Hey, check out the book Kurofune. Just click on the link at the top right of this page.
Premier of Alberta, Rachel Notley, has threatened to turn off the gas tap to British Columbia if BC’s John Horgan refuses to budge on his stance to stop the building of the Trans Mountain Pipe line. Response of your typical BC resident:
Bring it on baby. We have lots of this stuff. We don’t need your gas Notley. Can’t drink it anyway.
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!
How I love la-la land. And don’t worry Notley. We have this:
So there! Horgan was apt to respond.
It’s The World I Know: “What if dating multiple people, sometimes at once, isn’t avoiding reality but rewriting it in your image?” sad statement of affairs – this me,me it’s all about me generation talk. Come talk to me when you’re in your 40’s, still single and lonely……Geesh.
So inviting, so sexy my wife said, having one of these:
Elephant Man
So now they have come up with this CPAP device.
Looks like a sweat band to me! Tennis anyone?
$128 bucks for a Nike Sweat Band? Are they kidding me.
“Night Court” star Harry Anderson dead at 65. I always liked this guy. Sad and too young to go.
This just in: Obama’s new car is breathtaking:
Wow, great on gas when going downhill. Just like his legacy.
The Canadian embassy in Cuba is now considered as dangerous as the missions in Afghanistan, Iraq and Lebanon, and officials are clawing back rules that let diplomats posted there bring their family with them as the mysterious case of unexplained symptoms experienced by staff there gets even more bizarre.
It’s the “Salsa” Trudeau remarked. No story here, move on!
Wow…..boogie!
North and South Korea reportedly set to announce official end to war
It’s all Trumps fault I tell ya. It’s madness. Impeach the bastard right away. Obama surely deserves another Nobel Peace Prize for all of the work he has done to bring this about.
Then again, can anyone who looks and acts like this, really be trusted?
And what about them hats? Scary!
That’s all for today:
Song of the day in deference to BC politics and leadership:
Countdown to Vezelay….118 Days and counting, not walking but counting.
Can’t wait!
I am a bit upset that the Pope has recently announced that “Hell” no longer exists.
Hell, I thought to myself. Damn. Telling someone to “Go to Hell” just doesn’t have the same impact anymore. “Hellfire” and “Brimstone” were two of the most terrifying words that a young Catholic child like me could ever hope to hear. Terrifying I tell you. How I prayed at night before I fell asleep that the devil be gone from my ever so innocent dreams. Now:
I Want You…to show me the way, every day.
hahahahahahahahahahahah…you can’t have me! And what about God’s given rules that were constantly shoved down our throats as young Catholic lads and lasses. I am reminded
“of one really weird and unexplainable moment that occurred to me while waiting to go into the confessional to confess my indiscretions and sinful works and sinful deeds and equally sinful thoughts. Hell! It was a Saturday afternoon, springtime, around 4pm, the scheduled time for confession at our church. And given that the church was right across the road from our house that day or time of day didn’t really cause me an inconvenience. Damn! Run across to the church, do my thing, say the requisite number of Our Father’s, Hail Mary’s and Glory Be’s, and voila, the slated soul was clean, snowy white again, all black spots disappearing into the sinful ether. Whew! Then run back home to catch the latest Tarzan edition on TV or tales from the really dark continent awaiting a supper of hot dogs, or better still, Kraft Dinner – with ketchup! Yummy!
I am sitting there in the cavernous church: non plussed, and wondering what I’ll be confessing. There was that list of sins of course, both venial and mortal to contemplate. Damnation! The church, being really well organized after thousands of years of practice, and not wanting to waste anybody’s time, the priest’s or mine, had a list and that list was all encompassing. Hell yes! It must have been quite interesting and comical fun coming up with the list of venial and mortal sins. I would have loved to have been part of that Working Group or Ecumenical Council for certain. No shyte! Yes, a sinful checklist of remembrance was the way to go. Did I do this? Check! How about that? Check. Masturbation? What is that? More on that later! Uncheck? Murder? Nope, uncheck unless thinking about murdering my oldest sister was a sin? Uncheck that. On and on it went. Meantime, while I was sitting there waiting to go in to meet my fate head on, I suddenly came down with a horrific case of the hiccups: bad, violent, non-relenting. Each hiccup shook my entire being. It was God’s punishment for my dastardly indiscretions…or so they led me to believe! Hell on earth!
Ever try to mask or hide a hiccup in a confined environment like a church, or worse yet, the claustrophobic confines of a Confessional? It is not pretty. Your cheeks bulge out; eyeballs and pupils expand outwardly in a Feldman like manner; the stomach contracts then expands in rapid succession; and, like an uncontrollable fart, a growling sound begins its emanational rise from the lower bowels of the human body bypassing the stomach then running up the oesophagus in its belch like fashion, or in the Catholic vernacular, like a resurrection. The gut, it hurts. The whole sensation repeats itself over and over and over again until those hiccups run its course. With each attempt to mask the hiccup the sensation becomes worse and deeply magnified. Like hell itself!
Embarrassed, I sat out in the pews near the back of the church daring not to even think about going in to that dark, dank and tiny expanse that they called the confessional. The interior of those tiny cells, abreast of and on either side of the priest’s chamber, have a unique odour about them. Here, some 50 years later, as I am writing this, I can still sense that smell. A toxic mix of incense and sweat interspersed with a whiff of stale tobacco and alcohol for all of the priests smoked and drank. Once inside and kneeling there was no escape for the priest knew you were there given the little panic-type-like button that activated a beep for the priest’s sake and a tiny red light outside of the cell once your knees pressed into the red foam of the kneeling pad. All the priest had to do then was to slide the small grated sliding door to the left or to the right as need be and you were trapped, trapped by the Priest’s undivided attention, until absolution. I am sure that every Catholic knows and remembers the sound of that small sliding door opening and closing. It is the sound of hell!
I couldn’t even think of how I would handle that situation. Damnation!
But now, with the threat of “going to hell” all but disappearing, what on earth are they, the Catholic Church, going to do now?
Saying “Hey you, asshole, Go to Heaven” or “I’ll see you in Purgatory” just doesn’t have the same denigrating ring to it, does it? No, getting rid of hell will definitely change life’s interesting lexicon – and not in a good way either. Maybe that is why the Pope made this decision. He liked “Hey yo” better…perhaps.
That’s my sermon for today….the hell with it anyway.
And when they say: “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” I can only laugh out loud.
Song of the day:
SJ………………………………………………To hell in a handcart…..What the hell……
Frustration! That sinking feeling when nothing seems to go according to Hoyle.
And who is that guy Hoyle anyway?
Yet, as much as we try to rectify a situation or make ourselves understood, for whatever reason, we just fall farther and farther and farther into a bottomless pit. No matter how hard we try to dig ourselves out, with every shovelful of dirt, the deeper and deeper we sink into the quagmire.
Is there anything we can do about this?
In my humble opinion there is nothing that can be done. Oh yes, I have checked with leading psychologists and sociologists and they all tell me that it is just a natural everyday occurrence of life. There is absolutely nothing in this world of ours that you can do about it. It sucks. Bigly. Indeed, the local Manotick astrologist tells me that the stars are sometimes aligned against us. Orion steps of the crab….you! It is better just to accept our fate, go with the flow, and disengage until things get better.
I found myself in a frustrating situation a few weeks back that illustrates just what I mean. Consider this:
Once a week I buy my lunch at work, usually on a Wednesday. And I normally go for the cholesterol fix of a greasy hamburger with cheese and bacon and a side order of onion rings. You know, all of the major food groups of the day. Now this artery busting concoction comes to about $5.75 with tax. It has been the same price for months.
One Wednesday I wandered down to the cafeteria, checked my money, and noticing that I had only about 6 bucks, I decided to order my usual. When the order came up I moseyed on up to the cash and waited for my turn to pay. The cashier, a rather petite French Canadian girl, took my order, rang it in, and told me I owed her $6.50. Whoa is me. Just a little surprised and somewhat embarrassed because I was short of funds, and, knowing the price from past purchases, I told her that she must have made a mistake.
“No, no, no,” says she, rather emphatically. “That,” pointing to my order, “is the Banquet Burger Special. $6.50 please.”
“What special?” says I
“Banquet burger, fries or onion rings and a drink.” She said
“But I don’t have a drink.” I countered
“Well get one” she ordered, like the drill sergeant that she was. I checked to see if she was wearing army boots. Nope, okay.
“But I don’t want one. Tell you what. Just ring in the banquet burger and an order of onion rings.”
“I can’t do that” she said. “You have the special and you owe me $6.50. Now pay up!”
Incensed, and totally frustrated, knowing full well that the line was getting longer. I could feel the customers behind me. Their eyeful stares felt like daggers and their exaggerated sighs and harrumphs seemed to be burning a rather large hole in my back. I was flushed with rage.
My blood boiling, I left the line and went back to the short order cook. I checked the menu: Banquet Burger – $3.25, Onion Rings – $1.50. With tax about $5.50. The special? – Banquet Burger, Fries or Onion Rings and a Large Drink – $5.95, with tax – about $6.50.
I waited in line and when the cook asked for my order I showed him mine and told him that I only wanted a Banquet Burger and Onion Rings. Could he please mark my order as such and charge me $4.75.
“Sure.” He said. He took my styro-foam take out box and marked the outside as a Banquet Burger and a side order of Onion Rings – rather than the special. Pleased with myself, and confident, I sauntered back to the cashier. “I’ll show her who’s boss here,” I thought to myself, rather smugly. She looks at me rather objectionably, looks at the box, then rings up $6.50. I tell her she is making a mistake. Banquet Burger and Onion Rings…only.
“Yes” she says, “the special.”
“No, no, no, says I, rather emphatically.”It is not the special. It is the Banquet Burger and Onion Rings. No drink.”
“Well, get a drink” she says.
“But I DO NOT WANT ONE.”
“I’m sorry, that is the special and you owe me $6.50.”
“Well I am short. I’ll be right back.”
What could I do? My blood continued to boil, my blood pressure, well…pressurized and ready to pop. Totally frustrated in not being able to make myself understood, I left the box on the counter and walked briskly over to the cash ATM that we had in our building. I would take out a 20 and pay for the special. What the hell, a buck fifty for a cash advance plus an additional buck fifty that my bank was going to charge me. 3 bucks plus, PLUS the damn special – $9.50 for the Banquet Burger. I was so mad, but I wasn’t going to take it anymore. I would have paid 100 bucks to get out of this predicament. I felt like George Costanza of Seinfeld fame.
To make matters worse the ATM was out of order. Of course it was, on this day and at this moment in time. It was never out of order. Oh yes but it knew, this machine knew, that poor old Johnny was in a predicament. Yes, yes it knew all right. Paranoia was setting in. I was close to turning postal, and psycho.
I guess some guy noticed my frustration.
“Hey, if you need some money the convenience store will give you a cash advance.”
“Great” I said, trying very hard to keep my cool and my anger checked.
I walked over to the little store and asked very politely but somewhat impatiently for a cash advance.
“Sure,” said the clerk, “But you’ll have to buy something for 5 bucks.”
What? What’s that you said. 5 bucks?? Hmmmmm. Okay, okay what the hell: chocolate bar, soap, chips, deodorant. Sure, 5 bucks. “Here,”
“Now give me the bleep, bleep money” – I thought to myself.
Money in hand and with a bagful of unwanted goodies, I went back to the cafeteria, picked up my take-out box, went to the cash, gave her 10 bucks and left without waiting for my change. I was afraid at what I would do.
“Hey, don’t you want your drink,” she yelled at me as I high tailed it out of there.
A true story. And one that I am sure everyone has experienced at some time or another. Anal retentiveness. Yesss and perhaps the most underused expression in our vocabulary. And one of my favourites.
So? What can one do? What can you do?
I remember driving home, still incensed. Not a very smart thing to do: getting behind the wheel of a 2 ton machine, driving through downtown Ottawa, facing the summer road construction, and pedestrians. Yes pedestrians, they were all targets of my frustration. Should I or shouldn’t I? Hmmm.
And yet, driving along Colonel By Drive toward Hogsback Falls, I was oblivious to the sweet smell of summer, the tranquil waters of the Rideau, the sparkling green silken sheen of Dow’s Lake. Past Carleton University, up a small hill to the traffic light at Hogsback Falls. The light was red. Of course it was. Waiting and waiting and waiting for what seemed to be an eternity – the falls to my left, the water crashing against the rocks. And I was sure the rock gods were laughing at me in the summer’s sun. “Morrison? What an idiot,” they all mocked at me. “Hey, Morrison, idiot, do ya want a drink? Ha,ha ha!” I was still ticked – and the whole world was out to get me and… I was getting weird!!
Just then a parade of black cars appeared. They were all turning left onto Col By from Prince of Wales Drive, their headlights on. And then, a long black hurse appeared. Majestic, solemn and silent, its smooth polished grain moved graciously, as if floating, through the traffic. Watching, reverently, as the motorcade drove by, I thought to myself.
“Y’know John, Things could be a great deal worse.” And with that the light turned green and I was on my way – but this time a song was brewing in my heart and a smile began to form on my face. Yes, life was good.
Yet I had to ask myself: “I wonder if he, or she, in the back of that big black hurse had just wanted the Banquet Burger and Onion Rings too.”
Hey, check out the book Kurofune. Just click on the link at the top right of this page.
Bring it on baby. We have lots of this stuff. We don’t need your gas Notley. Can’t drink it anyway.
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!
Elephant Man
Looks like a sweat band to me! Tennis anyone?
Wow…..boogie!
And what about them hats? Scary!