Murder Most Foul!

I have a neighbour now who has brain-damage, and I just wanted you to know that despite my friendship with him, I am currently plotting his murder, a process which I find very, very enjoyable.

The initial dream-like idea for this upcoming act of violence sprouted shortly after moving into my new abode two weeks ago. I learned that this neighbour had suffered trauma at some point in his work history, poor fellow.

My first thoughts were of empathy and concern – was he in need of assistance, the poor man? Then I wondered if I would be able to manipulate him into signing over his welfare cheques, perhaps? His pharmacy delivers medications to his mailbox – are they ones which might be put to better entertainment use in me?

It was this morning, though, when my thoughts turned more sinister and cruel, along the lines of “I assume one of his workmates slugged him with a sledge hammer because he was doing something annoying in the workplace? Or maybe someone rolled a forklift over his ears due to him being an oblivious twit?” 

On this particular Saturday morning, when I had planned a delicious sleep-in, my mind raced with the enormously pleasing possibilities of how to end his wretched, miserable, and annoying life.

At 5:30am my enfeebled friend decided to spark up the electric weed whacker and trim the lawn. This trimmer sounds like a mosquito the size of a badger, and my bedroom window faces the small plot of land which was the focus of his whacking intentions.

Did I mention it was 5:30am? It was 5:30am. Instead of my delicious sleep-in, I lay there twitching in the fetal position, plotting and scheming.

Another reason I desperately wish to off the gink is the way in which he arises, at 2am, 3am, and often 4am daily, to enjoy a smoke.

He does this by emerging from his lair to sit in the lawn chair directly beneath my open bedroom window and cough up lung slugs the size of turnips.

This he does with some artistry.

Now in case I have not yet made this clear, my about-to-be-offed friend has little in the way of social grace, perhaps as a result of his injury.

To illustrate, imagine yourself at a Royal Garden Party, where you rarely see Her Majesty sitting down in a plastic lawn chair, head ‘twixt knees, hacking up an entire weeks worth of tubercular mucous. At best, you might see her execute a demur “Ahem!” behind her gloved hand as she tours the grounds and waits in line for her hot dog.

Prince Phillip could no doubt pass along stories of her letting fly with hacking coughs after a good cigar in the palace, but she, at least, knows the rules for when you are in public.

This guy doesn’t.

My neighbour friend and future victim begins his cough somewhere in the region of his ankles.

He first inhales great lungfuls of tobacco smoke, rich with impurities and tar, deep into his chest, past his organs and swallowed metal objects, and buries the cloud down near his shins. Thus stimulated, his tortured anatomy proceeds to emit a dark rumbling sound, similar to a far off freight train giving its load of cars that initial tug which causes deafening earth tremors to be felt and heard some miles away from the switching yard.

This rumbling must be what dislodges the great chunks of quasi-solid material from the walls of his blackened lungs and tumble down into his diaphragm, where it coalesces into the thick magma about to erupt volcanically from his esophagus in a cloud of cigarette ash and sputum (do not be alarmed – I am a trained metaphor professional).

Having burst forth in a spray-laden blast which has darkened the landscape in a fan-shaped arc stretching for some meters, his lungs now reverse the process and create an enormous vacuum into which vast amounts of air, leaves, tree branches and gravel are sucked so that it can be repeated again and again.

From my bleery window vantage point he appears to be the source of the suction on the outside of airliners when they suddenly depressurize, sucking out luggage, papers and surprised-looking flight attendants.

Airways refreshed and yard denuded, he retreats back inside his lung-spackled home until the tobacco urge returns 57 minutes hence.

Well then! Now that I have that off my chest let me just say I’m not sure if it will be poison, strangulation, or a gunshot. Bow and arrow maybe. I really don’t know, though I am relishing the thought of each and every possibility.

So you may think I am actually being protective of the simple clunk by delivering his mail and meds, helping him take out the garbage and sort his recycling, and driving him to the grocery store. You may THINK that, but in reality this cocoon of caring and affection is only so that I can off the annoying bastard myself when the time is ripe.

I am also hoping that this post will help spoil the list of potential jurors. See? I’m always thinking…

Old Growth Billboard Destruction

Old growth billboards are being callously destroyed in Westbank, just east of the Westbank First Nations government offices, to make way for a new hospital.

These billboards, situated on one of the most beautiful locations overlooking spectacular Okanagan Lake, are home to some rare advertising salesmen. Efforts to forcibly trap and move these rare species have met with mixed results, with some of them becoming so stressed they have been seen working for radio stations and newspapers.

Only eight dozen of these billboards remain in this particular habitat, leading environmentalists and advertising executives to form a rare partnership in order to fight the destruction.

“While some of the advertising material such as slogans and seasonal sale announcements can be recycled, most of the advertising will simply be destroyed,” said a spokesman

“These old-growth billboards have been here for decades,” said a protestor wearing a knitted cap and a tie-dyed three piece suit. “They should be left alone to quietly live their lives, distracting drivers as to the location of the next McDonalds, or promoting the Holiday Inn’s $99 per night special for residents seeking a dirty weekend getaway.”

A Westbank First Nations spokesman said an exhaustive environmental assessment process was undertaken prior to removal of the billboards. Minutes of the entire assessment, which consist of the general contractor saying “Lose the billboards,” can be found on line.

Vatican Newsletter

It’s certainly great to have all of you back in town again for some full-contact conclaving. The dart boards have been dusted off, the arm-wrestling tables are ready to break any ties, and for those who haven’t been working out, we also have some big souvenir coins for flipping.

Some of you have never been to the Vatican before, so we have put together this informative newsletter.

Special thanks to my co-editor Cardinal Rasta from Jamaica for the help, and also for the awesome new incense burning in the office here. Wow.  

- We’re asking all visiting Cardinals to please not bait the Swiss Guards. They know they have funny pants. You should hear what they say about your outfits.

- The duty roster for answering the Mel Gibson, Dan Brown and Linda Blair private hot lines is posted in the locker room. Just make stuff up when they call. Oh, and remember; only the Pope is allowed to update Bono’s Facebook page.  

- If you wear your skullcap to the deli down the street they’ll think you’re Jewish and give you 10% off. Try the knishes. Oy, they’re fabulous.

- Correction: An announcement in the last issue, about an upcoming ballet recital by Sister Mary Ignetowski from Warsaw, was incorrect. The ‘pole dancing event’, which caused a stampede to the gym and a sudden shortage of five dollar bills at the canteen, should have read ‘A Pole, Dancing’ event. We regret the error.

- The Holy Father’s soap on a rope is missing from the downstairs shower. Would whoever has it please hang it up again and no questions will be asked.

- Cardinal Ouellette of Canada asks his holy brothers to please stop saying “Amen, eh” when passing him in the halls. The joke was old about a day after he got here, he reports. Amusingly, he still says “Sorry” every time you bump into him.

- Our first Pay-per-view bill has come in, guys, and as a result the Holy Father has once again changed the passcode on the remote.  Would whoever hacks the code please Tweet it to the rest of us. Also, Vinny in accounting says there’s no way those women are amateurs.

- Just a reminder that referring to a turkey’s neck as the ‘Pope’s Nose’ is still considered offensive.

- Please use restraint and good taste when vandalizing Cardinals campaign posters. Black Sharpies only, and no cartoons or thought balloons please.

- The recreation committee needs volunteers to move the pews in St Peter’s for the weekend ball hockey tournament. See Father Flying Phil for details. And hey - watch the cross-checking… (that’s a little newsletter humour there).

- In cafeteria news, ‘Eggs Me’ is now off the menu.

- For those of you going on the skeet shooting excursion this weekend, a supply of devices used to keep water out of your shotgun barrel has been obtained. These clever rubber things come rolled up in a small package, and are available in the gym changing room. Simply roll one of these over the end of your weapon to prevent any unfortunate incidents out on the trap range.

- The apparition recently seen in the cafeteria, which some wag referred to jokingly as the ‘Flying Spaghetti Monster,’ has been investigated by our top scientists. They report there is no solid evidence to prove the existence of such a spirit, they think whoever reported it had swamp gas, and do not question their authority. Case closed.

Restaurant Review - Chez Crawford

Christmas Dinner at Chez Crawford was, despite my low expectations, fabulous.

It began with my entrance into the restaurant and being enchanted by the décor. The room was large and featured bits of potato chip visible beneath the comfy chair, a partial couch covered in cat hair and elegantly tousled Snuggies, and a bar stool upon which I settled my considerable bottom.

My server, though scratching and distracted by a good war movie on the TV, was elegantly attired in the finest sweat pants and tent-like tropical shirt. I had a difficult time deciding on something to drink, given my choice of Bailey’s, white wine of unknown age and vintage which had been in the fridge for several months, and milk straight from the jug since the dishwasher was still running. Naturally, I chose the milk since that is always the perfect accompaniment to any meal.

For an entrée (appetizers were not offered), I chose the Hungry Man special – advertised as consisting of ‘One Pound of Food a Manger’ (see accompanying photo)("...a Manger" is French for 'Ici guerre mondial numero deux').

Dinner was served promptly after 9 minutes, plus the time it took to peel back the plastic cover and stir the stuffing and potatoes.

Pausing only long enough to take the enclosed picture, I dove into my meal with relish (ketchup would have been a better choice).

The turkey slices, beautifully prepared by having some sort of white meat substance lightly extruded through an industrial blender tube, were sliced and arrayed steaming before me. They were delicious and tender as only mystery meat byproducts can be. The gravy was rich and filled with vital grease nutrients which I soon felt coursing through my veins. I took the opportunity to use the shooting pains then travelling down my arm to bag six ducks flying overhead.

The mashed potatoes were acceptable, while the corn niblets could have used a little more cooking since, I believe, the server cut quite a large slit in the plastic cover. A more modest opening would have been superior.

For desert, the cranberry apple mush was sweet and tangy and absolutely perfect! The bits of corn and stuffing mixed in only added to its enormous appeal.

All in all I would say that dining at Chez Crawford holds enormous appeal and receives many stars for its warm atmosphere and delightful host.

Household Hint #342 - Towel Washing

Step 1 - Pull room-sized load of clean towels from dryer and pile on top of counter. DO NOT FOLD.

Step 2 -Slowly (one towel per day) have children pilfer clean towels from pile and add used towels to separate used pile, knowing you will remember which pile is which because you are a grown-up who is paid to remember such things and also because you have clearly instructed offspring on methodology. Continue to not fold towels.

Step 3 - Add several more slightly used towels to slightly used pile. 

Step 4 - Continue clean towel pilferage. While pilfing from clean pile, discover crusty facecloth molded into shape of bathtub spigot.

Step 5 - Observe how formerly separate piles have now developed gravity and morphed into single enormous, slightly damp, steaming pile.

Step 6 - While taking normal avalanche precautions, dig down through Cretaceous layer (used) to (supposedly) clean layer and discover towels which smell of shampoo and other mystery ingredients.

Step 7 - Test all items in pile by high-tech method of sniffing. If tests are inconclusive, proceed to step 8

Step 8 - Using explosives and heavy machinery as necessary, load blended pile into washing machine and wash thoroughly.

Step 9 - Wash again, this time with detergent.

Step 10 - proceed to step 1

Repeat weekly.

Word Definitions

How to wash the inside of your vehicle while conversing with pre-teen children.

Take sip of water.
"Dad, what's a prostitute?"
*SPRAY*
"Well, it's a person who has sex for money."
Dad takes another sip of water.
"I thought that was a hooker?"
*SPRAY*
Pull over, wipe inside of windshield, discuss vocabulary.

Bacon

Chill

Some people don't react well to the heat here in Kelowna.
For example, I was chilling out in my local grocery store today when along comes Mr. Bigshot Manager who kicks me out!
"What for?" I asked, nicely.
"You're laying in the frozen foods section, sir, and you're squishing the pizza's."
"I was going to buy that one anyway after I finished playing Funeral Parlor CSI," I said.
"We'd also like you to take the bag of frozen peas out of your shorts," he said. "Please don't come back."
Pizza and peas for dinner, again, I guess. Whatever.

Fat has its place...

It is not all bad being overweight. I've recently discovered a use for my excess personhood. 

I was sitting in my Scoliosis-brand, cheap folding chair at the beach yesterday, when Mr. Naptime quietly approached. 

Just as I nodded off I activated my drool glands for chest lubrication, then rested my head upon my second, third and fourth chins, which together acted as a rather effective pillow. 

Try THAT skinny people! Ha!

Memory

I’m not that old, but my short term memory is starting to go on me.

Also, my short term memory is starting to go on me.

Even active counter-measures do not seem to help. There I’ll be, brushing my teeth with an electric toothbrush, when I notice it needs to be charged. So I get the charger thing out of the drawer, plug it in, and make a mental note to place the toothbrush upon it when I am finished.

Ablution complete, I rinse the toothbrush then place it gently in the drawer, about two feet from the empty charging device which I have, in the span of three seconds, completely forgotten about.

What was I writing about just now? I seem to have lost my train of thought.

Anyway, the economic system is filled with idiots, as I was saying, and MEMORY! I was talking about my failing memory.  Right.

There is also a problem with the auto-pilot in my cranial innards. I’ll be driving the kids to some activity or other (Tae Kwon Kicking The Crap Out Of Each Other, say) but, since we are taking the same route we use to go shopping, we’ll wind up at the mall, activity-less, with puzzled looks on our faces.

The kids have learned to not focus on their electronic supercomputers while I am driving them anywhere.

Now, as we approach the turnoff for an activity, which I have completely forgotten about since we are on the same route as we take to the grocery store, they loudly announce “Dad! Autopilot!” so I remember to turn. By reminding me to turn (and not ‘waking me up’ as has been alleged), I snap back to reality and we safely reach our destination.

We were heading out the other day, in fact, when I had an actual lucid moment. I had remembered the grocery list, the dry cleaning, and the actual children this time, as we departed for some activity, the name of which I forget. Whatever.

Opening the van, I dumped everything inside and took off.  Then I backed up, let the kids in, and departed again. For some reason I had a toothbrush charger in my hand so I tossed it in the back seat. Off we went.

I can’t remember what happened, but I do remember forgetting the kitty litter, which was on the grocery list I left in the van when I went into the grocery store. I remembered the bananas and milk, but kitty litter was item three on the list and my mental list capacity is two (on a good day). So I failed miserably, although I did get some dish soap since I knew I was supposed to get something down that aisle and dish soap seemed to make sense at the time.

And by the way, while I think of it, I believe it is high time the inventor of clumping kitty litter receives the Nobel Prize for chemistry, if they have not already done so. Do you think these insightful thoughts are part of my distraction problem? Call me for coffee so we can discuss this. I’ll check my calendar when I get home. Home. Why am I in this van?

“Dad! Auto pilot!”

Ah! Shopping complete we head home, the kids happily playing amongst the dirty clothes I didn’t drop off, and me alertly snoring through red lights as we sail safely along.

I have a column due soon but I forget what I was going to write about.

I think I’ll go brush my teeth.