If You Ignore Them Will They Just Go Away?

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A short but important rant concerning Canadian politics.  You have been warned.
With another election undoubtedly in the works at some point (it has been almost 2 whole years since our last one, you know), and with the Rick Mercer show back on the air for a new season, my thoughts are with the poor people of Quebec and how 51% of them at election time are barraged by propaganda attacking Canada and promoting sovereignty under the guise of “Quebec interests”.  Well, last time I checked the whole purpose of a federal election was to put together the best government for the whole country and not just one part of it, no matter how “distinct” that part happens to be.  In fact, some would argue (myself included) that allowing a party with separatist intentions to participate in a nationally held election is nothing short of treason. 
So this brings me to the following….
Question: 
Is there any way to keep the Bloc from participating in the next federal election (outside of actually running candidates)?
Answer?
For starters, I was thinking that the network(s) carrying the next debate could impose a restriction which would look something like this:
“Participation in the debate limited to only recognised Canadian political parties running candidates in 185 of the 308 ridings AND in 7 of the 13 provinces and territories AND who received at least 5% of the vote in the last federal election.”

The numbers above were not picked out of thin air; they were well thought through.  185 of the 308 seats represents the percentage of eligible Canadians who actually voted (around 60% – terribly low) and more than 50% of the provinces and territories.  The 5% of the popular vote keeps fringe groups from getting in simply by running a Marxist Christian Communist Marijuana Party member in each riding.  
Based on the last election the next national debate would then have the Conservatives, the Liberals, the NDP, and the Greens.  Still do the debates in French and English – those are both our official languages – but only discuss issues important nationally, without the noise and clutter of Gilles Douch-eppe barking in the wings the whole time.
In addition, the media could just ignore the Bloc completely.  No questions.  No press coverage.  Nothing.  Like the petulant, whiny, good-for-nothing, little brat ruining a perfectly good recess; when ignored for long enough they have a tendency to just go away.
This could work, no?

Corn

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Have you ever cut the kernels off an entire cob of corn?  Those of you who have elderly parents/grandparents or small children may have done this before.  Well I did this the other day for my son who was having an unusually hard time eating his corn on the cob and I noticed something.  The amount of corn that was cut off the cob far exceeded the amount of corn that one would normally put on their plate if they were to just cook some corn from a can (or frozen, or whatever).  Far exceeded.  And I normally eat at least one and half cobs with a typical dinner.  I’m either getting far more than my daily allotment of grains (side note: corn is not a vegetable(?)) or I have to seriously rethink my idea of a “portion”.

Driving Me Crazy

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I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the best driver in the world: I rarely check my blind spot, I travel at high rates of speed, I enjoy breaking quickly, I can’t park to save my life and I am the poster-boy for road rage.
That being said I am still less of a threat on the road, and even a better driver, than way too many people out there with licenses.
There’s the people who drive too slowly. Not the speed limit, but SLOWER. If it’s a clear day and the roads are dry and you’re on a highway you’d best be going within 5 of the speed limit. They say it can happen, but just once I’d actually like to see someone getting a ticket for going to slow.
Then there’s the idiots who chuck cigarette butts out their window. This really has nothing to do with their driving ability, but it really annoys me.  Today someone cut me off and stopped short and tossed a butt out the window and it landed on my hood.  Sigh.
Let’s not forget about the two lane highways occupied by two different cars both going the same speed. I’m not sure if the car in the fast lane just enjoys being an asshole or what, but these people should have a Volvo rammed where the sun don’t shine. 
Lastly, there’s the ever popular super-conscientious citizens. The people whose sole job on the road is for them to make sure you drive below the speed limit and come to a full stop at all the appropriate places. The purposefully drive so you can’t pass them, they take EXTRA long at stops, they NEVER try to make the amber light, and don’t even think about making the left as the light goes red. Nope, these people want to make sure that you follow all the rules, all the while you’re just thinking of ways to run them off the road without them actually getting killed.
If I wasn’t such a lazy ass, I’d walk.

Readability Be Damned

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Back in March when my mother asked me what I wanted for my birthday I went onto http://chapters.indigo.ca and into the fiction section to see what I might like.

I initially gravitated to the new Chuck Klosterman book.  His first piece of fiction.  I had read a few of his books before (collections of essays, mostly true stories, and anecdotes) and read him online from time-to-time so I added that to my wish list (it’s called “Downtown Owl“, and I liked it).

Then, I started looking for crime novels, heist books, and other assorted who done it types.  In the new release section was a Don Delillo book that claimed to be about a filmmaker and a U.S. Government inside-the-war room fellow.  In grade eleven I read this book “White Noise” by Don Delillo.  All I can tell you about it today is that I think it ended with the main character in a grocery store but I vaguely remember liking it.  I put his new one on my wish list as well.  It was titled “Point Omega“.

It sucked.

It’s not just that it was a slow moving book.  It never really got started.  It was only a hundred or so pages, but honestly it could have done with another hundred more just so that the really good story lines actually had time to develop.

In my non-expert opinion it was just poorly written, and I can’t even begin to describe how much I now loathe the comma.  This is what this awful book has done to me.  I can’t even look at a comma now without feeling sick to my stomach.

It began with sentences with so many commas I could barely keep track, kept with that theme for a while, continued to overuse them, and finished, finally, with a few pages of disjointed thoughts, separated, of course, by many commas, presumably to promote something I can only describe as “punctuation epilepsy”.

The only advice I can give is to avoid reading this book.  That, and Don Delillo should read “Eats, Shoots & Leaves” by Lynn Truss and pay careful attention to the chapter on the comma (assuming for a minute that a hugely successful author of dozens of novels, short stories and plays can take advice from a blathering blog hack like myself).

Potato Chip Update!

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Quick update on my potato chip situation.  The math just got better!!

The discount blue bag chips are back to their regular 2 for $5 price and my reliable favourites have now dropped in price by $0.70 now making them only $0.50 more than the cheap ones – and totally worth every penny.

I am pleased.

Entirely Too Digital

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OK, you know you’re too immersed in a digital world when you’re doing something that has been done manually for centuries – and can only be done manually – and your brain tries to behave as if it’s sitting in front of the computer.  This just happened to me:

I was putting away my laundry and a t-shirt which was folded (perfectly, of course) dropped off the top of the pile as I walked to my dresser.  This amazingly folded article of clothing became unraveled and started to tumble to the floor.  No word of a lie, my brain thought “CTRL – Z”.

(for those of you who aren’t familiar with the term, it’s a keyboard shortcut – pressing the “Ctrl” key at the same time as “z” – that performs a very special action: UNDO)

Would You Like Fries With That?

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This post seems more relevant today than when it was first written over 5 years ago.  This is for a couple of reasons: 1) I now live back in Cambridge where part of this took place, and 2) something happened at Tim Horton’s that made my jaw drop and laugh out loud at the same time.  I’ll explain at the end of the rant.
—————
I don’t want to sound condescending or elitist, but really, what does it take to be an employee at a fast food drive through? College diploma? University degree? Heartbeat? Tom Vu seminar attendance receipt?

“A lot of your friends will tell you, ‘Don’t come to the seminar. It’s a get-rich-quick plan.’ Well, tell them, It is a get-rich-quick plan because life is too short to get rich slow.” 
– Tom Vu, 1990

I can understand that they may not be able to hear through the state-of-the-art sound system provided, but what’s wrong with clarifying an order if they are having trouble hearing? Would that not be a better idea than just throwing anything in a bag then waving good bye and smiling.

I mention this only because for about 40th time I had a Tim Horton’s drive-through screw up my order. I used to think it was just this one store I went to all the time in Cambridge
(seriously, people would go out of their way to come to this place just so they could get a first hand glimpse of how inept they were – one employee actually asked me how to make TEA!!!)
but as it turns out, it’s not limited to that one place and it’s not limited to Tim Horton’s either. McDonald’s and Wendy’s do a pretty nice job of pooching the order quite regularly. Don’t even get me started on Taco Bell.

OK, you got me started on Taco Bell…

Recently I picked up some food for the kids and the babysitter. I asked for an extra order of fries, was asked if I wanted more fries, confirmed I wanted more fries, asked if it was just one fries, confirmed it was just one fries, asked if I wanted anything else, declined anything else, was asked at the pay window if I was the guy who ordered the extra fries, confirmed I was the guy who ordered the extra fries, was asked if the pop was in fact a Sprite, confirmed that I did request a Sprite, had my pop spilled on me as it was passed from the window, drove away with a wet crotch and a bag full of food, got home, and then dished out everything to the hungry hoard.

No extra fries.

Even though Taco Bell couldn’t have done anything worse in this instance, I’d have to say that the good ‘ole drop-outs at Timmy’s have got the World’s Worst Drive-Through Service Championship Belt hanging proudly in the back room. Black 1 sugar does not mean double double. Tea with nothing in it does not mean hot chocolate. When I get to the window, an apple freaking fritter is not, “What kind of doughnut was that again? Oh sorry, we’re out of apple fritters”.

If eating all this fast food crap isn’t killing you (which it most definitely is), try going to the drive-through. At the very least you’re guaranteed higher blood pressure and a Boston creme instead of a honey glazed.

—————


After a moment of reflection…

Two words: Minimum wage teenagers.

It’s either the minimum wage teenager or the recent immigrant who has 3 PhD’s that for some reason the stupid Canadian Government refuses to recognize. Either way I’m getting a coffee for a buck fifty and a doughnut for a buck and a quarter served to me in my car by someone making next to nothing who’s probably been shagging this crap all morning for jerks like me.

Without the minimum wage doughnut slingers I’d have to drink the crap they have at work and there would be more punk-ass kids crowding up the streets and higher taxes. OK, I’m not sure about those last two points, but for sure I’d be drinking crappier coffee.

So, check the order before you leave the window. Check it again, and then politely thank the fine people behind the window when after the third try they finally get the order right. If they nail it on the first go, then thank them extra nicely. If it happens that way a few times in a row, then go in for a change and tell their manager how much you appreciate it.
—————
So what happened today?

I was in line at the Timmy’s and when I get called up to the counter I am served by a lady who has been working at Tim’s for something like 10 years.  He’s the happiest, energetic, optimistic, most polite Tim Horton’s employee I have ever met.  She can’t remember my name yet (I moved out of town for 5 years) but she clearly recognizes me as I’ve been in the store a lot lately.  It’s “Roll Up the Rim to Win” time!

As I pass her my free donut cup from the coffee I had a few days ago says something to the extent of, “Can someone please get this gentleman his free donut?”

To which I replied, “Sure beats giving these guys [Tim Horton’s] any more money.  They have enough already.”

And then very subtly under her breath in a deeper tone than she normally speaks – and instantaneously after I made my comment – she says, “You fucking got that right”.  And then she looks up at me, eyes wide and jaw open, as if she could not believe what just happened.  Well I’ll tell you what happened: Her inside voice finally got out.  After 10 years of slogging crappy coffee and sugary pastries my comment finally hit the right nerve and she (sort of) snapped.

It was awesome.

So You’re Going to Have an Enema…

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This is something that actually happened to me. I’m not making any of this up, but I might be making it a tad funnier than it actually was at the time. It’s 100% true.
It’s a story in three parts – best told in person – but if I don’t write this down now I may forget all the details that make it so wonderfully entertaining. It should be read quickly as that’s how it’s supposed to be told. Imagine lots of funny faces and arm-waving.

I had been having stomach troubles for a while and my doctor decided it was time to take a closer look. At the time (1998), my options were as follows:

  1. Camera down my throat
  2. Camera up my arse
  3. Barium milkshake & x-rays followed by barium enema & x-rays

After much deliberation, we decided the least invasive route would be option 3.

“So”, I said to my doctor, “I’ve heard the term before, but what exactly is involved with all this anyway?”. Now my doctor didn’t have the best bedside manner and responded rather coldly, “Well, first you drink this barium – a lot of it – and then they rock you around and take some x-rays. Then once that’s all settled, about a month later, you go in and they stick a 1/4″ surgical tube up your ass and pump you full of more barium, rock you around a bit, pump air into your lower intestine and take some more x-rays. Then you shit cement for a few days.”

At least he was honest.

Well, the barium milkshake was a piece of cake. That is if you can muscle down the sickest drink ever imagined. It was like something out of a reality TV show, only my life might have actually depended on it, so I had to do it. It sucked big time, but it didn’t even suck a fraction of the amount that the rest did.

After a month of waiting they finally tell me that the “Upper GI” turned up nothing and now it was time for IT. They sent me one of those little pamphlets labelled “Enemas” and it had lovely little pictures in it and very detailed medical text on what to expect and what it was all about and what they could find. Very educational and a complete and total piece of shit lie.

Before you go in for this procedure you must be um…. clean. Not clean in the porn star sort of way with the boys as slick as marbles, but clean as in a digestive tract that’s void of anything–including liquid, and especially food. So, I go to the pharmacy to get “the kit”. It’s a lovely 3-step programme designed to cleanse your inner self. In retrospect, this was nothing at all like the Yoga I had originally hoped it would be.

Step 0: The Fasting

Yes, there’s a step zero. Any of you who’ve taken Thermodynamics would know that. Anyway, step zero is to eat nothing for a day and drink only clear chicken broth and water. The next morning it’s only water, lunch more water, then before bed on that day nothing until after the procedure. Seeing as I was 6′ 2″ and only 140 lbs. at the time, I was worried about not eating for that long. More on the weight loss later.

Step 1: The Pills

These are little pills – white – that you swallow in the morning. They did essentially nothing. To this day I wonder if they just had them so that the kit could contain three steps instead of just two.

Step 2: The Drink

I’m at work on the 2nd day and I’m hungry as hell. All I’ve had to eat for more than a day is water and chicken broth and those three stupid pills that did nothing. At lunchtime, I read the box for “the drink”. It said that I should drink it all down as quickly as I can and that I should “expect a strong reaction in 3 or 4 hours.” What the hell does that mean? I mean I know what it means, but they couldn’t pin it down any better than that?

I drank the vile stuff. Granted, it was way better than drinking barium, but it still was shitty. It was the most concentrated, carbonated lemon juice I’ve ever had. About 2 hours later my friend happens by my cube and reads the box. He says to me, “If their margin of error is 1 hour, what if the reaction time happens in 2 to 3 hours instead of 3 to 4?”

Oh shit. I hate it when people other than me make so much sense. I packed up my stuff immediately and headed home, in what had to the worst rainstorm I’ve ever seen in my life. I start my 1986 Cutlass and it gives me a really hard time. It does not like rain very much at all. I wasn’t even out of the parking lot when it happened. The strong reaction was upon me, and it was pissed!

Wanting home-field advantage, I put the pedal to the ground. It’s normally a 10-minute drive home from work–I planned to do it in 4. I took the most direct route home and basically broke every motor law there is except for not stopping for a school bus (thankfully it was mid-day and kids were still in school). Now I get to my street, or rather the one right before mine and I see a huge puddle in the road from the rain. Not wanting to get stuck in it I floored it. I’m doing 90 in a 40 and am not even thinking about losing my license, killing someone, or killing myself. I just need to get home. Now.

I hit the puddle and my car almost comes to a screeching halt as a wall of water 20 feet high sprays on either side of me. I felt like Moses. Then, my car sputtered. Oh no. It coughed and slowed down. Oh no. The tachometer plummeted to zero rpm. Oh no!!!!! I instantly invented a new swear word (something like jesusfuckingchristholyshitfuckgoddamnasslickinghellbitch). I put the pedal to the floor, turned the ignition and punched my dashboard with my other hand and the damn thing started and took off like a rocket. I now believe in God (and his name is Arthur Fonzarelli).

I park in the handicapped spot in front of my building. I didn’t have a permit, but if any situation warranted this violation, I’m guessing it was this one. Plus, that was pretty much the only law I hadn’t broken in the last 6 minutes and I didn’t want to ruin a perfect streak. I run up the stairs three at a time and I get to my floor and I. Run. Like. Hell. I come flying around the corner and there’s someone in the hallway standing right in front of my door. With a giant roll of carpet.

You have got to be freaking kidding me! I start screaming bloody murder at this poor fellow. “Fucking move asshole! Get out of the way! Away from my fucking door you carpet laying piece of shit! Move!!!”. I’ve never seen such a small man move such a big roll of carpet so fast in my life.

I open my door and leave it wide open (no time to close it) and get to the bathroom and have a seat. My pants hit the floor at the exact time my body decided to imitate a fucking space shuttle launch. And it was loud. And my doors were open. And there was a little man out in my hallway with a big roll of carpet crushing him to death. I did not care. Not one bit.

It ended quickly.

I got up, washed up and weighed myself. I had just lost 5 pounds. I’m not joking in the least. Five pounds in 1/10th of a second. That must be some sort of record. I go to close my door (to the hallway outside) and there’s the little man. He’s looking at me like I just jumped off the coroner’s table and shook his hand. I apologized profusely but he just kept staring at me with these huge, brown, terrified eyes.

So, moving along with the story, I managed to get a few glasses of water into me to calm down and then I moved my car (no ticket!). My wife gets home around 6:00 and says to me, “Why did the carpet guy practically run away from me just now?”. Had I not been so dehydrated I would have certainly peed myself laughing.

Which brings us to…

Step 3: The Pill

This is just one pill. It’s about the size of a small torpedo for a submarine. It’s wrapped in foil with big letters on it “DO NOT EAT”.

Fuck.

My wife reads out the instructions and because she’s a real trooper and clearly a better partner than I’ll ever be, asks me if I need any help. I was more in love with her then than I ever have been because I can guarantee you, I would not have been making her the same offer.

The package said I had to “sit tight” for 15 minutes as if sitting down was even an option. I managed to do a dance around the apartment until the clock struck the appropriate hour. Then it began. I hadn’t eaten anything in over a day. Hadn’t drunk in hours, and yet I’ve never needed a seat belt for my toilet more than I did right then. I was easily decades ahead of any SpaceX propulsion technology.

At least the worst part was over. Or so I thought…

OK, well that pretty much sums up PART I. Stay tuned for PART II (“The Procedure”) and PART III (“The Aftermath”).