Saturday, December 25, 2010

Yeah, I Be Jumpin' On Santa's Sleigh, too!

A Bahamian Christmas Carol
(sung to the tune of "Chestnuts Roasting On an Open Fire")

Tourists roasting on the ocean's beach,
White sands warming up their toes,
Surfside drinks are always in reach
Dissolving all of their thoughts of snow.

Everybody knows pineapple juice and some coconut,
With some rum makes a tasty island brew.
There will be parties here and some over there, but
Don’t forget to visit Junkanoo.

But wherever you may find yourself on this day,
Be it in temps from 80 to -42,
Its been said many times and in many ways,
A very Merry Christmas to you.


However and wherever you celebrate,

Merry Christmas Everyone!


Tuesday, December 21, 2010

It Reach!

Well, I actually stayed awake to witness the totality of the lunar eclipse last night (this morning).  This was not an easy task for me.   I got very little sleep afterwards and I am now practically fighting the Sirens of slumber.  Having said that, I apologize, in advance, for the length of this post.

There is something mystical about a full moon:  some say it's romantic, others say it brings out the craziness in people.  Wolves, coyotes and dogs are known to howl at the moon.

And, with it being eclipsed last night, I can certainly say it brought out my 'crazies'.  In the hope I could capture a video of the event to show all of you who were under cloudy skies, I decided to stay awake and set my laptop outside, pointing skywards, to record the event.

I also grabbed my camera to take a few stills however I do not have a tripod and I knew the pics wouldn't be great, but I took some anyway.  With the laptop recording, I snapped a few shots and, suddenly, the camera's battery was about to die.  This was about 2:15 a.m EST.  I grabbed my extra battery and plugged it in hoping to charge it up enough to catch a shot or two of the total eclipse that was supposed to occur around 2:45 a.m.

Since the moon was so high in the sky and, in order to steady the camera, I had to lie (lay? - I still can't get that one right) down on the bench that surrounds the pool.

Click, click, click.  Battery dies.  It's 2:40 a.m.  I run into the house to grab the other battery and head back outside.  Apparently my dogs - four in all - heard me in the backyard and came running.  I didn't have time to click another photo since all of them were mugging me, whining and wondering why I was still awake and lying on my back outside, in the cold.

I quickly secured my laptop from becoming the latest of dog toys and headed back into the house with the mutts in tow.  I tried to go back and grab a few more photos but Chase (my youngest dog) was stuck to my ass like Velcro (also one of her nicknames) and I knew that there was no way I was going to be able to lie (lay?) down and take any more shots.

Wait.  It gets worse.

After pouring myself a nightcap, I sit down to take a quick look at the video.  Suddenly, I hear a key turn the lock in our front door.  WTF?  It's just after 3 a.m.  In walks Josie, our Haitian gardener who works for us on Sundays.  Josie is also a loyal and dear friend.  Since my stepfather passed and we are two "vite vimen living alone", he looks in on us almost every morning - usually at around 6 a.m. - starts the coffee and takes the trash out to the curb on collection days.

I ask why he is here at 3 a.m. and he said it isn't 3.a.m. (we argue a lot, by the way).  I assured him that it was.  He checked his cell phone.  Oh, no! he groans and then laughs at himself.  He thought it was 5 a.m.  It was pointless to drive him home at that time of day/night and since it was rather chilly and he'd only have to start walking back as soon as I dropped him off, I stuck him in my car to catch a couple of hours of sleep and, of course, to keep warm.  It would appear that the time on his clock at home was incorrectly set.

So, back to the laptop I go.  By this time I was sooooo tired, all I wanted was to go to sleep.  When I went to turn off my computer, it asked me to save the video.  Fine.  As I am changing the folder location for the file, the video disappears!  There it is - gone!


So, as not to disappoint, here are a few of the 'best' pics I got with my camera, sans nose prints from my dogs.  They are not great, but hey, I gave it a shot.


The ghost reflections from the lens gives them a bit of an omnious appearance.
The bottom left shot was taken just before the total eclipse (when my battery died).

Murphy leaves on Thursday.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

"There is no dark side of the moon really.

Matter of fact it's all dark."
- Pink Floyd

In case you have nothing better to do before Christmas (yeah, right), there is going to be an eclipse of the moon Monday evening or Tuesday morning (depending on your time zone).  The good news is that it's going to be a total eclipse.  The bad news, at least for us Easterners, is that the totality doesn't occur until about 2:45 a.m. Tuesday morning.

Even though I would like to, I doubt that I will be camping out with beer and popcorn waiting to witness this rare sight - my 'pumpkin time' rarely lasts beyond midnight.  I've only seen one total eclipse many moons ago while camping in Algonquin Park and it was quite awesome to watch the shadow slowly pass over the orb.  The colour is as equally striking.

If anyone - and/or your kids - hasn't seen an eclipse, it's worth the look.  Who knows, you might just see Santa testing out his new GPS.

For more information on this upcoming extraterrestrial event,
you can visit here for a related article.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

This Just In ... Just Closer to Home

I mentioned somewhere awhile back that a friend was visiting from Canada. He not only brought my coveted Caramilk bars, he also brought me the nastiest cold I've had in years. The cold is gone but I still have one chocolate bar left, so I really can't hold catching the virus against him.

This friend, who I will call Murphy (not his real name, but it ought to be), has the most unfortunate luck. Years ago on a straight stretch of highway that was void of any vehicles, animals, ice, snow or other obstacles whatsoever, he rolled his car. (WTF??)

When he travels by plane, he's the one guy security always pulls over to the side for the 'frisk' - this was happening long before the current security procedures were in place.

Then Murphy extended his vacation here by two weeks which put him about eight days over his visitor's visa limit. I explained that immigration is not in the habit of kicking tourists off of the island for staying longer than permitted but, nooooooo, he got paranoid (he's like that) and had me take him to immigration so that he could inform them. He filled out the required forms and, after an hour or so of waiting, they told him it wasn't necessary. I swear I heard snickering as we left the immigration office.

If shit is going to happen it'll probably happen to him, which brings me to my story - just another one of Murphy's adventures - or should I say 'misadventures' (damn, I hope he keeps a diary).

Murphy has a small condo unit here that is within a complex which is part condominiums and part hotel. The management has keys to all of the units in case of emergencies.

I get an e-mail from his mom a couple of days ago. Call Murphy. He's got a funny story to tell you, she says.

Murphy is, basically, the only visitor to the condo who smokes and, in consideration of the family members that don't smoke and who are coming down in January, he's strictly been lighting up on the balcony. He's been here for one month.

Did I mention that it got rather chilly down here about a week ago??

So Murphy goes out on the balcony for his morning smoke the other day. He closes the sliding glass door to keep the cold air from invading the apartment. In doing so, the security pole (broomstick) for the door falls into the track on the inside of the unit, barring him from opening the door more than three or four inches.

He's stuck out on the balcony.

He calls out for help, but there isn't another soul in sight.

Having no other available options and the fact that he is wearing no shoes and only a t-shirt (I didn't ask about his pants - I was laughing too hard), Murphy drops from the second floor balcony to the ground and runs around to the entrance of the complex if not to get help but, at the very least, to get warm.

Now, one would think that re-entering the apartment would be as easy as asking for the keys from the management office. Two locks, two keys. Simple, right?? But, nooooooo, Murphy - in his infinite wisdom - decided to latch the un-keyed dead bolt on the inside of the unit before he went to bed the night before and, since he hadn't yet left the apartment that day, it was still latched.

I did say before that he was able to open the sliding glass door about three or four inches. Well, as Murphy's dumb luck would have it, Chuck the security guard (his real name is Charles - really) and the gardener, Miguel (pronounced "Migwell" - really, I don't make this stuff up) had a ladder and, of all things, a pitchfork, respectively.

Murphy climbed back onto the balcony with the pitchfork and was able to 'MacGyver' the security pole out from the inside of the track to regain access to his apartment.

I picked up Murphy yesterday to take him shopping.  Before he got downstairs, I stopped by the security office to thank Chuck for his help. Chuck was on the phone at the time but, as soon as he saw me, he busted out laughing.  I mouthed a "thank-you" and headed out to the car.

Murphy leaves on the 23rd of December.  He was expecting his nephew to pick him up at the airport but, apparently, that isn't going to happen.  Murphy lives near London, Ontario. London lives, geographically, in a snowbelt.  His plane arrives in Toronto.  For those of you who are not familiar with the distance between these cities, this is a four hour drive on a good day.  It will be December 23rd.

Need I say more?

Thursday, December 9, 2010

This Just In ...

I used to live in a small hamlet north of Trenton, Ontario.  Trenton is not a very large city but it does have its own newspaper.  Like most  publications these days, you are able to find the web based version of the news and I pop in now and again to see what's happening there.

Recently I found the following article - more precisely it just one part of the Trentonian's 'Police Briefs' feature - and I wasn't exactly sure what to do with it.

Deb over at Debbie Does Drivel posts "Clippings From the Fridge", her weekly Monday blurb of odd and bizarre news.  And then there's Frank Lee MeiDere's feature on "Why We Need Editors" in his sidebar (even at my age, I still learn from Frank - he's a teacher, after all).

What surprises me more is that, if one is going to publish web-based news, the content of same should be considered but, at the least, reviewed ("edited") before it is posted.

So, instead of sending it to Deb or Frank, I decided to post it here "verbatim", as it were:

By Trentonian staff

Posted [December 6, 2010]

Unlawfully in a dwelling

A 38-year-old Quinte West man is facing a handful of charges after an incident on Whites Road.

Quinte West OPP report, in a release, officers were dispatched to a residence where a man was allegedly attempting to enter the house with intent to impersonate a male. The homeowner called 911 but the suspect was gone when officers arrived.

The suspect was later located in his vehicle on Highway 401 and arrested and charged with break and enter, three counts of assault, uttering threats and failing to comply with probation.

The man is being held for a bail hearing.

Really.  What was he thinking?

The article could qualify for either of the sites previously mentioned,  but I really hope all of the men I meet are actually males.

Friday, December 3, 2010

The Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book Tour

The tale of the Bloggerhood of The Traveling Book (in case none of you are familiar with it), more or less goes as follows:

Unfinished Person (aka Unfinished Rambler or, “UP/UR” for short - he really needs to pick one name or stay on his meds, or something), sent the “Book” to Quirkyloon who forwarded it to Boom Boom Larew (aka Cat Lady Larew – again with the names?) who posted it to nonamedufus and then, finally (via conch-mail) it reach me.

And so the torch has been passed.

The “Book” to which I refer is The Girl Who Played With Fire by Stieg Larsson. It’s the second book of the Millennium Series – a trilogy about the trials and tribulations of Lisbeth Salander and Mikael Blomkvist (aka “Kalle f*cking Blomkvist” - really? What’s up with the names already?? Oy!)

So, at the suggestion our resident schizophrenic (that would be UP/UR’s suggestion), we came up with the brilliant idea for each of us to write our own review of the book in question. Hence, the Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book Tour was born. In succession, the reviews are as follows:

Quirkyloon - Tuesday
Boom Boom Larew - Wednesday
nonamedufus - Thursday
00dozo - Friday (you are here)

Egad! It is now my turn to hand in my review. I wasn’t sure what to write. Having read the previous reviews of my predecessors (who have each done a fantastic job), I felt a bit daunted by this task. So, here it is:

The Girl Who Played With Fire
by Stieg Larsson

What can I say about Lisbeth Salander that hasn’t already been said. She is a definitely unique heroine but not so much of a heroine in the true sense of the word. She does not seek out those in need of help but, as a victim of great injustices herself, Lisbeth’s own twisted set of morals dictates who, why and how someone must suffer her unique methods of punishment, whether or not she likes or even knows the victim. This is a woman into whose cornflakes you do not piss.

Ah, Blomkvist – again, what can I say? He’s not a womanizer, but a charmer of women. His character offsets the theme of abuse and degradation of women by the other male characters in this story. He is humble and honest but a very determined journalist – a man into whose coffee you do not put milk if it is supposed to be espresso. Although, from his description (and despite his carnal tendencies), I wouldn’t kick him out the bed for eating kex*.

The book itself is full of it: intrigue, corruption, violence, many surprises, characters you love to hate, characters you hate to love, a lot of coffee and sandwiches, among other things. It even has some ‘naughty bits’.

Since no one has mentioned it, this book (as well as all three in the Millennium Series) has been translated from the Swedish by Reg Keeland and I think he is worthy of a special shout-out. (“Hey Reg! How’s it hangin’?) They are wonderfully translated and very easy to read.

The trilogy consists of:

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo
The Girl Who Played With Fire
The Girl Who Kicked The Hornest’s Nest

If you haven’t already, please visit the other reviews for their take on the book and a bit of additional information of the Millennium Series.

I hope that Reffie, the latest recipient of this book, will proffer her own review. If not, it’s always open for the next reader.

*kex: crackers

(Post publishing edit:  I forgot to provide a link to Reffie's blog - it's there now (sorry Reffie!))

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

The Girl Who Played With The Menorah (Fire is Involved)

Yeah, I know.  I'm not supposed to post my review until Friday - but I'm not posting my review yet.

Today is the first day of Hanukkah or, "The Festival of Lights" and in honour of my late step father (a.k.a. "Satan"), I dusted off the ol' Menorah to light the first candle of this holiday season.  Neither me or my mother is Jewish, nor are we otherwise religious, but we do and honour the rights of those who have passed.

Now, they make candles specifically for this holiday.  In fact, I think, they are also "kosher" (I'm not completely sure on this - I'll have to check the box).  The only problem is that the makers of these candles never thought to consult with the manufacturers of Menorahs - or vice versa, for that matter.   We've never had a Menorah that could properly accommodate these candles.  So on the eighth day, our Menorah generally ends up looking like this (except mine are usually broken somewhere in the middle):

I've seen many other magnificent candelabras for this holiday, but none that actually shows the use of these cursed fire sticks. The more 'perfect' sticks are usually of the tapered type (dinner candles), or even electric.  Maybe we should enlist the skills of ...

(Oh, look!  He's even wearing a yamekah!)

Seriously, it isn't about the malformed fancy Menorahs, nor the badly designed perfect candles.  It's about the human need, nay, the instinct, to persevere.  To say that I can (and probably will) burn my fingers for the next seven days should be celebration enough.  I'm sure I won't be the only one.

I respect all life.  I respect all religions.

Happy Hanukkah!

Friday, November 26, 2010

It's Gonna Be A Slow Weekend

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my American friends!  I figured I would post this today seeing that yesterday you were all too busy stuffing your face with turkey, five-bean casserole, pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes, and, well, stuffing, and probably didn't have time to visit many blogs - that, and I was just to lazy (or late) to post anything at all.

So, as a respite for your bloated, hungover and over footballed selves, I offer the following diversion:

I won!!!

Yes, the intrepid Sir Punsalot  has graciously awarded me his weekly prize for his Pause, Ponder and Pun feature.  I am proud and honoured.  So, when you become tired of washing dishes, eating leftovers, watching football, strangling arguing with the family and/or have nothing better to do this weekend, please visit this week's  PPP offering.  Even if you don't submit a caption, the comments are hilarious every week - so is his site.

Although my Thanksgiving was in October, I am, again, thankful this week!

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

So, I Finally Bite the Bullet ...

What the hell was I thinking? I thought as the jet barrelled down the runway for takeoff. It was too late. The plane was in the air. At about 500 feet, the plane banked sharply to the right towards its destination while the mechanical whir of the landing gear stirred noisily beneath my feet, both of which events sent me into a heightened state of fear and panic.  My grip on the hand rests could have crushed the neck of a moose.

It was a morning flight. My traveling companion and co-worker knew that I was afraid of flying but had never traveled with me before. He did, however, notice my edgy nervousness. Our trip consisted of two short flights with an hour or so layover at the connecting airport.  The first flight started and ended without incident.

During the layover, I took the opportunity to consume several beers along with another Gravol pill to calm my nerves before the connecting flight. This shouldn't be so bad after all, I thought after the self-prescribed relaxants kicked in. Just before our second flight was scheduled to depart, we were informed that the aircraft that was to take us to our destination "not reach yet", but we would be transferred to another carrier that would accommodate our schedule. There would be a twenty minute delay in boarding, during which time another beer was consumed.

The plane was small, consisting of about eighteen seats arranged in two single rows of on either side of the cabin. My six-foot tall, 240 pound co-worker struggled down the aisle to reach his seat. I sat directly across the aisle from him. About four or five other passengers had also boarded the plane and occupied the seats in front of us.

Despite the meds and alcohol, I was still extremely nervous but finally relaxed a little twenty minutes into the flight. As the plane reduced altitude and speed for the landing approach, we encountered some turbulence and I immediately put a moose choking grip on the head rest of the empty seat in front of me. I glanced at my co-worker with wide eyes: he was chuckling at me. I then looked out the window and noticed the wings were flapping in unison to the bumps of the turbulence. Great, I'm trapped inside a fucking mechanical albatross.

Two minutes later, the plane made a sharp bank to the right for the landing approach. All of a sudden me and my co-worker were cheek-to-cheek.  Evidently, his seat was not anchored to the floor on the window side of the cabin. The plane then levelled out and his seat returned to its upright position. We looked at each other: WTF???   My co-worker was no longer chuckling.  Welcome to my hell.  Again the plane banked sharply to the right and I reacted quickly, reaching across the aisle to brace his seat with my hand. After levelling out the second time, we both started to laugh hysterically. The plane made one last turn before landing with me bracing his seat upright.

As we started to depart the plane, both of us were nervously giggling down the aisle toward the door and I was about to tell the co-pilot of the unsecured seat but, just then, I smacked my forehead into the top of the doorway.  Fuck it.  Let somebody else enjoy a Disney-ride "Airplane" experience.

Okay, so I can be mean.

On the wake of the recent uproar to the breaches of passenger screening, did anyone not think to see if the planes themselves are airworthy??  How about checking those lug-nuts on the landing gear, eh??


Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book (Chapter 5)

Firstly, let me apologize in advance for this creatively mediocre post - not that my posts are all that creative, or not mediocre for that matter - but I am suffering from a head cold gifted to me from a friend from Canada. I only picked him up at the airport for christssake! A mere ten minute drive from the airport to his place and - WHAM! - I was down and out for the count late Sunday afternoon. I will forgive him, though, since he brought me a couple of Cadbury's Caramilk bars, which I will not eat until my taste buds return to normal. It's torture, I tell you!  Torture!

So, I am feeling out of sorts: my brain feels like it is having an out of body experience.

But I am digressing, sneezing, coughing and moaning.

It all started this past summer - I'm guessing in June or July - when Unfinished Person (a.k.a. and/or formerly known as Unfinished Rambler - and who I think may be suffering from an unfinished identity crisis ;-) sent a book to Quirkyloon (who is still Quirkyloon and quirky - in a nice way, of course ;-). After reading it, Quirkyloon offered the novel to the first person brave enough to e-mail her his or her actual mailing address! "Daredevil" Boom Boom  (formerly known - but may still be known as -  CatLadyLarew, who has oneofthelongestURLblogaddressesI'veeverseen, and also appears to be suffering an identity crisis  ;-)  received the book from Quirkyloon.

Boom Boom thought that the passing of the book to others was such a novel idea that she decided to keep this readership going and coined it, "The Bloggerhood of the Traveling Book".  From Boom Boom, the book made its way to nonamedufus (who I've recently nicknamed, "Sir Punsalot" merely because he does and is a master at it ;-) and lives in Canada, more specifically, from *farts* Quebec.  After answering a simple question - okay, I admit I was wrong on my first guess - the book made it to me.

The title in question is, "The Girl Who Played With Fire" by Stieg Larsson, and is the second of a trilogy.

I now have the privilege of being part of this Bloggerhood book club and the honour of passing this novel to anyone else who is interested in joining. As I said, this is the second book of a trilogy, but I think its story stands on its own so it isn't absolutely necessary to read the first.   It's an exceptional read.

So, without further ado, I'll send it to the first person who can decipher this acronym:
  • Hint #1: It's what I feel like with this head cold. 
  • Hint #2: It's what a mischievous kid (and possible future arsonist) would leave on the porch of a nasty neighbour.
If you don't want to join, comments are still welcome!  But, just think ...

(My web cam shot of the inside cover.  What?? I'm lazy and ill - sue me.)


Saturday, October 30, 2010

Zombies 'R Not Us

Since it seems to be the "theme" this year, I was hoping to dress up as a zombie for this Halloween but I'll have to settle for Mr. Bill because this is what I saw just before going to bed Thursday night:

"Oh, nooooo, Mr. Bill!!"

So my face is going to have that expression for the entire weekend, if not longer. Why, you ask? The circles above represent tropical waves in the Atlantic - the prepubescence of tropical storms, if you will - that have the potential of becoming full-blown (pun intended) hurricanes. And they come in colours (sorry folks, no flavours). Red is for a high potential storm. Orange is for a medium threat. And yellow (not shown, and not for banana flavour) is for those piddly little-ass farts squeaking off the west coast of Africa that the National Hurricane Centre unilaterally decides warrants a name, merely because the NHC doesn`t want to get blamed - or sued - should said fart amass into major diarrhea when one's butt is already firmly planted on the john and there is no ass wipe in sight. That, and they can`t - or won`t - justify the expenditure of a twenty or more hour flight to confirm that said fart will just harmlessly spiral into oblivion towards the North Atlantic, meanwhile the mere naming of a storm sends thousands, if not millions, of people into a long and drawn out period of anxiety.

Sorry for that run-on rant.

To give you a bit of my perspective:


Fortunately, the 'code red' storm (once known as Hurricane Shary, now a tropical storm) is traipsing her sorry butt towards the north Atlantic. The smaller 'code orange' system has since petered out (go figure), but the larger orange wave - now known as Hurricane Tomas - is headed toward the abyss which I have affectionately named the "Toilet Bowl". The last couple of storms that headed in Tomas' direction basically stalled then swirled around for a few days between the Yucatan Peninsula and Cuba before flushing away. So, you see, hurricanes are not only potentially dangerous, but they can also be geographically educational!

Unfortunately, however, hurricanes - much like the current mindsets of the upcoming voting American public and/or their candidates - don't really know in which direction they will blow:

To paraphrase Bugs Bunny: "Where the fuck is Albuquerque?"

Although I will not be dressing up as a zombie this Halloween, I will have the satisfaction of knowing that one of the storms on the horizon is near its ugly end.

Happy Halloween everybody!

Heh, heh.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

It's Orgasmic!

The levee has broke. The cork has popped. The icing is on the cake. The bubble has burst. The summit was reached. Elvis has left the building. The fat lady has sung. The farm has been bought (oops, sorry, wrong analogy) ...

It's like that long lingering sneeze has finally come to fruition with an ooohhhh, soooo satisfying "achoo", complete with tears of relief, regardless of the handful of snot.

Yes, people, I'm talking about ...


It's been a very long, hot and sweaty summer. The temperatures this year have broke many a thermometer in some areas, not to mention that barometers were "red-lining" all over the place. And I won't get into those body parts that I never knew could perspire.

Fall has reached with its cooler weather and beautiful foilage (which we don't get here, but I do miss it).  Oh, the joy of having your hair dry on the same day you take a shower.  Yes, it's orgasmic.

Oooooh! Aaahh!
*click* ... *puff*

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Broadcast Jesters

It is not often that we watch the ten o'clock news, mostly for the reason that it's the local news from Miami and generally consists of rape, murder, armed robbery, arson and so forth, and is recently inundated with political campaigning smear messages (I can hardly wait for November 3rd).  That, and I find their telecasts obnoxiously loud.

On the rare occasion we'll catch The National on CBC, the one channel where we get Canadian news and, hopefully, without the satellite hiccups so annoyingly provided by our cable company.

Two nights ago, we were watching a Canadian correspondent with a live report from Chile who was describing the recent dramatic events surrounding the rescue of the trapped miners.  He recapped the events of the mine's collapse and elaborated on the current situation at the mine where many family and friends were gathering.  To paraphrase, the reporter said, "the atmosphere here has become almost carnival like.  Rescue efforts will continue throughout the night.  The clowns are expected to arrive tomorrow." [Live report ends]

WTF??  They're going to send in the clowns??

Last night we again watched the CBC news - mostly to find out the purpose of the aforementioned grease-painted personnel and, while waiting on the follow-up news bite of the Chilean rescue efforts, another foreign correspondent was reporting on a situation of a military conflict that I believe was somewhere in Africa.  I was in the other room during the story, not really paying much attention, and the only words I heard were, "...more crisis arises in this unpopular war".  Since when is war ever "popular"??

Immediately after that story, the rescue update was aired with video coverage taped earlier in the day.  Yes, there were clowns.  And, what was not made clear the night before, they were there to entertain the family and friends of the trapped miners, not the miners themselves.

I don't mean to make light of the unfortunate use of words or phrasing by these reporters - on the contrary, their missteps brought a bit of levity into stories that are otherwise sad and dire, but without detracting from the serious nature of those situations.  Shit happens.  And, apparently, so do clowns.

 Thank you.  I'll be here all week.

Monday, October 4, 2010

What's In Your Garden?

Okay, so I stalk follow some of you that participate in this Saturday Centus thingy and I thought I'd try my hand at it, mostly because the prompt triggered a memory. What I found out is that this is hard!  One hundred paragraphs?  Sure, no problem.  One hundered sentences?  Easier and less wordy.  But to limit oneself to a mere one hundred words?? Oy! Now I understand why Tom (a regular contributor  to the Centus and an extremely talented writer) babbles on with his huge intros (and I do mean that in the nicest of ways, Tom - I really do enjoy them!).  Being so limited while writing my entry, I felt the need - nay, the compulsion - to release the traffic jam of verbosity stuck in my head, hence this intro.

I will say, however, that this was (is) fun, not to mention difficult, and if any of you haven't heard this writing challenge, please visit Jenny Matlock at on my tangent... for details and other entries.

So, without further droning ado...


What's In Your Garden?

"Mrs. McDonald is coming by today to pick some veggies from our garden. Can you be here to let her in?", said mom as she headed out for work.

"Okay", I replied.

I had no idea what mom planted that year, but there was a lot.

"Where are the 'giant zucchini' your mom told me about?", asked Mrs. McDonald.

Not ever having seen a zucchini at that point in my life, I went out and pointed to an enormous bunch of large green things.

"Those aren't zucchini, they're pumpkins", she laughed.

I soon learned to make pumpkin pie. Ad nauseum.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Playing "Chicken" With The Tourists

That's not entirely accurate: it was the tourist who played "chicken" with me.

This past Sunday I had to run an errand to West End (which is more like going 'up north' - okay, I won't go into the semantics) and the car needed some gas. Now, some people might not think that detouring to the gas station as a life-altering coincidence but, in this case, I might have just saved the lives (or prevented personal injury) of several tourists.

Imagine, if you will, a stretch of road with two cars traveling toward one another. Midway between the vehicles is an intersection at which exists a stop sign and at which two other vehicles await their cue to proceed safely to their own destinations. As I traveled toward the intersection intending to make my left turn, the oncoming vehicle is traveling toward me - in the same lane! We were almost equidistant from the intersection and, not knowing how fast the oncoming car was moving or in which direction it intended to travel, I flashed my lights at it in alarm.

Without moving to the proper lane, the oncoming car continued forward but reached the intersection before me and decided to turn, narrowly missing the car sitting at the stop sign. Thankfully, the vehicle at the stop sign checked both directions before proceeding forward and noticed the wrong-way traveller, as it is very common here for some Bahamians to ignore stop signs and stop lights, or many other rules of traffic for that matter.

Mr. Wrong Way quickly realized his error, probably after almost having a heart attack when he turned the corner and saw two other vehicles in the lane he thought he should be traveling.

How did I know he was a tourist, you ask? All vehicles here are given a certain colour of licence plate and that colour depends on its use and/or ownership. Rental cars are given white licence plates with the alphabetical prefix of "SD" followed by a number. I always wondered what was meant by the "SD" designation. Now I know: "Stoopid Driver".

Nobody ever said Bahamians didn't have a sense of humour.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

"Puttin' On The Ritz"

Firstly, let me apologize for the recurring and, more than likely, upcoming hurricane posts between now and the end of November. This post, however, is one I could not resist. So, without further ado ...

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As some of you know, I presently live in an area of the world that is ripe with tropical storms and hurricanes during the months of June through November every year. It is, therefore, typical if not prudent of me to monitor the weather in the tropics during the storm season for potential dangers that may befall us. Truly, a serious and intense attitude must be adhered to during these precarious times. Unless, of course, the storm has been named, "Igor" and, well, all serious objectivity goes south and turns into shits and giggles.

(Marty Feldman as "Igor" (pronounced "eye-gore") in Young Frankenstein)

I mean, really, how can anyone take a storm named "Igor" seriously? The forecaster from National Hurricane Centre was probably cracking up when he (or she) wrote the advisory headline, "...Igor creeping westward...".  I know I did.  One of the meteorologists on the Weather Channel even likened him to the sweet and innocent character that appears in Young Frankenstein, portrayed by the late (and great) Marty Feldman.

As I write this, Igor is merely a tropical storm, his projected path and development is unclear and will remain so for some time. I suspect that the storm's path with waver back and forth, much like "Igor's" hump did throughout the movie.

If Igor does eventually reach us, there's not much we can do about it other than prepare. In the meantime, I think I'll pop in the DVD tonight, just for shits and giggles.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Awww...How Purdy!

This is one of the latest infrared satellite images of the Atlantic.  I don't know if VanGogh would have been flattered or maybe just mad enough at Mother Nature to cut off his other ear in protest of being copied.

(Satellite Image borrowed from NOAA)

So far, none of the forecast tracks for the current storms have them coming toward our island (*crossing fingers, toes, legs and eyes - oops, maybe not the eyes, it makes it hard to type*), but we will get some of the effects like wind gusts that will cool down the temperature (YAY!!) and some rain bands that will make more work of our pool (bummer).  I guess you can't have the good without the bad.

Either way, I expect to be sporadically appearing online due to the weather and/or my stomach.  No worries, though, we will survive.

And, to any others out there that may be affected by the storms, be prepared and stay safe!


Edit:  In case anyone is interested in tracking storms, there are many sites.  I recently found this site  which shows the computer models of storm tracks.  There is a zoom feature on the left and a toggle menu on the far right.  It's quite interesting.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Anybody Got a Bucket??

Plumbing:  The bane of my existence for the last couple of years.

Having seen the recent   Magpie prompts, all I could think of lately is all of the plumbing problems currently plaguing this old house.  To that end, I was prepared to post a diatribe on the subject, but no one really wants to hear about that.

Suffice it to say we are down to one working sink - the kitchen sink - which only had a leaky drain pipe - was temporarily and easily fixed with duct tape (thank you, Red Green).  The fixture, however, has now failed and needs replacement.  I've got the parts for both the drain and the tap, but not the gumption.

Damn, I'm so good at my "profession".

Of course, the irony here is that our business involves water which, in turn, involves some plumbing.

To add insult to injury, it's almost been a year since I did my four-day stint in the hospital for an internal plumbing problem.  Lately - well, for the last couple of weeks anyway - I'm suspecting my bowels are planning a surprise anniversary 'blast'.  I've been hearing rumours and rumblings, so I'm not prepared to be smacking my forehead on the underside of the sink in a mad dash attempt to reach the "facility" while I'm installing a faucet.

Besides the leaky plumbing, my skin has also sprung a leak.  Well, sort of.  It's been so hot and humid that I break into a sweat merely by walking to the fax machine just twenty feet from where I sit.  It is so sticky here that you could use me as a  Post-it note bulletin board.

Now our dishwasher has decided to go on strike.  The lights come on, "but there's nobody home" which means, of course, I have to hand wash all the dishes in the sink with the leaky drain and the faucet that leaks into the bucket under said sink.

Normally I wouldn't complain about getting 'sweaty' while I do all these repairs as we have a pool and I could always go for a dip to cool off.  But, noooooooo ... karma has shit on that too.  The pool sprung a leak some time ago and it has been empty ever since.  Well, it's not so much empty since recent torrential rains (we really don't get much of any other kind here) has thwarted our attempt to locate the leak.


So, I'm off to find ... my rubber boots.  And a bucket.

Friday, August 6, 2010

The Wild World of Sports

Some time ago I posted a story about my young cousin's early tryout in baseballHere is another instalment of Kevin's exploits to become a major player in the world of sports.  Like the first, this is a true story.


To this day, and for as many years as I have aged, Granny still lives in the same split-level house that my sister and I grew up in.  Mom, my sister and I occupied the lower portion of the house, complete with a basement kitchen, and my grandparents lived on the upper level.  The upper living room was reserved for company, so the family gathered to the lower room to watch television and such.

The lower living room has many stories to tell - if only walls could talk!  The first diaper I ever changed was in this room (it happened to be Kevin's) and my supervisors at the time,  all of whom were women, neglected to warn me about the 'fountain of youth'.  Suffice it to say, it was my hazing into the realm of child rearing:  an "in-urination", so to speak.

Like most grandparents, ours had the ungodly task anticipated glee of maintaining potty training whilst the parents were off at work.   Granny was the brainchild of potty training.  She would scold us if we pooped in our pants so, to that end, we weren't allowed to wear any pants or diapers and a potty was set aside for us to use as and when needed.  If we were really stubborn, she would make us sit on it until we "made".

Flashing forward, Kevin is now a toddler in toilet training.  Kevin was a bit of a spoiled kid since his mother wasn't as determined to get him trained at an early age as Granny was.  "I'll be damned if I have to change diapers all day.  I've got better things to do with my time" - this was her litany and gospel.

It was shortly after Christmas.   Granny was on day three of her weekly babysitting duties and toilet training drama.  Kevin was particularly difficult on this day and thought it was now a game - he ran around the house naked from the waist down trying to escape Granny's grasp.   When she finally caught him, she promptly scolded him and sat him down on the potty, threatening an ass slapping should he move.

While Kevin sat pouting, Granny went back to her chores.  From the upstairs kitchen, Granny could keep an eye on Kevin while she went about her business.  He had been sitting there for awhile when the phone rang.  It was my sister calling long distance from the west coast.  My sister and Granny could talk for hours.  So, about twenty minutes into the call, Granny realized she hadn't checked on Kevin and asked my sister to hold while she looked in on him.

Now, many parents should know that kids will get bored very easily, and Kevin was no exception.  I guess he heard Granny chatting away and decided to do anything but sit on the potty and went to play with some of his toys.

The following is what my sister heard over the phone:

"Oh, Kevin!  What the hell are you doing?  No!  Stop that right now!  Oh, Jesus Christ!"  Granny scrambled back to the phone, told my sister that she had to go because, "There is shit all over the place, it's on the floor, in the carpet, all over the walls!  I'm going to kill that little bastard!"  Granny was almost in tears.  In the background, my sister could hear Kevin yelling, "Hockey, hockey!"

Kevin got a toddler-size hockey stick for Christmas that year.  "The bugger shit on the floor and used it for a puck.  It's everywhere", Granny said.  Cackling wildly, my sister said, "I'll call you later."

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Thar She Blows!


It's hurricane season here in the good ol' Bahamas, the Lesser and Greater Antilles and any other specks of land between Africa and the west side of the Gulf of Mexico.  We are all at the mercy of Ma Nature.  I say "specks of land" because, considering the size of say, a continent, we island folk worry that the little bits of Earth that we exist upon will be sucked up out of the ocean and hurled into some unknown place, much like Auntie Em's house did.  Of course, landing in the Arctic would be a nice refreshing break from the oppressive heat right about now.

The first hurricane I ever experienced was Frances in early September, 2004.  She was a very slow moving, "take your time" kind of storm, island hopping to almost every "rock" in the Bahamas.  When she finally reached our island, she was a Category 2, moving westward at the brisk Bahamian pace of two miles per hour, with an eye of about seventy miles in diameter.  Slow and steady gets the job done, so they say.  There was about a six hour break during the eye of the storm where we could safely go outside, let the dogs out  - oh, they were so relieved to be relieved - and survey the damage.  Then the other side of the storm wall came.  Another twelve or so hours of howling winds.

Since I had never experienced a storm before and I had no idea what to expect, the days preceding it was spent making window shudders, stowing and securing everything and anything that could blow away, making drinking water, buying supplies - basically running around like a nervous wreck.  I was so hyped with adrenaline and trepidation that, as soon as the storm hit,  I promptly went comatose.

Several hours later - don't ask me how long it was, the entire ordeal is kind of a blur - my stepfather (a.k.a.Satan) wakes me up in a panic.  This time I know he isn't shitting me.  "She's getting sucked out of the door!", he says.  "Muwha?", I respond.  I jumped out of bed, ran upstairs and found my mother holding onto the hinged window that was attached to the remaining part of a door.  Had Mom been wearing an old fashioned hoop skirt, she would have been sucked up, spinning in the air like a whirling Dervish.  The wind was howling through the soffits like a freight train.  It was all too surreal.

I secured what was left of the door and plugged up the hole with some corrugated plastic sheeting we had lying around (we don't throw anything out), and pieces of plywood that were, thankfully, in the house.  After checking the other doors, I went back to sleep.

Almost two weeks had passed before we got power and the Internet back and just in time to see Jeanne pull a "Crazy Ivan", diverting her projected northerly safe path to a south then westerly destructive one.  I guess she didn't want to miss out on all of the fun that Frances and Ivan had.  Being a woman, it was her prerogative after all.

We didn't get the full brunt of Jeanne's wrath, but just enough to knock out the power again for a couple more weeks and to re-deposit all of the debris that was gathered up after Frances.  The two trees that were uprooted during Frances remain where they fell, but are thriving.  The sea grape produces sweet grapes and the coconuts still bears its fruit - it's way easier to grab one at ground level than trying to shimmy up the twenty foot tree.

The hardest thing to deal with during a storm is the boredom.  There's no power so there's no television or Internet, but we did have a radio and could listen to "Air America" with Al Franken and friends.  The worst thing, for me at least, was being locked up in the same house with Satan for what seemed like an eternity.  Twice.

It's been six years since a major storm has hit, but I am now getting that uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach once again.  There is a storm brewing just above Hispaniola and it looks like it is headed our way  and the westerlies don't appear to be strong enough to steer it northward and away from the islands.  The hurricane centre isn't going to do another fly by until tomorrow, making it unclear as to where it may be headed.  So, I may be away for a bit, making my chore and shopping lists, checking them twice, for I know if the storm comes, it will be naughty, not nice.  And her name will be Bonnie.

"Bonnie lass", my ass.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Did You Know...

... that wasn't a  UFO flying over China just recently.

It was the original cap BP used in the Gulf oil spill.

Friday, July 16, 2010

The Siren (Epilogue)

It taunts me no more.
Sitting there,
Liberated from its box,
I cannot help but look.
It beckons me with its speed.
Like the caterpillar from its cocoon,
It is as elegant as the butterfly.
It surfs the web
Like a knife cuts through butter.
The Siren has hooked her lover.
The ship has sailed.

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Note to reader:  This is a follow up on my Magpie tale, The Siren .
(And, if you haven't guessed it, both were about my new laptop.)
*doin' the happy dance*

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Kids Can Do The Darndest Things

The following is a true story (really, I can't make this shit up):

My mother and my maternal aunt and uncle all had kids, and I am one of seven grandchildren.  Like all grandparents, ours had the unfortunate job inevitable joy of looking after us at one time or another, not all at the same time of course, while our respective parents were at work.

My uncle was quite an athlete when he was younger and would watch and involve his sons in many sports as they grew up. He has three boys, the eldest, Kevin (not his real name) being about sixteen years younger than me.  All of his kids would follow in their father’s footsteps by joining hockey and baseball teams at very young ages.  They all played extremely well, I might add.

Before his brothers were born, my grandmother would look after Kevin for a few days a week.  Kevin was about two years old during this time.  When Granny had to run errands, Kevin would be loaded into the obligatory car seat and taken along for the ride.  These trips were usually uneventful.


Like most toddlers do when you are not watching them, Kevin would get into mischief.  So, after returning home one day from shopping, Granny left Kevin in the back seat so she could keep an eye on him while unloading the groceries that were, in those days, still packed in brown paper bags. This would take a few trips back and forth from the car. On her final trip, she was horrified to discover the entire interior of the car had been egged:  it was all over the back seat, the front seat and Kevin was covered in it.  The last and final grocery bag had contained a carton of eggs which had been placed right on top and which was located right beside Kevin in the backseat.

Apparently, Kevin got bored while waiting to be liberated from the car.

Now I'm not sure exactly what was said, but from what I understand, it went something like this:

Granny, not normally known to use expletives, yelled at him, “What in the HELL did you do?”, to which Kevin excitedly cheered, "Baseball!!"

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 Theme Thursday is having a "Ball" - check out the others!

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

You Haven't Left Yet??

I was totally stumped for a post for this Theme Thursday when, all of a sudden, I heard a familiar cry from across the canal.  Well, maybe more like a screech, or the sound a cat makes when you step on its tail.  You see, there is a very loud and noisy parrot that lives across the waterway.  I concede that this post isn't particularly imaginative on this week's theme, or particularly humourous for that matter, but it sort of involves the colour of blue.

At any rate, the neighbouring parrot reminded me of a day years ago when I lived out in the country.

Not far away lived some friends who trained and bred dogs and had a small kennel on their property.  One summer, they were invited to an all-day wedding affair that was quite a distance away.  Since they probably wouldn't get home until later that evening, I volunteered to look in on the dogs.

Their kennel consisted of some six or seven mastiffs - one dog was always left inside the house as a guard.  They also had a blue and gold macaw who's name was Boomer.  Boomer was very loud when he squawked and screeched and could be very annoying when he was hungry or wanting attention.  Cheryl and David (not their real names) got Boomer a few years earlier.  Macaws are very intelligent birds and can be taught to speak.  Boomer, on rare occasions, would say a word or two, but usually when no visitors were around.

I should mention here that this kennel was the ultimate alarm system:  anyone coming up the driveway would be announced by continuous barking until David came out and hollered at them to be quiet.

So, on this hot summer day, I arrived at around 3 p.m.  All the windows in the house were open to vent the heat.  The dogs, as expected, were barking like mad and it was extremely loud.  I had to shout as best as I could to be recognized as a friend.  They were having none of it.   When I started towards the kennel so they could see me,  I heard David's voice coming from the house, yelling his usual command at the canines.

David and Cheryl were supposed to leave early this morning, I thought to myself.   "David, are you still here?   No response.  "Hello?  Did you forget something?", I called as I approached the house; the dogs still barking wildly.  Just before I reached the door, David's voice again bellowed in a more succinct manner, "Shut - the - fuck - up!"  It got eerily quieter.  I'd swear on a stack of bibles that it was David's voice that I had heard, but after I searched the house and was satisfied that no one was there, it finally dawned on me that the voice could only have originated from one source:  Boomer.  From that day on, I never heard Boomer speak a single word other than gobbledigook.  I'm sure he was laughing at me.

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This is a Theme Thursday post  - check out the others!

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Phardon Me?

It was the mid seventies and my second, and last year at boarding school in the U.S.  I would be returning to Canada to finish high school.  In order to graduate in Ontario, one must have at least thirty eligible credits, whereas in the States (or at least in Florida), the requirement was six or eight credits less.

Determined to get all the required courses I could get in this second year, I signed up for geometry.  Unfortunately,  this conflicted with an elective class that I also wanted to take.  Alas, a sacrifice was made.

Geometry was my first class every day.  The teacher was new to the school and unknown to any of the students.  Upon entering the classroom  for the first time, everyone noticed that all the window blinds were closed and there was subdued lighting emanating from the overhead fluorescents, making the room somewhat darker than what we were used to.  Granted, the morning sun was a bit blinding at that time of day, but the north side shades were also closed.  We were all puzzled.

More puzzling was the teacher.  He was writing on the blackboard as the class entered.  His back was toward us.  When he finished writing and after everyone had taken their seats, he turned around.  Oh my god, I thought to myself.  They've hired Dracula!  Standing at the front of the room was a tall, dark-haired man, dressed in a black robe-like garment and wearing sunglasses.

Yes, sunglasses.

None of us knew what to make of him.  He appeared very strange and ominous.  My first thought was that he wanted to intimidate the class with his appearance.  He certainly did achieve that effect.  That was until he spoke.  We were all expecting a deep, foreboding voice to accompany this somewhat daunting figure standing before us.  Instead, he sounded like my stepfather (a.k.a. Satan ) when Satan rambled nonsense to himself in a somewhat high nasal voice.  It took all I had not to bust out laughing. Some other students also chuckled.

After introducing himself , he told us that he was from the Philippines, and that the bright morning light and the chalk dust, to which he was allergic, would irritate his eyes.  Thus, the shades of both types were explained.  I assumed the black robe was to protect his clothing underneath from collecting chalk dust.

He also had a slight speech impediment wherein, for example, he would say "phlease" instead of "please".

It was my third week in geometry.  I was struggling not so much with the lessons, but with the voice of the teacher and the fact that he was becoming more phonetically challenged as the days progressed.  It was somewhat hard to ignore, but I stuck it out.

Then one fateful day in that third week, he dissected the triangle, complete with diagrams and explaining all the angles, sines, cosines and tangents.

I immediately knew that I would not be earning this math credit when he pointed to the blackboard and uttered the words, "Can anyone name this 'phart' of the triangle."

Bodies fell to the floor erupting in laughter, with me being the first.  I happily dropped geometry for drama.


This Theme Thursday's prompt is:  Triangle

Sunday, June 20, 2010

The Dozo Zone

Imagine, if you will, a house situated in a quiet neighbourhood, in which lives three occupants:  a woman, her husband and her daughter from a previous marriage.

During the time they live in Scarborough, every Sunday without fail, the stepfather complains about the numerous cars parked on the other side of the street in front of their house.

Their next door neighbour is of Some Religious Order who, with his congregation, holds Sunday services in his home, hence the volume of vehicles clogging up the road.

The stepfather, a highly intelligent man of questionable veracity, is always wanting to be the centre of attention. He fabricates stories and complains about anything just so someone will, at the very least, tell him to "shut the fuck up".  As long as he is acknowledged, the manner in which it is expressed isn't important to him.

One particular Sunday unfolds as follows:

The Players:
Antagonist: The stepfather. A lawyer with a diabolical sense of humour and a dubious storyteller, has an annoying need for constant recognition. He knows how to push buttons. He knows how to push your buttons. He pushes the buttons of the daughter too far this one morning. We will call him Satan.

The Extra: The mom. She is too involved in her newspaper to acknowledge anything worthy of her attention. Really, she doesn't care. She does this on purpose. She knows Satan too well. We will call her Mom.

Protagonist:  The daughter.  She is not a morning person by any means, especially after a late night, and doesn't engage in any meaningful conversation before her first cup of coffee. She is slightly hung over this morning.  She has a short temper. Unlike Mom, the daughter has yet to develop the skills necessary to ignore Satan. We will call her The Idiot.

The Scene:
Sunday morning: Two family members are drinking coffee, Mom is at the table reading the Sunday paper, Satan is skulking around from room to room, also reading the paper and babbling on about something or other every time he enters the kitchen. Sometimes he just babbles to himself while he wanders about. We attribute this to attention-seeking behaviour or a symptom of schizophrenia.

Enter The Idiot wearing a ratty twelve year old, hospital-issued, knee-length terrycloth robe that is fraying around the edges and which is sporting soon-to-become embarrassingly situated holes in the chest area. The robe is flagged for the rag bag.

The Story:
"M'rnin'", mumbles The Idiot, stumbling into the kitchen.  “Morning”, replies Mom who doesn’t look up from her paper.

Satan is off in some other room.

The Idiot gets her coffee, sits down at the table and grabs a section of the paper already discarded by the other two.

"Oh my God!”, loudly exclaims Satan from somewhere near the foyer. “There are cars everywhere!", referring to the congregation's vehicles. Mom is oblivious to the statement. The Idiot, annoyed at being distracted from her reading, rolls her eyes.

Satan enters the kitchen. "They've blocked off the entire street!", complains Satan, again, in case nobody heard it mere seconds ago. "Whatever", says The Idiot, irked and uninterested.

Satan shuffles in and out of the kitchen for the next half hour, breaking the periodic silence with his verbal diarrhea about the Blue Jays' recent loss, the exchange rate of the Yen, or the climatic conditions currently plaguing the penguins in Antarctica.   Sometimes he just makes nasal honking noises.  This continues off and on, annoying The Idiot who is still trying to enjoy a morning coffee and newspaper despite her hangover. Satan has become aware of The Idiot’s post-inebriated condition.

About ten minutes later, the random ramblings return to the parking situation.  "Oh my God! They have not only taken over the street, but they have taken over our driveway!", rants Satan.

The Idiot, who has not even been able to finish the article she originally started to read when she first picked up the paper, erupts with rage and stomps to the front door, certain that Satan is spewing lies. To her surprise, there is a strange car parked in the driveway right behind Satan's car. From the rear-view mirror hangs an icon of Jesus. Satan is Jewish, but the family is not religious.

Fueled by Satan's accusations and innuendo, not to mention the dangling pious figure, The Idiot believes the car belongs to one of the members visiting next door. She flings the front door open in anger - anger not so much intended for the car owner, but toward Satan who has really pissed her off to no end - and traipses barefoot across the lawn with disheveled hair and tattered holey robe, and knocks on the neighbours' door.

Dressed in his Sunday's finest, the neighbour answers the door.  "Does that car possibly belong to one of your members?", asks The Idiot, pointing to the mysterious vehicle in her driveway. The man, shocked and confused at The Idiot's appearance, cautiously ventures out of his house to take a look.  Before he can utter a word, two people emerge from the far side of The Idiot's house.  She immediately recognizes them.  Retrieving her jaw from the ground and thinking that any explanation, at this point, would sound more ridiculous than she looks, The Idiot apologizes profusely to the neighbour.  Unceremoniously, The Idiot retraces her steps back to her house, seething in anger and mutters to herself, "I AM going to kill him", and greets the unexpected visitors very red faced.

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We had  moved into the house in Scarborough about three months earlier. The surprise visitors decided to take a peek around the grounds before they announced their arrival.  It was their car in the driveway.  I was extremely embarrassed. Yes, I  wanted to shoot myself.  But not before I shot Satan.

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Note to readers: The preceding post was NOT intended to offend any fathers on this, their honoured day. Because this story co-incidentally happened on a Sunday, I decided to post it today. But, to all of you dads out there:

Happy Father's Day!

Friday, June 18, 2010

The New Guy

"Hey, who's the new guy?", asked somebody.

"I don't know", said someone from the other cubicle.

"He kinda looks weird", whispered someone else from another section.

"Yeah, he doesn't look like any of the other groups", said another.

"Maybe he was put here by mistake because he certainly doesn't look like he belongs with us and there doesn't seem to be a designated area for him", remarked Tines.

"So, what's your name?", Spooner asks the new guy.

"My name is Jacques, Jacques Couteau".

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Visit Magpie Tales for more of this week's prompt.