thought about his red face.

His face was now a deep red colour, he was sure of it.

He finished the final line, pausing dramatically before the last word. He was done, his face was cooling.

“Thank you,” he said.

The applause was scattered at first but then grew in intensity. He heard a wooooh, probably from the lanky man in the dashiki.

He flashed the thumbs up.

Yeah, that was cool.

“There is two kinds of music the good and bad. I play the good kind.”

~ Louis Armstrong.

Things that People Find Annoying that They Really Shouldn't:

~ Less than exemplary service at a fast food restaurant. It's a fast food restaurant, the person serving you is probably in high school and is making minimum wage. You should be mad at yourself for eating low-grade food.

~ Doing the dishes. Yes, yes, doing the dishes is very annoying. What isn't annoying is having hot and cold clean running water, which makes this chore a whole lot easier.

~ Airplane delays. To paraphrase Louis CK, you're sitting in a seat in the sky. You are living the dreams of countless generations before you and shaving a week to three months off of your journey.

~ Lost cellphone signals. Honestly, you can wait ten minutes until you get a signal again, your call can't be that important. You do not need to be connected with the world at every single moment.

~ Slow internet connections. There was a time when people relied on their memory, encyclopaedia salesman had careers, and people mailed letters to each other. Just wait that extra fifteen seconds and be thankful.

~ Old people driving slowly. Just let them drive slowly, they've witnessed revolutionary change in transportation, they drive better than most young people, and, most of all, they've earned it.

~ People not having your taste in music. I know that you and I have excellent taste in music, but there is no need to get upset that other people like different music than us. Unless, of course, that other person likes Fergie or Nickelback.

~ Immigrants stealing jobs. Immigrants often take jobs that no one else will or creating jobs that didn't exist before. Either that, or they're highly skilled and taking a job that the people most vocally complaining could never even dream of having.

~ Players diving in soccer. Whaaat? Actually, people really should be annoyed by this.

Ebrahim - Bob Marley, Fugees, and the Roots Cover

In Which I Answer Some Serious Questions - Final Edition

If a bunch of cats jump on top of each other, is it still called a dog pile?

A bunch of cats would never jump on top of each other. If they did, they would cease to be cats.

Do sheep get static cling when they rub against one another?

No, they just get dirtier.

In libraries, do they put the bible in the fiction or non-fiction section?

They put the Bible in the religious section.

How old are you before it can be said you died of old age?

If you’re a fly, you only have to be a couple days old.

If K.F.C Stands for Kentucky Fried Chicken, Why do they play sweet home Alabama on the commercials (sic)?

Because Kentucky and Alabama are pretty much exactly the same state as far as us northerners are concerned.

If people with one arm go to get their nails done, do they pay half price?

People with one arm do their own nails, that’s how good they are.

What type of animal is Snuffaluffagus?

I don’t know, but he talks and his best friend is a gigantic talking canary. We have bigger problems here.

If you had a three story house and were in the second floor, isn't it possible that you can be upstairs and downstairs at the same time?

Unless you’re on the very top or the very bottom, floor levels are relative.

Can a hearse carrying a corpse drive in the carpool lane?

If it’s a federally owned hearse or if there are two occupants in the front.

Why do they call it "getting your dog fixed" if afterwards it doesn't work anymore?

It doesn’t work for the dog, but it works just fine for everyone else.

Does a 'Marks-A-Lot' marker, mark any more than a regular marker?

No, you’re looking for the ‘Marks-A-Lot-More’ marker.

If the funeral procession is at night, do folks drive with their headlights off?

Only vampires have funeral processions at night, and they drive carriages with lanterns.

What happens when you put a lightsaber in water?

Lightsabers don’t exist. But if they did, it would make a sizzling sound.

On Gilligan's Island, how did Ginger have so many different outfits when they were only going on a 3 hour tour?

Ginger orchestrated the whole disaster in order to model her favourite fashions. Pay attention next time.

If I had my legs amputated, would I have to change my height and weight on my driver's license?

Are you planning to have your legs amputated because you’re unhappy with your height and weight? I suggest rethinking this entire issue.

If nobody buys a ticket to a movie do they still show it?

Yes, and they skip the commercials.

How do you tell when you run out of invisible ink?

When your diabolical plan starts to unwind because your secret agents are not receiving their messages.

Do movie producers still say lights, camera, and action when it is a dark scene?

Unless it’s a pitch black scene, everything continues as usual.

What do you call male ballerinas?

Wimps.

How does Freddy Kruger wipe his butt?

With fictional toilet paper.

Why people are so scared of mice, which are much smaller than us, when no one seems to be scared of Mickey Mouse, who is bigger than us?

Mickey Mouse does not spread diseases.

Why are the numbers on a calculator and a phone reversed?

They still go left to right, so they’re not totally reversed. In other words, I don’t know.

Why are plastic bears the only animal you can get honey from? Why can't you get honey from a plastic bee?

Listen, you should not take honey from a bear, plastic or otherwise.

Can bald men get lice?

Hi, how are you? I hope you’re doing well. You know, sometimes we ask silly things without realizing that the answer is right in front of us. There were a few times that I asked where my keys were when they were in my hand or my pocket. I sure felt silly afterwards! Oh boy, did I ever. There was another time where a friend of mine asked how many quarters were in a basketball game. Can you imagine how embarrassing that was for her? I can. We all have these moments where we ask questions where the answer should be patently obvious to us if we just think a little harder. That’s why I will retype your question with an important word bolded for your attention: Can bald men get lice?

When your photo is taken for your driver's license, why do they tell you to smile? If you are stopped by the police and asked for your license, are you going to be smiling?

They tell you to smile to get you in trouble with the police officer. The officer will see your smiling picture, compare it to your glowering face, and immediately assume that you are using someone else’s license. Now you’re in so much more trouble than before, and it’s all because the license bureau does not like you.

Do butterflies remember life as a caterpillar?

As an amateur insect neurologist I can confidently say “probably not, but maybe. I’m not sure.”
Why do people constantly return to the refrigerator with hopes that something new to eat will have materialized?

They are hungry.

Does the postman deliver his own mail?

If his house is on his route, I assume he would.

Why does toilet bowl cleaner only come in the color blue?

It comes in green and turquoise too.

What happens when you put hand sanitizer on a place other then (sic) your hand?

Then that part of your anatomy is sanitized. Just don’t put it in your eyes. Use eyedrops instead.

Why are women and men's shoe sizes different?

So it’s hard for women to convert the size difference and then laugh at men with small feet.

Can you "stare off into space" when you're in space?

Can you see space when you’re in space?

Where do people in Hell tell other people to go?

Manitoba.

Is "vice-versa" to a dyslexic just plain redundant?

No, unless they read everything twice it’s just backwards.

How come you can kill a deer and put it up on your wall, but it's illegal to keep one as a pet?

It’s legal to have a pet deer, but you need special permits.

Why do we say we're head over heels when we're happy? Isn't that the way we normally are?

People used to walk on their hands when they were sad, so it made more sense back then.

If prunes are dehydrated plums, where does prune juice come from?

Steamed prunes that are mashed into a pulpy watery mess for your consumption, old man.

Is it appropriate to say "good mourning" at a funeral?

Since 'morning' and 'mourning' are homophones, no one will hear the difference. They might smack that smug smile off your face if it’s an afternoon funeral, though.

If there's an exception to every rule, is there an exception to that rule?

I like this question. I think there's an exception to almost every rule.

When you're caught "between a rock and a hard place", is the rock not hard?

No, it’s pumice.

Why is there a light in the fridge and not in the freezer?

Freezers sometimes do have lights.

Doesn't a lightning rod on top of church show a lack of faith?

If you believe that churches have divine protection from bad choices like being uninsured against the elements it does.

Who coined the phrase, 'coined the phrase?'

I did. It’s a good one, isn’t it?

If there were a thousand seagulls in an airplane while its flying, each weighing two pounds a piece, but they were all flying in the airplane, would the airplane weigh 2000 pounds more?
The birds are part of the airplane because the air in the airplane is being carried along with everything else inside the airplane including the flying birds. So yes, the airplane would weigh as much as everything it’s carrying.

If you soak a raisin in water, does it turn back into a grape?

Yeah, it works for prunes too, old man.

How important does a person have to be before they are considered assassinated instead of just murdered?

If someone is killed because of their political or social views by someone they don’t know, it’s safe to say that they were assassinated.

Why do they call steam rollers, steam rollers? They don't produce, get rid of, or have anythong (sic) to do with steam.

They used to be steam powered, so they did have something to do with steam. So there.

What is another word for "thesaurus"?

Tesauro. Yeah, I used Spanish, so what? Two people can play the smart aleck game.

Gerrit Adriaensz - The Great Market in Haarlem (1697)

World Cup Vuvuzelas

The vuvuzela is incredibly annoying,it sounds like a hundred thousand angry killer bees are in attendance. These killer bees become enraged whenever the action heats up, and furiously censor any chants or songs that dare try to impinge on their monotonous buzzing. Killer bees have no place at the Word Cup, especially if they are angry. From the games I have watched, it seemed that a lot of players were thrown off by the noise. I am sincerely hoping that the vuvuzelas are banned from the World Cup so that the environment can be improved for both players and fans.

That being said, there was a letter to the editor today where the writer claimed that he would not be watching any more of the World Cup because of the vuvuzela. Yes, it is quite an annoyance, but there is a handy button on the remote that allows all the sound to be muted – it’s called the “mute” button. If the commentary is important to you, you can just let the vuvuzelas blare on in the background, eventually you barely notice them. The World Cup only happens every four years, and to let thousands of blaring plastic horns dissuade you from watching the games probably means that you’re not really a fan in the first place.

Wisdom and War

We do not care-
That much is clear.
Not enough
Of us care
Anywhere.
We are not wise-
For that reason,
Mankind dies.
To think
Is much against
The will.
Better-
And easier-
To kill.

~ Langston Hughes

Urban Chickens?

Laurianne and I were walking down Bay street one day when we saw a turkey. Yeah, a turkey just chilling on someone's porch like it was the master of the home, and king of the laneway. It was surreal seeing a turkey in Ottawa's downtown core, and I am still a little bemused as to how or why that turkey was there. Turkeys don't belong in the city, do they?

Well, some urban residents, including some Ottawans, firmly believe that chickens belong in this city. I have read their letters to the editor and gushing comments on the internet, and they seem firmly convinced of the rightness of their cause. They are thoroughly entranced with the idea that they can raise chickens and eggs of a higher quality than those who do this full time. They seem to have this ideal of chickens running around in their yard with little Tyler and Madison gathering their eggs each morning. They wax eloquent about the lovely orange colour they remember eggs having and how store-bought eggs never having this quality. They look down their nose at these farmers whose chickens just aren't pampered enough to taste good. If they had a chance to raise these chickens, they argue, these chickens would lay absolutely delectable eggs and make meat of such a deliciously unattainable quality that chicken farmers would have apoplectic fits of jealousy.

Alright, I may be exaggerating - but just a little.

Who am I to question these urban chicken enthusiasts? After all, I'm just another city boy, right?

Yes, but I do have some authority to speak from. My grandfather was a chicken farmer, my father grew up reluctantly tending these chickens, and my brother-in-law is a full-time chicken farmer. When I mentioned how enthusiastic some Ottawa residents were for the idea of city-bred chickens to my brother-in-law he laughed good-naturedly and proceeded to list off numerous good reasons that chickens don't belong in the city. I can't remember them all, but there were several that stuck with me.

Here's the reality. While imperfect, chicken farming is heavily regulated. Every chicken barn has notations for every visitor that arrives and for the number of daily chicken deaths. Each barn is carefully inspected by government officials to exacting standards. Farmers who fail to meet the regulations have their quota stripped from them. These standards are in place to stop the spread of disease, to protect consumers and they are highly effective at ensuring that any diseased flock is immediately culled.

Urban chicken populations could not be inspected with the same efficiency as chicken farms. While recognizing that some urban amateur poultry farmers would keep highly hygienic coops and extremely healthy birds, there are others whose laziness and/or ignorance would result in abusive conditions, unsanitary coops, and woefully unhealthy birds. What you're left with then, is a breeding ground for disease, vermin, stench, and filth. Raccoons, coyotes, domesticated dogs, and other predators would be drawn to these coops like flies on a cow patty. The SPCA already has its hands full dealing with dog and cat owners who can't handle their responsibility, stretching their resources further to deal with amateur urban chicken farmers is a waste of time and money.

While chicken farmers have regulations for disposing of carcasses and chicken waste (i.e. shit), urban chicken farmers would have no idea or guidelines to carry out these duties. I can imagine that a few of the sensitive types would have somber chicken burials while others would merely throw them in a garbage bag with the rest of their trash. Some urban chicken enthusiasts would try to fertilize their gardens with their chicken manure, only to find their plants burn up. Others might be a little smarter and try to compost it first - either way their neighbours won't be entirely pleased. Still others would merely throw it out with the rest of their trash. As for the straw, it does not take long for it to become contaminated with chicken feces and urine. How will this be disposed of? So with all these chicken carcasses, contaminated straw, and all this chicken shit going into our city waste, what would happen? I don't know, but I don't want to find out. I'm not a big fan of rats or disease.

These amateur chicken farmers poo-poo the idea of their chickens smelling (yeah, that was a totally awesome pun, I know). However, modern chicken farms have space, sophisticated ventilation systems, and, well, space. Urban chicken coops will not have space, will not have sophisticated ventilation systems, if any at all, and will stink. Pig manure certainly smells more, but the ammonia from chicken urine and the stench from chicken manure is quite strong. Precious lawns will be scuffed up, devoured, and burnt by hungry urinating and defecating machines - engendering even more displeased neighbours.

Urban chicken enthusiasts point out that dogs and cats excrete and urinate quite a bit too. This is true, but rats, mice, weasels, and raccoons don't go after dog and cat food or the animals themselves. Dogs and cats are not being raised for eggs or for meat and are kept in limited numbers.

Some of these city-bred chicken fans have the idea that their children can gather the eggs in the morning and it will be a wonderful way for them to have a taste of rural life in the midst of the city. You may have your children try to gather these eggs a few times, but once they get the angry end of a chicken's beak on their hand or arm they will not be too enthusiastic about that particular chore. As for raising the chickens for meat, count me out unless your chickens are butchered by a professional.

Chickens belong in the country, that's where the farmers are.

Burundi's Jean-Christophe Matata - Nyegera Cane (Come Closer)

Update:

~ According to the Ottawa Citizen, 24 billion people will be tuned into the World Cup.

~ Estimated World Population as of 2010: 6.8 billion.

~ Accountants are always stressing the importance of decimal placement.

~ I wish it were about 70 degrees warmer outside right now.

~ Hup, Holland, Hup.

~ Ottawa always seems to be talking about a light rail transit system. It seems like none of the people talking about the transit system actually ride public transportation.

~ I think Ottawa is secretly jealous of Toronto.

~ Ottawans seem to spend a lot of time complaining about how Ottawa isn’t bike-friendly. They should try riding a bike through downtown Toronto. If they did, I think they’d stop being jealous.

~ Ottawa has 170 km of bike paths.

~ I still don’t consider myself an Ottawan.

~ The bread I buy is always slightly too dark on top, almost burnt.

~ The previous statement was incredibly boring to those uninterested in my bread consumption.

~ Everyone is unquestionably interested in my bread consumption, though. You're welcome.

~ I favour peanut butter and jam, with a preference toward raspberry over strawberry jam.

~ Enthralling, I know. I should do an entry just on my bread consumption.

~ I was able to make a dentist appointment for Monday, I’m pretty sure I have a cavity. If not, I just have a tooth that doesn’t enjoy being touched by anything sweet, hot, carbonated, or any combination thereof.

~ I believe it has been almost ten years since I have been to the dentist.

~ I’ve eaten a lot of bread since then.

~ My youngest sister, who’s in grade 8, received first place in high jump at Master’s field day.

~ I remember trying for the school record in grade 8, but I didn’t match it. Then I jumped really badly on Master’s field day.

~ My second youngest sister is en route to become a Neurosurgeon.

~ Sometimes I spread misinformation.

~ My third youngest sister is the world’s most helpful person. Ask anyone who knows her.

~ Sometimes I spread truth.

~ My second oldest sister is enroute to becoming Florence Nightingale.

~ Sometimes I make bold assertions that hinge on a comparison between heroines of the Crimean War and a sibling's future career.

~ My oldest sister cooks the world’s best chicken, bakes the greatest raisin bread, and has the most amazing children.

~ Sometimes you just want to go to Saskatchewan.

~ In comparison, I was voted the most likely to own my own tropical island in my last year of high school.

~ I am well on my way to not owning my own tropical island.

~ World Cup tomorrow!

Lofty Mount Lu - Shen Zhou (15th century)

Graffiti

There’s a park by the bus stop that I frequent where people are free to practice their graffiti art. I always enjoy seeing the constantly changing face of the wall there, and I’m often impressed with the talent that these artists have with a spray can.

That being said, there is one thing I can’t stand. Heist. Heist has his name up on that wall. He also has tagged at least seven other places that are not that wall – and that’s just on my route to work. Four of these tags have been removed, but the other ones are still there. They’re quickly done with very little art to them, they’re ugly, and I’m sure they’re not cheap to remove. I am tired of seeing this word on my way to work. I read it inadvertently and immediately regret it. When I read the name Heist, I hear it being read in the voice of an angry high-pitched German. I have nothing against the Germans or the German language, but this particular word hits me like the squealing of bus brakes or the sound of teeth being dragged across a blackboard. Teeth. On a blackboard.

I hope that someday soon Heist, whoever he (or maybe even she) is, owns a car. I hope that this car is a very nice car. I hope that Heist really likes this car. Finally, I sincerely hope that someone paints a big, beautifully indelible picture of a cow patty on the hood of this car.

Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees.

~ Victor Hugo

The Boer War Memorial

I sometimes walk through Ottawa's Confederation Park on my way from the Rideau Centre to Elgin Street or vice versa. Whenever I do, I pass the Boer War Memorial, with its mustachioed hero doffing his cap. He's smiling, his rifle butt resting on the ground, and I'm left pondering whether I like this chap.

With no control over its foreign policy,Canada was drawn into the war as soon as Great Britain declared war. Canada's Prime Minister, Wilfrid Laurier, was not enthused by the war and was left in a difficult position because of the sharp divide between English and French Canada. English Canada was fervently behind the British in South Africa. Over 7,000 Canadians served in South Africa, with 89 being killed in action and 130 dying of diseases.

Now, despite my last name being den Boer my ancestors were not at all involved in the 1899 Boer War (also known as the Second Boer War). I would wager that, like most Dutch (and much of the world, for that matter), their sympathies lay with the Afrikaners rather than the British. In fact, popular opinion was so strong that the Dutch government sent a cruiser to South Africa to pick up the Afrikaner president, Paul Kruger. Two small Dutch-speaking Republics were fighting against a world power; a world power that seemed motivated entirely out of a lust for diamonds and gold.

Canadians don't seem to know a lot about the Boer War. When people have trouble pronouncing my last name, as they often do, I tell them that it's pronounced "like the Boer in the Boer War." Reactions range from blank nods to a vague look of recognition. I doubt very many Canadians know that the Boer War was the birthplace of the first concentration camps, made for Afrikaner families and their black allies, or that some of the Canadian troops had a reputation as a rough, undisciplined lot prone to excesses.

For these reasons, I find it difficult to pass the Boer War Memorial without a little cynicism. This was not a just war. Admittedly, the Boers were far from angelic in their treatment of the local African populations or their annexation of African land, and it was the Boers who pre-emptively attacked the British in the Second Boer War. However, this does not justify their treatment at the hands of the British or the British annexation of the Boer Republics.

War is a tragedy, especially when it is waged unjustly. Still, the men who died in the Second Boer War deserve to be remembered - whether they were African, Boer, British, or Canadian.

So when I pass the Boer War Memorial I think of all the needless lives that were lost, the greed, anger, and hubris that humanity will never lose, and the emptiness of so many of the wars around the world.

Jimmy Cliff - Many Rivers to Cross

Title: Warning to all Vilators
Location: 500 m from my abode.
Number of Signs with the Same Spelling: At Least Two
Lesson for Hydro One: Proofread your Signs
John's Imagination Says: A vilator is a futuristic car that interferes with Hydro-1's electricity grid. This is a sign from the future.
Google Says: Did you mean: violator?

The Factory

The factory was old, far older than any of the buildings surrounding him. He felt his age in his sagging wooden floors and the yellowing walls of his interior. The once bright red bricks that he had worn so proudly had faded into a rose, and a few had begun to crack and crumble. Few of his paneled windows remained, most had been broken by drunken vandals. The machinery that had hummed almost constantly deep in his belly had been silent for decades, as if his vitality had been sucked right out of him. The machines, once confident and powerful, had been stripped and their remains left to corrode. At night, when the city lay almost silent he could hear his joints creak and groan from his own mass and from the weight of the plunging temperatures. His faces were crisscrossed with tattoos left by romantics, desperate fame-seekers, and angry urban poets. He had come to enjoy the surreptitious visits of these night-time artists. The bright colours that they left behind covered his faded brick and their shadowy visits gave him the attention that he missed so greatly.

The building behind him, a soaring glass structure would peer imperiously down at him and wonder aloud when his view would improve. The glass building had a slight curve to its roof which made it think of itself as an architectural masterpiece.

The factory muttered hollowly to the himself about how derivative the glass building was, how there were thousands of it throughout the world, how few people noticed the shining reflective glass. He, however, had stood the test of time. Had he not heard the recent urban explorer enthuse to his friend on how much character he had?

Years passed. The machines showed up. The factory was excited at first, assuming that they had come to revitalize him, to shore him up, to re-open him to the rough workmen.

That was until they pulled down his first wall, the faded brick crumbling as it hit the ground. They were tearing him down, his tired bones shuddered with fatigued relief. His walls creaked and groaned, their age giving away easily to the destruction. He heard the soaring glass building humming happily to itself, "I shall have a wondrous view."

“Your time will come,” he groaned as his ancient roof caved in, “Your time will come.”

Thomas Hart Benton - Ballad of the Jealous Lover (1934)

In Which I Answer Some Very Serious Questions - Part 3

Why does a round pizza come in a square box?

Have you ever tried making a round box? More importantly, have you ever noticed how easily round boxes can be crushed?

Do bald people get Dandruff?

Why was the word dandruff capitalized here? Anyway, the answer to your question is that bald people are impervious to any and all disorders of the scalp.

Why is it that no matter what color bubble bath you use the bubbles are always white?

White supremacy.

Why do superheros (sic) wear their underwear on the outside of their clothes?

Superheroes don’t exist.

If you get cheated by the Better Business Bureau, who do you complain to?

Superman.

When sign makers go on strike, is anything written on their signs?

No, they generally use megaphones and effigies.

Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?

I know, right? I mean it’s so hard to check if paint is wet but so easy to count to 4 billion.

Can you cry underwater?

Yes, I can also breathe underwater.

Why Does Pluto Live in a dog house, eat dog food, etc. but Goofy, who is also a dog, lives (sic) in a condo and drives a car?

Cartoon speciation.

If you blew a bubble in space would it pop?

No, it would continue to expand until it consumed the entire universe.

How come all of the planets are spherical?

They’re not, they’re oblate ellipsoids.

When a pregnant lady has twins, is (sic) there 1 or 2 umbilical cords?

One, they take turns.

Why doesn't Winnie the Pooh ever get stung by the bees he messes with?

Winnie the Pooh is an anthropomorphic bear who can talk, don’t you have a better question?

Why do they put holes in crackers?

So they sink in your soup.

Can you still say "Put it where the sun don't shine " on a nude beach?

No, it’s forbidden.

What do people in China call their good plates?

Good plates, but they say it in Chinese.

How come toy hippos are always blue, or purple, when real hippos are brown?

Real hippos are brownish-grey, come correct or don’t come at all.

Why don't woodpeckers get headaches when they slam their head on a tree all day?

Their ancestors slammed their heads against the inside of a titanium box, so they’re pretty tough (see part 2).

If someone owns a piece of land, do they own it all the way to the center of the earth?

I was going to say yes, but the dude who wrote War and Peace disagrees, and who am I to argue with him?
“The earth is the general and equal possession of all humanity and therefore cannot be the property of individuals.”

If an escalator (sic) breaks down, does it become stairs?

No, it becomes a staggered group of stationary steps that are just the right distance apart for the average biped to travel swiftly between two separate levels.

Why do they call him Donkey Kong if he is not a donkey?

The Japanese creator wanted to relay the idea of a stubborn gorilla. No really, that’s the answer.
Why do they say a football team is the 'world champion' when they don't play anybody outside the US?

Because the United States is the world, silly.

Do stuttering people stutter when they're thinking to themselves?

No.

If you put a chameleon in a room full of mirrors, what color would it turn?

The colour of the floor.

What are the handles for corn on the cob called?

They’re called the left and the right ends of the corn on the cob.

Why do British people never sound British when they sing?

Listen carefully.

Why do we press the start button to turn off the computer?

I usually click on the Start menu button, then the shut down button, and then press okay. You may want to upgrade from DOS.

Do your eyes change color when you die?

I don’t know, I haven’t died yet.