A New Template Already?
Indeed.
And the map is at the bottom.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Unka Jeen Goes to Saskatchewan
I recently went to Saskatchewan to visit my oldest sister, Karen and her family. She documented this trip here. Here are a few of my pictures:
Here I display my willful ignorance of the rules of photography by taking a picture with a window in the background.
Here I display my willful ignorance of the rules of photography by taking a picture with a window in the background.
Julianna is a nearly albino munchkin who lives in my sister's house.
When I took this picture I was thinking about the lack of sunset photographs in the world. Hopefully this will help alleviate their scarcity.
Owen and Julianna
Unka Jeeen with Karen and Owen
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
In Which I Answer Some Serious Questions - Part 1
The following are thoughtful answers to a series of serious questions that were posed on this website.
Why doesn't McDonald's sell hotdogs?
For the same reason they don't sell boiled pig's feet: it's just not unhealthy enough.
At a movie theater which armrest is yours?
The armrest to your right belongs to the theatre while the armrest to your left belongs to the theatre.
What is Satan's last name?
Jones.
Why do doctors leave the room when you change? They're going to see you naked anyway.
I have no experience with this.
Where does the toe-tag go on a dead person if they don't have toes?
The person remains unidentified.
If your (sic) driving a federal(sic) owned car, and you run a stop sign, is it considered a felony?
Running a stop sign would be considered a traffic violation and not a felony.
If your (sic) driving a federal (sic) owned car, and you run a stop sign, is it considered a traffic violation?
No, if you are driving a federally owned car, you can speed the wrong way down an interstate with a case of open beers beside you while blackmailing a Supreme Court judge on your cell-phone, and the police can do nothing.
Why is there a disclaimer on the Allstate Auto Insurance commercials that says "Not available in all states"?
Rhode Island doesn’t count as a real state.
If you dug a hole through the center of the earth, and jumped in, would you stay at the center because of gravity?
Presumably, if it were even possible to dig a hole through the centre of the earth, you would not need to jump in because you would be in the hole, you know, digging it. This would thereby eliminate the need to jump in.
. . .
Oh, and, if it were even possible to get to the centre of the earth before being consumed by magma or the incredible mass of the earth, you would die.
If a person dies and then springs back to life, do they get their money back for the coffin?
Check your policy (unless you’re from Rhode Island, in which case you’re not covered).
If you are asked to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth and your (sic) the main witness, what if you say "no"?
Then you’re in contempt of court.
Do they bury people with their braces on?
Yes.
How far east can you go before you're heading west?
Infinity.
How does a Real Estate company sell its office without causing confusion?
If they’re selling the office, there really shouldn’t be any confusion.
Do dentists go to other dentists or do they just do it themselves?
Neither. They usually end up curled up in the corner from the embarrassment of having less than perfect oral health.
If, in a baseball game, the batter hits a ball splitting it right down the center with half the ball flying out of the park and the other half being caught, what is the final ruling?
That you’re not allowed to play baseball with cantaloupes anymore.
If you were to get drunk in a country where the drinking limit is under 21, and went to the states and were still over the limit, could they arrest you for underage drinking even though you did not do the drinking in the states?
If you’re driving a federally owned car, you don’t need to worry about this.
Why do people think that swaying their arm back and forth would change the direction of a bowling ball?
Because swaying your arm back and forth is the action you take before you release this bowling ball.
Why is it that everyone driving faster than you is considered an idiot and everyone driving slower than you is a moron?
Is this a riddle? Maybe I’m driving in an alternate reality where everyone’s intelligence is judged relative to the speed I choose to go in my automobile? Or, more likely, I’m driving in Toronto.
If pro and con are opposites, wouldn't the opposite of progress be congress?
Yes, in the same way that professional is the opposite of confessional, protest is the opposite of contest, produce is the opposite of conduce, and processional is the opposite of concessional. Isn’t etymology grand?
Why does grape flavor smell the way it is (sic) when actual grapes don't taste or smell anything like it?
Interesting fact: grape drink does not taste like actual grapes.
If a kid refuses to sleep during nap time, are they guilty of resisting a rest?
Yes, and they should be thrown in prison.
Is it rude for a deaf person to talk (sign) with their mouth full of food?
No, but if their hands are full of food it is incredibly rude.
If its 11:30 PM Dec 31 in Texas and 12:30 AM Jan 1st in New York and you have a New York driver's license that expires Jan 2007, does that mean your license has expired?
Yes, it’s 2010 now.
What's the difference between normal ketchup and fancy ketchup?
Fancy ketchup listens to jazz.
Why is the Lone Ranger called 'Lone' if he always has his Indian friend Tonto with him?
It’s called the white man principle. If a white man accomplishes anything, he can claim he did it alone providing he was not accompanied by another white man. It’s like how that one weekend I danced by myself at a zouk club.
When does it stop being partly cloudy and start being partly sunny?
Sunny is understood because the sun is a constant. Clouds, however, are not a constant unless you live in England or Vancouver.
Are eyebrows considered facial hair?
Are eyebrows on your face?
If a baby's leg pops out at 11:59PM but his head doesn't come out until 12:01AM, which day was he born on?
Friday.
In the song Yankee Doodle, is he calling the horse or the feather "macaroni"?
Neither, it’s the name he gave to his cap.
Is there a time limit on fortune cookie predictions?
No, unless you’re from Rhode Island, in which case they expire right away.
Since bread is square, then why is sandwich meat round?
Because life isn’t fair.
Do they have the word "dictionary" in the dictionary?
Smartass.
Can you daydream at night?
No, and don’t try it. The resulting chaos unleashed by such a linguistic contradiction will cause the universe to collapse on itself.
Why is it that on a phone the number five has a little dot on it?
It’s a design flaw that has occurred in almost every single touch-tone phone that has ever been manufactured. I like it though because it allows me to dial in the dark.
Can crop circles be square?
No, see the question about daydreaming at night.
If ghosts can walk through walls and glide down stairs, why don't they fall through the floor?
Ghosts have special floor resistant shoes.
Is it legal to travel down a road in reverse, as long as your following the direction of the traffic?
In a federally owned car it is.
When atheists go to court, do they have to swear on the bible?
No, but neither do Christians. In the old days, atheists would swear on a stack of blank steno notebooks.
Why is vanilla ice cream white when vanilla extract is brown?
You obviously haven’t been eating super-extra-copious-amounts-of-vanilla vanilla ice cream. Just reduce the amount of dairy in the ice cream and increase the amount of vanilla extract by three thousand parts.
Can animals commit suicide?
Are humans animals? If so, then yes. If not, then also yes.
What do you do when you see an endangered animal that is eating an endangered plant?
You wring that good-for-nothing animal’s neck is what you do.
If a doctor suddenly had a heart attack while doing surgery, would the other doctors work on the doctor or the patient?
Neither, they would immediately succumb to the irony.
How can something be "new" and "improved"? If it's new, what was it improving on?
It’s new in the sense that no one used it before you, and it’s improved in the sense that it’s better than the previous model.
Why aren't drapes double sided so it looks nice on the inside and outside of your home?
Maybe you shouldn’t shop at second-hand stores for your drapes.
When two people marry, they say, "you may kiss the bride". What do they say if two MEN get married?
They say, “Oh man, I don’t know what to say at this part anymore. If only there were a way we could change the language of these vows somehow to reflect this completely unanticipated situation. I guess this won’t work after all. I wish there were a way, boys, but my hands are really tied here.”
Why is it that when we "skate on thin ice", we can "get in hot water"?
Underwater geysers melt the ice to a certain thinness and warm the water to a certain hotness.
Why do people say beans, beans, the magical fruit when beans are vegetables?
I have never, ever, in my entire life heard one person ever utter these words. Ever.
If laughter is the best medicine, who's the idiot who said they 'died laughing'?
He overdosed, obviously.
If money doesn't grow on trees then why do banks have branches?
Money, obviously, does grow on trees.
Why are the little styrofoam pieces called peanuts?
Hmm. That’s a tough one. Why would they call tiny little peanut-shaped pieces of Styrofoam peanuts? I don’t know. You stumped me.
Why does the Easter bunny carry eggs? Rabbits don't lay eggs.
*Crash* That’s the sound of all my childhood naivete shattering into a billion pieces. Thanks a lot.
Do Siamese twins pay for one ticket or two tickets when they go to movies and concerts?
Siamese twins enter free. It’s one of the perks.
Why are they called 'Jolly Ranchers'? Who said that the ranchers were jolly?
You’re too young to know who Roy Rogers is. I’m also too young to know who he is, but somehow I do know who he is. Suffice to say, he was both jolly and a rancher.
Why does caregiver and caretaker mean the same thing?
They don’t. One helps sick people and another is a janitor.
Can a short person "talk down" to a taller person?
Woah, you just, like, totally blew my mind.
If a bald person works as a chef at a restaurant, do they have to wear a hairnet?
Yeah, on their face, for their eyebrows.
If milk goes bad if not refrigerated, does it go bad if the cow isn’t refrigerated?
If milk emerged from the cow’s udder as ice-cold two per cent homogenized milk then the answer to your question would be yes.
How fast do hotcakes sell?
I don't know, but this youtube clip is funny:
Do prison buses have emergency exits?
Have you seen The Fugitive starring Harrison Ford? He totally had to go through the door at the front when the bus flipped.
Do astronauts change their clocks when they move over different time zones in space?
Yes, it’s one of the most frustrating aspects of space travel at the moment.
Can a black person join the kkk?
You’re stupid.
When lightning strikes the ocean why don't all the fish die?
If lightning had a constant voltage of a googolplex volts, it would kill all the fish. It doesn't though.
When there's two men who "get married", do they both go to the same bachelor party?
Yes, it's required by law.
If a guy that was about to die in the electric chair had a heart attack should they save him?
No, but they shouldn’t put him in the electric chair either.
Why are there interstate highways in Hawaii?
There’s supposed to be a gigantic bridge to Alaska, but Sarah Palin didn’t finish it.
Do Jewish vampires avoid crosses or Stars of David?
Forget what these new emo vampire tales are telling you, all vampires are undead, selfish, and have no convictions, religious or otherwise.
If London Bridge is standing why is there a song about it falling down?
If this song were titled “London Bridge fell down” you might have a point.
Who was Sadie Hawkins?
A character from the Lil’Abner comic strip that ran from 1934-1977. Yeah, that was from the top of my head.
If parents say, "Never take candy from strangers" then why do we celebrate Halloween?
My parents always urged me to take candy from strangers (and play on the train tracks), so I don't see your point.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
When I was in Sunday school one of the the teachers explained that heaven would basically be "like a church service that goes on forever."
I can remember how disappointed I was. The idea that I would be stuck in a wooden pew eating peppermints, flipping through hymnals, and fidgeting throughout an everlasting sermon just wasn't appealing.
I had been looking forward to flying, meeting Sampson, exploring forests, and finding out how the dinosaurs died. Now I was informed that all I had to look forward to was an old angel in a suit telling me to turn to hymn 324.
Imagine, organ music for all of eternity and white-haired angels with Dutch accents.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Completely Unfair Reviews of John's Most Recently Watched Movies
The Thomas Crown Affair (1968)
Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway play chess. Also, there’s a bank robbery. McQueen really shouldn’t have castled so early just because Dunaway has such a nice smile.
Tootsie (1982)
Dustin Hoffman plays a woman, and Bill Murray makes me laugh. This is the best cross-dressing movie I have ever seen. The other one was good too, though.
The Green Zone (2010)
Jason Bourne goes to Iraq; hilarity ensues when he can’t find WMDs. Hilarity means a shaky camera, by the way.
Alien (1979)
Imagine being treated unjustly just because you do not have citizenship in your country of residence. That would suck. This movie is about a slobbering ectomorphic creature that tries to befriend a spaceship crew by playing hide and seek.
Kramer vs. Kramer (1979)
Dustin Hoffman makes French toast for his son. I think his recipe would be improved by adding a little cinnamon.
Yojimbo (1961)
Toshiro Mifune’s role as a masterless samurai was the greatest ever portrayal of a samurai on screen until Tom Cruise came along. It’s worth a look if you want to see the inspiration for Japan’s greatest samurai ever (Tom Cruise).
Wicker Man (1973)
A straitlaced police sergeant is invited by a group of hippies to a Burning Man festival. He is so upset by their excesses that he later becomes the Equalizer (1985-1989).
How to Train a Dragon (2010)
*Hint* You have to catch it first.
2012 (2009)
The world has recovered from the devastation unleashed by global warming only to be beset by new disasters unleashed by an ancient Mayan priest who forgot to set the Mayan calendar to infinity. Billions die, but don’t worry, the dog makes it.
A Fistful of Dollars (1964)
Clint Eastwood models his favourite poncho. As far a ponchos go, it’s pretty good one.
Once Upon a Time in the West (1968)
Charles Bronson returns a beloved harmonica to its rightful owner. He doesn’t play it very well anyways, so it’s all good.
The Outlaw Josey Wales (1976)
Clint Eastwood fights against the abolition of slavery, despite the fact that he’s already been ruled against by Mr. Lincoln. Lincoln is tough, so slavery is abolished despite Eastwood’s best efforts.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Guest Speakers
In grade school, there were often guest speakers.
I can't remember the purpose of most of these guest speakers, but I do remember one thing. They were all hard of hearing.
They would come to the front of the gym, multi-purpose room, classroom, or random gathering place and they would enthusiastically yell, "good morning!"
Yes, it was usually morning when these chipper personalities came to visit.
The assemblage of students would respond with their own scattered mumbling of "good morning."
The perky personality at the front would then come back with a statement that usually went like this, "I can't heeeeaaar you, I SAID goood morning!"
I felt it was reasonable for the personality to conclude that most of the gathered children had responded with a counter-greeting and had not said something random like "these chairs are super-hard" or "why are we heeerre?"
Perhaps the person at the front was not quite bright enough to figure out that most people respond to a greeting with an equivalent greeting. The only conclusion for me was that the speaker was a bit dull and had not been able to make out what we had said.
Now, to me, it was understandable that they might have not heard us the first time. After all, most of the students had not responded and those who had responded had not responded with anything resembling synchronization. So I, like the others, would always give them the benefit of the doubt and respond with a resounding "good morning!" This one was always delivered in a form that was clear and audible to everyone in the entire building.
There.
Now you can hear us, alright?
Nope. The speaker would stubbornly refuse to acknowledge that the verve and volume of our greeting was good enough.
"I caaaan't heeeear you!" the speaker would bellow cheerfully, "I said goood moooorning!"
Said, it should be noted, was always pronounced with two syllables.
At this point, I would stop responding. Not only had we delivered the speaker a resounding good morning, but it had been far superior in both volume and clarity to the greeting the personality had now rendered unto us three times.
My fellow students never seemed to feel the same way and would scream another greeting at the top of their lungs. This deafening greeting was far less polished and clear than the previous one, but it made up for that with a volume that shook the foundations of nearby buildings.
"That's better," the personality would say, with a self-satisfied smile that said wow, I really got these kids' attention in an amusing and entertaining way.
Probably not, if this is the only part of your speech that I can remember.
In grade school, there were often guest speakers.
I can't remember the purpose of most of these guest speakers, but I do remember one thing. They were all hard of hearing.
They would come to the front of the gym, multi-purpose room, classroom, or random gathering place and they would enthusiastically yell, "good morning!"
Yes, it was usually morning when these chipper personalities came to visit.
The assemblage of students would respond with their own scattered mumbling of "good morning."
The perky personality at the front would then come back with a statement that usually went like this, "I can't heeeeaaar you, I SAID goood morning!"
I felt it was reasonable for the personality to conclude that most of the gathered children had responded with a counter-greeting and had not said something random like "these chairs are super-hard" or "why are we heeerre?"
Perhaps the person at the front was not quite bright enough to figure out that most people respond to a greeting with an equivalent greeting. The only conclusion for me was that the speaker was a bit dull and had not been able to make out what we had said.
Now, to me, it was understandable that they might have not heard us the first time. After all, most of the students had not responded and those who had responded had not responded with anything resembling synchronization. So I, like the others, would always give them the benefit of the doubt and respond with a resounding "good morning!" This one was always delivered in a form that was clear and audible to everyone in the entire building.
There.
Now you can hear us, alright?
Nope. The speaker would stubbornly refuse to acknowledge that the verve and volume of our greeting was good enough.
"I caaaan't heeeear you!" the speaker would bellow cheerfully, "I said goood moooorning!"
Said, it should be noted, was always pronounced with two syllables.
At this point, I would stop responding. Not only had we delivered the speaker a resounding good morning, but it had been far superior in both volume and clarity to the greeting the personality had now rendered unto us three times.
My fellow students never seemed to feel the same way and would scream another greeting at the top of their lungs. This deafening greeting was far less polished and clear than the previous one, but it made up for that with a volume that shook the foundations of nearby buildings.
"That's better," the personality would say, with a self-satisfied smile that said wow, I really got these kids' attention in an amusing and entertaining way.
Probably not, if this is the only part of your speech that I can remember.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Update:
~ I was attempting to set the record for the world’s longest intermission. I think I succeeded.
~ I have gained almost ten pounds since the spring. This is an amazing feat for me, as I have hovered around the same weight since graduating high school.
~ I will not admit that I am sorry about my lack of updates, but I am.
~ I will not bow to your conventions regarding self-contradiction.
~ I once attended a self-contradiction convention, I had mixed feelings.
~ Ba-domp ching!
~ I actually wrote up another post about a month ago but I never posted it because it was derivative of a lot of earlier work.
~ We are being sprayed for pharoah ants. For some reason the only place I’ve seen them is in the bathroom.
~ Actually, it’s not a spray, it’s poison so that they grab it and die.
~ I scored a minus 4 recently on my fantasy soccer league. I did much better in the weeks that I was not playing.
~ I sent the following text message to my sister, Rachel, recently: “Hey Rachel, I hope school is going well. Don’t talk to strange boys, ok smarty pants?”
~ I received the following response: “Hola John. I hope life is going well. School is good. The language barrier keeps me from talking to strange boys, don’t worry. (I translated that from this normal texting syntax for your benefit: sup. Skul iz gud. I dunno frnch so cant talk 2 craZ bois lolz!)”
~ I have no idea how to respond cleverly to this, if you have any ideas please put them in the comment section below.
~ I think the extra ten pounds may be inhibiting my brain functions.
~ Is there any pizza better than pizza with pineapples on it? I will answer this for you. No, there is not.
~ Sarah Palin makes George W. Bush look smart.
~ Did you know that there are scorpions in Canada? I didn’t, and there are.
~ Guess which province is the culprit? Yeah, that’s right, British Columbia with their mild weather and hippie ways.
~ There is no direct link between scorpions and hippies – THAT WE KNOW OF.
~ Was that dramatic? Did it establish doubt in your mind about possible links between scorpions and hippies? I hope so. I used capitals, and I don’t do that too often.
~ I tried to wash my jacket by hand with detergent and water and now it just smells like a damp coat. I would like to apologize to all of my fellow passengers on the OC Transpo buses for smelling like a damp coat.
~ What does a damp coat smell like? It really is incomparable to any other scents, sorry.
~ I like it when the bus lurches suddenly and the guy leaning coolly against the door gets thrown off balance. Is that bad?
~ This has been a Boerisbwoy joint. Johnny out.
~ I was attempting to set the record for the world’s longest intermission. I think I succeeded.
~ I have gained almost ten pounds since the spring. This is an amazing feat for me, as I have hovered around the same weight since graduating high school.
~ I will not admit that I am sorry about my lack of updates, but I am.
~ I will not bow to your conventions regarding self-contradiction.
~ I once attended a self-contradiction convention, I had mixed feelings.
~ Ba-domp ching!
~ I actually wrote up another post about a month ago but I never posted it because it was derivative of a lot of earlier work.
~ We are being sprayed for pharoah ants. For some reason the only place I’ve seen them is in the bathroom.
~ Actually, it’s not a spray, it’s poison so that they grab it and die.
~ I scored a minus 4 recently on my fantasy soccer league. I did much better in the weeks that I was not playing.
~ I sent the following text message to my sister, Rachel, recently: “Hey Rachel, I hope school is going well. Don’t talk to strange boys, ok smarty pants?”
~ I received the following response: “Hola John. I hope life is going well. School is good. The language barrier keeps me from talking to strange boys, don’t worry. (I translated that from this normal texting syntax for your benefit: sup. Skul iz gud. I dunno frnch so cant talk 2 craZ bois lolz!)”
~ I have no idea how to respond cleverly to this, if you have any ideas please put them in the comment section below.
~ I think the extra ten pounds may be inhibiting my brain functions.
~ Is there any pizza better than pizza with pineapples on it? I will answer this for you. No, there is not.
~ Sarah Palin makes George W. Bush look smart.
~ Did you know that there are scorpions in Canada? I didn’t, and there are.
~ Guess which province is the culprit? Yeah, that’s right, British Columbia with their mild weather and hippie ways.
~ There is no direct link between scorpions and hippies – THAT WE KNOW OF.
~ Was that dramatic? Did it establish doubt in your mind about possible links between scorpions and hippies? I hope so. I used capitals, and I don’t do that too often.
~ I tried to wash my jacket by hand with detergent and water and now it just smells like a damp coat. I would like to apologize to all of my fellow passengers on the OC Transpo buses for smelling like a damp coat.
~ What does a damp coat smell like? It really is incomparable to any other scents, sorry.
~ I like it when the bus lurches suddenly and the guy leaning coolly against the door gets thrown off balance. Is that bad?
~ This has been a Boerisbwoy joint. Johnny out.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Update
~ Whaaaaaaaat?
~ Yeah, that's right. It's update time.
~ Just so you know, here are the standings for the blog hits from various countries:
1) Canada (CA) 1,461
2) United States (US) 1,139
3) Netherlands (NL) 165
4) United Kingdom (GB) 133
5) Bahamas (BS) 65
6) France (FR) 42
7) Germany (DE) 41
8) Australia (AU) 37
9) Brazil (BR) 37
10) Italy (IT) 17
~ As you can see, Canada and the United States have a commanding lead. Even if Europe combines its member scores it fails to even match a quarter of Canada's extremely impressive tally.
~ Mongolia is tied for 26th with a bunch of other countries. I was hoping they would do better.
~ I have been trying to scare pigeons away from our balcony for months. Our friend threw water at the pigeons on his balcony and they never came back. I've tried that, but the pigeons are too fast/I'm too slow/the water spills everywhere.
~ I have been married for four years now and I have been with Laurianne for nine years.
~ We broke up once for about a week, but that didn't really work out so well.
~ I saw a woman with a tattoo that said "born to lead." I thought it was funny because she was a fast walker and her boyfriend was a slow walker and she kept having to stop to wait for him to catch up. This is to say that her tattoo was true.
~ I have come to terms with the reality that this summer is simply not going to have a lot of summer weather.
~ Imagine if the woman with that tattoo was struck blind? Then she would have to get a seeing eye dog and her tattoo would seem a little ridiculous in that particular context.
~ Laurianne, ndagukunda cane.
~ My Kirundi really has not progressed.
~ My Arabic has progressed by two words since I started my job. Not bad.
~ One day, I will tie my tie the first time and I will not have to tie it again. This is my dream.
~ I like cheese sandwiches.
~ Good night.
~ Whaaaaaaaat?
~ Yeah, that's right. It's update time.
~ Just so you know, here are the standings for the blog hits from various countries:
1) Canada (CA) 1,461
2) United States (US) 1,139
3) Netherlands (NL) 165
4) United Kingdom (GB) 133
5) Bahamas (BS) 65
6) France (FR) 42
7) Germany (DE) 41
8) Australia (AU) 37
9) Brazil (BR) 37
10) Italy (IT) 17
~ As you can see, Canada and the United States have a commanding lead. Even if Europe combines its member scores it fails to even match a quarter of Canada's extremely impressive tally.
~ Mongolia is tied for 26th with a bunch of other countries. I was hoping they would do better.
~ I have been trying to scare pigeons away from our balcony for months. Our friend threw water at the pigeons on his balcony and they never came back. I've tried that, but the pigeons are too fast/I'm too slow/the water spills everywhere.
~ I have been married for four years now and I have been with Laurianne for nine years.
~ We broke up once for about a week, but that didn't really work out so well.
~ I saw a woman with a tattoo that said "born to lead." I thought it was funny because she was a fast walker and her boyfriend was a slow walker and she kept having to stop to wait for him to catch up. This is to say that her tattoo was true.
~ I have come to terms with the reality that this summer is simply not going to have a lot of summer weather.
~ Imagine if the woman with that tattoo was struck blind? Then she would have to get a seeing eye dog and her tattoo would seem a little ridiculous in that particular context.
~ Laurianne, ndagukunda cane.
~ My Kirundi really has not progressed.
~ My Arabic has progressed by two words since I started my job. Not bad.
~ One day, I will tie my tie the first time and I will not have to tie it again. This is my dream.
~ I like cheese sandwiches.
~ Good night.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Mrs. Z (that's Mrs. Zed, for you Americans)
"She's a bit demanding. You have to know when to say no," she warned me.
She was speaking of Mrs. Z, her former neighbour. Having been entirely to slow in coming up with a reasonably believable excuse, I had just agreed to shovel snow for Mrs. Z.
After the first snowfall, I dutifully knocked on Mrs. Z's door. After several moments, the door creaked open and a short, solid, old woman with striking light-blue eyes could be seen through the crack.
"Oh, my dear, are you John?" Her voice was slightly shrill and she had an accent that I could not quite place.
I confirmed that I was, in fact, John.
"Come in, Come in, I must explain to you how to remove the snow," her hair was grey and white with tinges of light brown.
I leaned my shovel against the wall, not quite sure how complicated snow removal could be.
Mrs. Z first explained that she had been a widow for twenty years, her light-blue eyes looking slightly sad. She was Latvian, her husband had liked to shoot at targets for sport, did I? She was worried about young people breaking into her home, her son lived in Toronto. She explained that the neighbours, who were renting from the woman who had first recommended me for the job, were "nice, but liked to play boom-boom music."
"Please, my dear," she said, "take off your hat."
I took off my touque.
I must explain, that at this point in my young life I had allowed my curly hair to form into dreads. I thought they were rather cool.
"Oh, my dear," she exclaimed, touching a hand to her cheek, "you are wearing the hair, I see the black people wearing this hair. Why are you wearing your hair like this?"
"I like it," I explained.
She did not seem satisfied with my answer, her wrinkles crinkling as her light blue eyes searched my face. When no further explanation came, she moved on to describe her husband's snow shovel.
"I have a snow shovel," I stated.
"Oh yes! I know, my dear, but for scraping the ice you will need this shovel," she nodded gravely, "I am worried about ice, my dear, because I cannot fall down."
"My shovel will scrape the ice, and I don't think there is any today," I reassured her.
"Oh no, my dear, your shovel is plastic. My husband used a metal shovel and he attached some metal to the end so it scrapes very well," she gestured behind her, "I will get you this shovel, don't worry, my dear."
I felt I could not dishonour the hard work her husband had put into making the perfect shovel.
I waited, her house smelled of fish, the air was warm and slightly moist. She emerged several minutes later bearing a red shovel with a grey piece of aluminum welded to the end.
"That's a nice shovel," I commented, not really liking it all that much.
"Thank you, my dear, my husband made it."
I started reaching for the shovel.
"Oh, my dear!" she laughed, "You are rushing so. I have yet to explain how the snow is to be shovelled."
I nodded, "Oh, okay."
She beckoned towards the window, pointing to her porch, "After you shovel, you must sweep . . ."
"Sweep?"
"Oh, my dear, I will give you a broom," she patted my arm, "You must sweep the porch all along the edges so there is no snow. If the snow melts and freezes it will make ice and I cannot fall."
"So, my dear," she continued, "You must, you must clear the snow all along my pathway. I need a clear path to the sidewalk. Sweep this path after you shovel. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
"You see behind my porch," she arched her hand to indicated the area hidden from our view, "You must remove the snow from this area and put it," she pushed her hands forwards like a bulldozer, "put it to the other side."
"But," she raised her eyebrows seriously, "this pile on the other side of my walk cannot be too tall. I must be able to see the sidewalk."
I began putting my touque back on, as a signal that I was ready to begin shovelling the snow.
"Are you listening, my dear?" she tapped the glass, peering at me seriously with those light blue eyes, "make sure the catchbasin is clear."
"Make sure what?"
"My dear, the catchbasin, on the side of the sidewalk, needs to be clear so that when the snow melts it can travel into the catchbasin."
"The getchbayysun?"
"Yes, my dear, the catchbasin."
"I will remove the snow from the getchbayysun." I was still completely unsure as to what a getchbayysun might be.
"Good," she smiled in satisfaction, "now, on the other side of my driveway, you must not throw the snow onto the lawn of the neighbour, you understand?"
"I can't throw the snow on the neighbour's lawn?" I queried incredulously.
"Yes, my dear, there is a hydro line there. My neighbour, he is not a nice man, he becomes angry when the snow is put there. The city will make him pay the money to remove the snow if something goes wrong with the hydro," she shook her head.
I immediately thought he was, perhaps, a liar. "No snow on that side," I repeated, wondering how this would work logistically.
"Also, remove the snow from in front of the gate so that I can open it to go to my patio."
"Your patio?"
"Oh, yes my dear, the patio must be cleared of snow and ice because I must go to my compass and laundry line."
"Your compass?" I must have been hearing wrong.
She looked at me in surprise, "Your mother, she doesn't have a compass?"
"In the back yard?" I asked, frowning.
"I put my veg-e-tab-les in the compass," she said, "it is good for the soil."
"Oh, yes, we have a compost," I smiled.
She smiled back, but she didn't seem to believe me, her eyes peering at me with careful calculation, "Yes, a compass is very good, I put fish in there as well."
"Now, I will need a pass from the patio to the compass and the laundry line. Also, the window wells must be cleared from the snow so that the damp does not come through the wall," she held my arm as she spoke, the shovel still in her other hand.
I began rubbing my forehead vigorously, a habit I engage in when I am overwhelmed, annoyed, or frustrated.
"But don't worry, my dear," she seemed to perceive my state of mind, "I will explain this to you again after you finish the front."
I noticed a crumb on her chin.
When I finally stepped outside, I used the metal shovel for all of two minutes before it's inability to actually scoop the snow made me thrust it aside. Then, using my plastic shovel, I heaped snow on her neighbour's lawn, vainly searched for the getchbayysun, and piled the snow onto her lawn to a prohibitive height.
"My dear, my dear," she called from the door, "You must flatten this snow in the pile on my lawn. Have you shovelled the sidewalk my dear? What about the catchbasin?"
I carried out her instructions, until she felt the need to take a tour of the work site in order to offer more helpful hints to improve the snow removal.
"My dear, my dear, the snow on my lawn is still too high, you must shovel it to the centre."
I offered a weak objection but tired of her explanation. Eventually I just shovelled the pile into a more even distribution onto her lawn in order to avoid further lectures on the dangers of melting snow.
"My dear, you did not sweep this path to the sidewalk."
I bit my lip, scratching my forehead vigorously.
"I can sweep it tomorrow, my dear," she offered suddenly.
"My dear, you did not open the catchbasin!" - Apparently, a getchbayysun is a storm drain.
After the final inspection she finally called out, "Okay, my dear, you must walk through the house to go to the patio now."
I had arrived at her house at 4:30. When I had finally finished her patio, it was 7:30, I was hungry, cold, and annoyed.
"Thank you very much, my dear," she said as I stood in the kitchen.
"When did you start?" she asked, "how long did you work?"
I frowned, I guess I hadn't started until 5:30 but that was because I listened to an hour of instructions. "Uuh, two hours?"
"How much do I owe you?"
I glanced at my watch, at her clock, at the rows of vitamin capsules on her table. I looked at her light blue eyes, what can you charge an old widow for two hours of work? "ten dollars."
"I will give you eleven," she said, her voice swelling with pride at her generosity.
"Thank you," I mumbled as I fingered the change. She had given me five two dollar bills, bills which had already been out of circulation for about three years at this point.
"You will come next time it snows?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, "I'll be here."
"She's a bit demanding. You have to know when to say no," she warned me.
She was speaking of Mrs. Z, her former neighbour. Having been entirely to slow in coming up with a reasonably believable excuse, I had just agreed to shovel snow for Mrs. Z.
After the first snowfall, I dutifully knocked on Mrs. Z's door. After several moments, the door creaked open and a short, solid, old woman with striking light-blue eyes could be seen through the crack.
"Oh, my dear, are you John?" Her voice was slightly shrill and she had an accent that I could not quite place.
I confirmed that I was, in fact, John.
"Come in, Come in, I must explain to you how to remove the snow," her hair was grey and white with tinges of light brown.
I leaned my shovel against the wall, not quite sure how complicated snow removal could be.
Mrs. Z first explained that she had been a widow for twenty years, her light-blue eyes looking slightly sad. She was Latvian, her husband had liked to shoot at targets for sport, did I? She was worried about young people breaking into her home, her son lived in Toronto. She explained that the neighbours, who were renting from the woman who had first recommended me for the job, were "nice, but liked to play boom-boom music."
"Please, my dear," she said, "take off your hat."
I took off my touque.
I must explain, that at this point in my young life I had allowed my curly hair to form into dreads. I thought they were rather cool.
"Oh, my dear," she exclaimed, touching a hand to her cheek, "you are wearing the hair, I see the black people wearing this hair. Why are you wearing your hair like this?"
"I like it," I explained.
She did not seem satisfied with my answer, her wrinkles crinkling as her light blue eyes searched my face. When no further explanation came, she moved on to describe her husband's snow shovel.
"I have a snow shovel," I stated.
"Oh yes! I know, my dear, but for scraping the ice you will need this shovel," she nodded gravely, "I am worried about ice, my dear, because I cannot fall down."
"My shovel will scrape the ice, and I don't think there is any today," I reassured her.
"Oh no, my dear, your shovel is plastic. My husband used a metal shovel and he attached some metal to the end so it scrapes very well," she gestured behind her, "I will get you this shovel, don't worry, my dear."
I felt I could not dishonour the hard work her husband had put into making the perfect shovel.
I waited, her house smelled of fish, the air was warm and slightly moist. She emerged several minutes later bearing a red shovel with a grey piece of aluminum welded to the end.
"That's a nice shovel," I commented, not really liking it all that much.
"Thank you, my dear, my husband made it."
I started reaching for the shovel.
"Oh, my dear!" she laughed, "You are rushing so. I have yet to explain how the snow is to be shovelled."
I nodded, "Oh, okay."
She beckoned towards the window, pointing to her porch, "After you shovel, you must sweep . . ."
"Sweep?"
"Oh, my dear, I will give you a broom," she patted my arm, "You must sweep the porch all along the edges so there is no snow. If the snow melts and freezes it will make ice and I cannot fall."
"So, my dear," she continued, "You must, you must clear the snow all along my pathway. I need a clear path to the sidewalk. Sweep this path after you shovel. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
"You see behind my porch," she arched her hand to indicated the area hidden from our view, "You must remove the snow from this area and put it," she pushed her hands forwards like a bulldozer, "put it to the other side."
"But," she raised her eyebrows seriously, "this pile on the other side of my walk cannot be too tall. I must be able to see the sidewalk."
I began putting my touque back on, as a signal that I was ready to begin shovelling the snow.
"Are you listening, my dear?" she tapped the glass, peering at me seriously with those light blue eyes, "make sure the catchbasin is clear."
"Make sure what?"
"My dear, the catchbasin, on the side of the sidewalk, needs to be clear so that when the snow melts it can travel into the catchbasin."
"The getchbayysun?"
"Yes, my dear, the catchbasin."
"I will remove the snow from the getchbayysun." I was still completely unsure as to what a getchbayysun might be.
"Good," she smiled in satisfaction, "now, on the other side of my driveway, you must not throw the snow onto the lawn of the neighbour, you understand?"
"I can't throw the snow on the neighbour's lawn?" I queried incredulously.
"Yes, my dear, there is a hydro line there. My neighbour, he is not a nice man, he becomes angry when the snow is put there. The city will make him pay the money to remove the snow if something goes wrong with the hydro," she shook her head.
I immediately thought he was, perhaps, a liar. "No snow on that side," I repeated, wondering how this would work logistically.
"Also, remove the snow from in front of the gate so that I can open it to go to my patio."
"Your patio?"
"Oh, yes my dear, the patio must be cleared of snow and ice because I must go to my compass and laundry line."
"Your compass?" I must have been hearing wrong.
She looked at me in surprise, "Your mother, she doesn't have a compass?"
"In the back yard?" I asked, frowning.
"I put my veg-e-tab-les in the compass," she said, "it is good for the soil."
"Oh, yes, we have a compost," I smiled.
She smiled back, but she didn't seem to believe me, her eyes peering at me with careful calculation, "Yes, a compass is very good, I put fish in there as well."
"Now, I will need a pass from the patio to the compass and the laundry line. Also, the window wells must be cleared from the snow so that the damp does not come through the wall," she held my arm as she spoke, the shovel still in her other hand.
I began rubbing my forehead vigorously, a habit I engage in when I am overwhelmed, annoyed, or frustrated.
"But don't worry, my dear," she seemed to perceive my state of mind, "I will explain this to you again after you finish the front."
I noticed a crumb on her chin.
When I finally stepped outside, I used the metal shovel for all of two minutes before it's inability to actually scoop the snow made me thrust it aside. Then, using my plastic shovel, I heaped snow on her neighbour's lawn, vainly searched for the getchbayysun, and piled the snow onto her lawn to a prohibitive height.
"My dear, my dear," she called from the door, "You must flatten this snow in the pile on my lawn. Have you shovelled the sidewalk my dear? What about the catchbasin?"
I carried out her instructions, until she felt the need to take a tour of the work site in order to offer more helpful hints to improve the snow removal.
"My dear, my dear, the snow on my lawn is still too high, you must shovel it to the centre."
I offered a weak objection but tired of her explanation. Eventually I just shovelled the pile into a more even distribution onto her lawn in order to avoid further lectures on the dangers of melting snow.
"My dear, you did not sweep this path to the sidewalk."
I bit my lip, scratching my forehead vigorously.
"I can sweep it tomorrow, my dear," she offered suddenly.
"My dear, you did not open the catchbasin!" - Apparently, a getchbayysun is a storm drain.
After the final inspection she finally called out, "Okay, my dear, you must walk through the house to go to the patio now."
I had arrived at her house at 4:30. When I had finally finished her patio, it was 7:30, I was hungry, cold, and annoyed.
"Thank you very much, my dear," she said as I stood in the kitchen.
"When did you start?" she asked, "how long did you work?"
I frowned, I guess I hadn't started until 5:30 but that was because I listened to an hour of instructions. "Uuh, two hours?"
"How much do I owe you?"
I glanced at my watch, at her clock, at the rows of vitamin capsules on her table. I looked at her light blue eyes, what can you charge an old widow for two hours of work? "ten dollars."
"I will give you eleven," she said, her voice swelling with pride at her generosity.
"Thank you," I mumbled as I fingered the change. She had given me five two dollar bills, bills which had already been out of circulation for about three years at this point.
"You will come next time it snows?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, "I'll be here."
Thursday, July 16, 2009
I do not know what to write.
I feel like writing something smart.
Problem: I don't feel particularly smart at the moment.
Of course, this has never stopped me before. Why should it stop me now? One merely needs to examine this blog in order to ascertain that the author is not exactly a gen . . .
"Hold up, hold up."
What?
"Listen, John, we at Boerishbwoy have spent a lot of time trying to establish you as a genius, or have you forgotten due to your complete and total lack of attention to us over the past year?"
Oh come on, complete and total lack of attention is a bit strong, don't you think?
"So is the intense and overwhelming feeling of neglect."
Wait a minute, so you're telling me that my blog has not only developed its own personality, but also a strong grudge towards me?
"You never updated us."
I'm updating you now, aren't I? I've updated you quite a bit over the last while, haven't I?
"It's just a little toooo late."
Are you singing a JoJo song? Honestly, how can anyone take you seriously?
"Italics are for wimpy writers."
You used them.
"We're the resentfully poignant disembodied voice of your blog. We could speak entirely in capital letters and people would weep from the depth of feeling that we communicate."
What does that even mean? And how is that an excuse for using italics? I don't even see anything wrong with italics.
"Maybe we should just get someone else to update us."
This is crazy, I'm arguing with my blog, and my blog thinks it's more than one person. Maybe you should just update yourself.
"Maybe we will. We're much more articulate than you are."
I CREATED YOU!
"You're not going to get them with the capital letters, John."
Whatever.
I feel like writing something smart.
Problem: I don't feel particularly smart at the moment.
Of course, this has never stopped me before. Why should it stop me now? One merely needs to examine this blog in order to ascertain that the author is not exactly a gen . . .
"Hold up, hold up."
What?
"Listen, John, we at Boerishbwoy have spent a lot of time trying to establish you as a genius, or have you forgotten due to your complete and total lack of attention to us over the past year?"
Oh come on, complete and total lack of attention is a bit strong, don't you think?
"So is the intense and overwhelming feeling of neglect."
Wait a minute, so you're telling me that my blog has not only developed its own personality, but also a strong grudge towards me?
"You never updated us."
I'm updating you now, aren't I? I've updated you quite a bit over the last while, haven't I?
"It's just a little toooo late."
Are you singing a JoJo song? Honestly, how can anyone take you seriously?
"Italics are for wimpy writers."
You used them.
"We're the resentfully poignant disembodied voice of your blog. We could speak entirely in capital letters and people would weep from the depth of feeling that we communicate."
What does that even mean? And how is that an excuse for using italics? I don't even see anything wrong with italics.
"Maybe we should just get someone else to update us."
This is crazy, I'm arguing with my blog, and my blog thinks it's more than one person. Maybe you should just update yourself.
"Maybe we will. We're much more articulate than you are."
I CREATED YOU!
"You're not going to get them with the capital letters, John."
Whatever.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Update
~ My mother, father, youngest sister, and her friend came up to Ottawa on a camping trip over my birthday weekend. We went camping with them for my birthday. It used to be a den Boer tradition to be camping during my birthday, it was nice to revisit that tradition.
~ We went to see Ben Harper and Relentless7 at the Bluesfest here in Ottawa. They are relentless, but there aren't seven of them. There are three.
~ If you count Ben Harper as part of Relentless7 then there are more.
~ Our enjoyment was briefly interrupted by a gentleman for whom it might have appeared there were seven people on stage.
~ Bluesfest is great, although there seem to be more late night drunks bellowing from the street below on the weekends. One in particular was looking for Kristen (I heard Gretchen, Laurianne heard Kristen - we'll have to go with Kristen) to open the door for her. Kristen did not open the door for at least forty minutes.
~ I can hear Ice Cube right now. I think he might be angry.
~ I think he might not appreciate the unseasonably cold weather. But I got to say, Ice, at least it's sunny.
~ Thank you for the prayers.
~ I don't know if you've heard, but Michael Jackson has died.
~ I would like at least three scorchingly hot summer days this July. At least three.
~ Remember slap-on bracelets? Those were sweet.
~ My mother, father, youngest sister, and her friend came up to Ottawa on a camping trip over my birthday weekend. We went camping with them for my birthday. It used to be a den Boer tradition to be camping during my birthday, it was nice to revisit that tradition.
~ We went to see Ben Harper and Relentless7 at the Bluesfest here in Ottawa. They are relentless, but there aren't seven of them. There are three.
~ If you count Ben Harper as part of Relentless7 then there are more.
~ Our enjoyment was briefly interrupted by a gentleman for whom it might have appeared there were seven people on stage.
~ Bluesfest is great, although there seem to be more late night drunks bellowing from the street below on the weekends. One in particular was looking for Kristen (I heard Gretchen, Laurianne heard Kristen - we'll have to go with Kristen) to open the door for her. Kristen did not open the door for at least forty minutes.
~ I can hear Ice Cube right now. I think he might be angry.
~ I think he might not appreciate the unseasonably cold weather. But I got to say, Ice, at least it's sunny.
~ Thank you for the prayers.
~ I don't know if you've heard, but Michael Jackson has died.
~ I would like at least three scorchingly hot summer days this July. At least three.
~ Remember slap-on bracelets? Those were sweet.
Monday, July 13, 2009
I saw your Jesus
I saw your Jesus on a shirt
beneath a logo that said 'no more hurt'
I wondered aloud what he was worth
'$13.99, plus tax,' replied the clerk
I saw your Jesus the other day
he said the revolution was on its way
as he thrust his fist into the air
and combed a hand through his long blonde hair
I saw your Jesus as he told
his audience of his chains of gold
and how it could be theirs if they just showed
their faith through the seed they sowed
I saw your Jesus on the news
and he said that our nation would lose
unless ungodliness were cut down at the root
and crushed beneath our mighty boot
I saw your Jesus in some books
I thought I'd take a good hard look
chapter 2 was a new revelation on how he could
have been written down and misunderstood
I saw your Jesus, I saw him shine
I say he's yours because he's not mine
I saw your Jesus on a shirt
beneath a logo that said 'no more hurt'
I wondered aloud what he was worth
'$13.99, plus tax,' replied the clerk
I saw your Jesus the other day
he said the revolution was on its way
as he thrust his fist into the air
and combed a hand through his long blonde hair
I saw your Jesus as he told
his audience of his chains of gold
and how it could be theirs if they just showed
their faith through the seed they sowed
I saw your Jesus on the news
and he said that our nation would lose
unless ungodliness were cut down at the root
and crushed beneath our mighty boot
I saw your Jesus in some books
I thought I'd take a good hard look
chapter 2 was a new revelation on how he could
have been written down and misunderstood
I saw your Jesus, I saw him shine
I say he's yours because he's not mine
Monday, July 06, 2009
When the knife entered his chest, nestling uncomfortably between his third and fourth rib next to what he imagined was a rather important area of his heart, he frowned in consternation. It seemed to him that it was slightly unfair for his life to end so abruptly over what now seemed such a ridiculous issue. He appealed to the higher power whose existence he had previously been sceptical of, but received no response. As he lay in the asphalt, gurgling and clutching his chest in wide-eyed agony he thought of several other responses he could have given those punks. Responses that, most likely, would not have resulted in him having his chest cavity introduced to the long stainless steel blade with the serrated edge. Was it a steak knife? His inner voice laughed sardonically at the idea of gangsters wielding their mother’s steak knives in lieu of more martial blades. The response he had chosen had been pretty clever and he usually did not think of such witty comebacks until at least fifteen minutes after the fact. Of course, his reply was not the sort of wit that was worth risking a mortal wound for the brief joy of its utterance. There were probably few one-liners that were worth that risk, even if one suffered from a poverty of such ingenuity.
He had not thought about death too often in his life. To him, it had seemed a distant destination on a journey with far more interesting things to consider. The girl at the far wall of the club, for instance. He was sure that she had been eying him. He wished he had possessed the courage to approach her and rattle off a clever line so that she would twirl her dark brown hair around her finger, tilt her head, lower her eyes, and smile sweetly. Then she would dance with him and perhaps they could have spent the next day walking her dog in the park — assuming, of course, that she had a dog. He assumed she did. Probably a Pekinese.
What happened now? He wondered how long he had been a stabbing victim. He reckoned that it was anywhere from two minutes to an hour. When he looked up, though, he could still see the retreating backs of his assailants. They had been very generic looking, he observed retroactively. Average height, average build, averagely dressed plain-faced white youths with steak knives slipped into the elastics of their plain grey boxers. One, of course, no longer had his steak knife, which lay precariously in all of the glory of its Chinese manufacturing on the lip of the eaves-trough somewhere above his head. One youth turned his average-looking profile to glance back at him, a look hovering between braggadocio and regret. He felt a sudden rush of anger at having his life stolen by such generic looking white-bread gangsters. If he had been stabbed by some harder looking criminals he would have had a small piece of comfort. These suburban gangsters, who would have had all of their pockets emptied within five minutes of arriving at a real ghetto, were an almost unbearable death. Unbearable death? He decided that any death would have been unbearable at this point. He was too young.
Wow, he had never felt pain like this. He had broken a finger before, but that pain seemed the peep of a small bird compared to this constant roar of pain. He found it immensely difficult to breathe and he was amazed at the amount of blood his wound was able to generate. His head was growing light, a sign of his incoming death, he decided. Perhaps there was an afterlife. His mind was fuzzy, his vision blurry, and he seemed unable to recall the basic lessons of his catechism. TULIP. Total depravity, unconditional something, limited something, irresistible something, and Puh, puh, puh. “The devil with it . . .” he muttered through dry bloodied lips. He found it difficult to continue a sentence he had set out to begin somewhere in his mind. His shoulders were convulsing involuntarily and his legs twitched. A Gordon Lightfoot song was playing in his mind, but without words and just the twang of nonsense words to the sound of discordant guitar. The brain is an incredible organ, he observed numbly.
An incredible organ.
He had not thought about death too often in his life. To him, it had seemed a distant destination on a journey with far more interesting things to consider. The girl at the far wall of the club, for instance. He was sure that she had been eying him. He wished he had possessed the courage to approach her and rattle off a clever line so that she would twirl her dark brown hair around her finger, tilt her head, lower her eyes, and smile sweetly. Then she would dance with him and perhaps they could have spent the next day walking her dog in the park — assuming, of course, that she had a dog. He assumed she did. Probably a Pekinese.
What happened now? He wondered how long he had been a stabbing victim. He reckoned that it was anywhere from two minutes to an hour. When he looked up, though, he could still see the retreating backs of his assailants. They had been very generic looking, he observed retroactively. Average height, average build, averagely dressed plain-faced white youths with steak knives slipped into the elastics of their plain grey boxers. One, of course, no longer had his steak knife, which lay precariously in all of the glory of its Chinese manufacturing on the lip of the eaves-trough somewhere above his head. One youth turned his average-looking profile to glance back at him, a look hovering between braggadocio and regret. He felt a sudden rush of anger at having his life stolen by such generic looking white-bread gangsters. If he had been stabbed by some harder looking criminals he would have had a small piece of comfort. These suburban gangsters, who would have had all of their pockets emptied within five minutes of arriving at a real ghetto, were an almost unbearable death. Unbearable death? He decided that any death would have been unbearable at this point. He was too young.
Wow, he had never felt pain like this. He had broken a finger before, but that pain seemed the peep of a small bird compared to this constant roar of pain. He found it immensely difficult to breathe and he was amazed at the amount of blood his wound was able to generate. His head was growing light, a sign of his incoming death, he decided. Perhaps there was an afterlife. His mind was fuzzy, his vision blurry, and he seemed unable to recall the basic lessons of his catechism. TULIP. Total depravity, unconditional something, limited something, irresistible something, and Puh, puh, puh. “The devil with it . . .” he muttered through dry bloodied lips. He found it difficult to continue a sentence he had set out to begin somewhere in his mind. His shoulders were convulsing involuntarily and his legs twitched. A Gordon Lightfoot song was playing in his mind, but without words and just the twang of nonsense words to the sound of discordant guitar. The brain is an incredible organ, he observed numbly.
An incredible organ.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
April 2nd, 2005.*
Paul Martin is Prime Minister of Canada.
Pope John Paul II has died.
G-mail celebrates its first Birthday.
And in a small unassuming unit of a townhouse complex on the West Mountain of Hamilton, university students prepare for a meal. Spaghetti boils on the stove, and several hungry men mill about. Their concentration is broken only by a loud squawk. From whence this squawk?
The source is quickly found.
Perched high on the refrigerator is Bill Bopper**, his stance that of a majestic vulture. As astonished as his friends were, the question remained: what had transformed this young man from a mild-mannered student into a fierce scavenger?
As intelligent as these university students were, they were asking the wrong question. A better question would have been the following: Who exactly is this Bill Bopper?
William Bopper was born September 19th, 1981 to Mr. and Mrs. Robert and Alicia Bopper. As a boy, his parents noticed a strange habit: Bill would circle his food several time before finally eating it. And even when he ate his food, he ate like a bird.***
The peculiar behaviour continued. Once, his mother noted with alarm, a four year old Bill squawking loudly at a brother who had stolen his donut. If only his mother had known the origins of his bizarre behaviour.
July 13, 1984: The Bopper family is camping in a rather idyllic provincial park snuggled next to Lake Ontario. Older brother Shawn has persuaded his sister that a poison ivy plant is, in fact, a salve. While both parents struggle to comfort their weeping daughter and punish their wayward son, young Bill has wandered off down a nearby trail.
Poor Bill is oblivious to the fact that his heavy footfalls have disturbed the peace of a creature that would forever change the direction of his life, a creature whose fate was so closely tied to his own.****
On that fateful July day, Bill disturbs a powerful creature. This creature is . . . *****
Bill Bopper has displayed strange behaviour for quite some time. On July 13th, 1984, Bill Bopper wanders off and disturbs a powerful creature. A gigantic vulture******
On any other day with any other vulture this would have been fine. This vulture, however, was a cantankerous brute who, exiled from his venue*******, had flown wildly off on his own. Once on its own, the bird had madly pursued the notion that there were vast amounts of carrion lodged in the Pickering nuclear facility. The bird, ravaged by hunger, had pecked its way through several feet of cement only to expose itself to deadly levels of radioactivity********. Rather than die of the various cancers that should have infected its body, the vulture became a super beast. Kind of like Spiderman, but a vulture.
Returning to that fateful July day, when Phil disturbs this radioactive vulture. Bill is pecked sharply, drawing blood and indelibly altering Bill's DNA.
When a screeching Bill returns to camp flapping his arms his parents assume it is because he has fallen and cut himself on a rock. If only his parents had known:
Their son was a vulture man.
*This story is meant to be read with a serious deep voice, like that of Peter Mansbridge. If it is read otherwise, its true strength will not be felt.
** Some names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.
*** The word bird is meant to be read ominously. Hence, the italics.
**** Now would be a good time to take a break, like a commercial break. It's more dramatic that way. Go get a drink or something.
***** This is sort of like a teaser in between commercials. Take another break. Maybe get a cookie to go with that drink.
****** Remember what was said earlier about italics? It still applies.
******* A group of vultures is called a venue. Unless they're circling, then they're referred to as a kettle.
******** The reporter had trouble with this part of the story, and was forced to manufacture a gap in the story. The vulture pecking through cement made the most sense and was therefore inserted into an otherwise entirely accurate story.
Paul Martin is Prime Minister of Canada.
Pope John Paul II has died.
G-mail celebrates its first Birthday.
And in a small unassuming unit of a townhouse complex on the West Mountain of Hamilton, university students prepare for a meal. Spaghetti boils on the stove, and several hungry men mill about. Their concentration is broken only by a loud squawk. From whence this squawk?
The source is quickly found.
Perched high on the refrigerator is Bill Bopper**, his stance that of a majestic vulture. As astonished as his friends were, the question remained: what had transformed this young man from a mild-mannered student into a fierce scavenger?
As intelligent as these university students were, they were asking the wrong question. A better question would have been the following: Who exactly is this Bill Bopper?
William Bopper was born September 19th, 1981 to Mr. and Mrs. Robert and Alicia Bopper. As a boy, his parents noticed a strange habit: Bill would circle his food several time before finally eating it. And even when he ate his food, he ate like a bird.***
The peculiar behaviour continued. Once, his mother noted with alarm, a four year old Bill squawking loudly at a brother who had stolen his donut. If only his mother had known the origins of his bizarre behaviour.
July 13, 1984: The Bopper family is camping in a rather idyllic provincial park snuggled next to Lake Ontario. Older brother Shawn has persuaded his sister that a poison ivy plant is, in fact, a salve. While both parents struggle to comfort their weeping daughter and punish their wayward son, young Bill has wandered off down a nearby trail.
Poor Bill is oblivious to the fact that his heavy footfalls have disturbed the peace of a creature that would forever change the direction of his life, a creature whose fate was so closely tied to his own.****
On that fateful July day, Bill disturbs a powerful creature. This creature is . . . *****
Bill Bopper has displayed strange behaviour for quite some time. On July 13th, 1984, Bill Bopper wanders off and disturbs a powerful creature. A gigantic vulture******
On any other day with any other vulture this would have been fine. This vulture, however, was a cantankerous brute who, exiled from his venue*******, had flown wildly off on his own. Once on its own, the bird had madly pursued the notion that there were vast amounts of carrion lodged in the Pickering nuclear facility. The bird, ravaged by hunger, had pecked its way through several feet of cement only to expose itself to deadly levels of radioactivity********. Rather than die of the various cancers that should have infected its body, the vulture became a super beast. Kind of like Spiderman, but a vulture.
Returning to that fateful July day, when Phil disturbs this radioactive vulture. Bill is pecked sharply, drawing blood and indelibly altering Bill's DNA.
When a screeching Bill returns to camp flapping his arms his parents assume it is because he has fallen and cut himself on a rock. If only his parents had known:
Their son was a vulture man.
*This story is meant to be read with a serious deep voice, like that of Peter Mansbridge. If it is read otherwise, its true strength will not be felt.
** Some names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.
*** The word bird is meant to be read ominously. Hence, the italics.
**** Now would be a good time to take a break, like a commercial break. It's more dramatic that way. Go get a drink or something.
***** This is sort of like a teaser in between commercials. Take another break. Maybe get a cookie to go with that drink.
****** Remember what was said earlier about italics? It still applies.
******* A group of vultures is called a venue. Unless they're circling, then they're referred to as a kettle.
******** The reporter had trouble with this part of the story, and was forced to manufacture a gap in the story. The vulture pecking through cement made the most sense and was therefore inserted into an otherwise entirely accurate story.
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