Posts Tagged ‘humour’


The sun sneered down at me, with the wrath of a thousand carcinogenic volcanoes.   (Didn’t know that did you?  I’ll bet volcanos are totally cancer-causing.  That is, if you survive the slight burn you get from the magma)

I was on my way to a birthday party, and this was the second car of the day.  And I was late.

The first car – a Mini Cooper – had betrayed me in the worst possible way.  It had winked its “check engine” light at me.  At least, I think it was “check engine”.  Might have been “engine is on its way to blowing up big time and you have ten seconds to get out”.  I have no idea.  It was just a symbol, really.  It looked like what some engineer thought an engine should look like.  If I wasn’t a guy, I might mistake it for a badly cut piece of pie though. 

(Wordage helps, people.  Let that be a lesson.  Say what you mean.  Don’t just draw a stupid picture and hope your readers can glean the meaning.)

Oh and the light behind the symbol was yellow.  Which means “caution”, I guess.  It wasn’t glowing red.  It wasn’t pink either.  “You have a ridiculously sparkly and entirely fabulous piece of pie waiting for you, right where the engine should be.”

Anyway, it was a rental, and so the rental agency offered to set me up with a replacement Mini. “After you drop it off, you’ll have to go to one of our other lots to pick up the replacement Mini.  It’s all set up for you.”  And with that, they gave me the address and off I went.

The lot was (they said) at the corner of Finch and Yonge.  They were right.  There surely was a parking lot there.  It didn’t have just one rental car though.  It had pretty close to a million shiny cars, all parked cheek by jowl.  I was supposed to go to the section of the lot that had the rental agency’s cars, but I didn’t know where that was.  Usually the company has signs up near the cars, featuring the name of the company emblazoned in hard to miss lettering.

I looked at that vast vista of chrome and sunlight and wondered where to start.  Did I mention the carcinogenic light?  Okay so it wasn’t a volcano but it was just as bad.  It was the sun.  That thing I used to worship when I was younger, which all of the doctors now say can kill me.

I remember the time I went to a dermatologist.

“Have you used a tanning bed?” he asked.

“Why yes, I have” I answered proudly, as I turned my profile so he could better glimpse all of my tan beauty. “Why do you ask?”

“I ask because you’re a moron” he grunted.  “Those things will kill you.”

“Oh” I said.  “I didn’t know that.”

“WELL DON’T DO IT AGAIN” he barked.

Seriously, the guy was upset with me.  Like I’d stabbed his grandmother in the eye or something.

I took his warning to heart and, since that time, I’ve been religious about applying sun block before heading out the door in the summer time.  Every time.

Except that morning.  I was in a rush, and I figured that my sunlight exposure would be minimal:  I’d be either underground or on a bus until those few minutes when I would move from the bus to my rental car. 

Never realized I’d have to spend an obscene amount of time under the blazing meatball hunting down an elusive tiny little car in a reflective death chamber parking lot.

Ten minutes into my concrete nature hike a mildly helpful thought sauntered brazenly across my consciousness, hands in its pockets.  “Maybe” it said “you should call the rental company to get their help in finding at least the correct quadrant of this maze.” 

Like all good thoughts, it didn’t intrude too far.  I replied with “I’ll find it.  I don’t need anyone’s help.”  The helpful thought wandered off while whistling a carefree tune, unoffended by my manly obstinence.  Clearly it knew I needed help but wasn’t yet ready to admit it.

Anyway, I was in luck.  I had an app on my iPhone that would allow me to unlock the rental car, or honk its horn.  I took it out and pressed the horn icon.  The car horn honked twice. 

“There!” I thought. “I heard it!”  I was overjoyed.  This wouldn’t take long at all.  I knew where the car was.  It was down on the bottom right quadrant of the lot, about a mile away from where I started.  So I began the walk to that point, using the app to re-honk every few minutes.

Weird thing.  As I got closer and closer to my destination, the honks began to change.  They were no longer emanating from the northwest corner, so much as the north-middle corner.  So I changed trajectory and headed due north, honking all the way.

When I reached the northern limit of the lot, and pressed the horn icon again, I heard the sound coming from the exact opposite side of the lot.  The southern side, middle.  So I started walking toward it again, still honking.

As I progressed, the honking changed direction and this time, it was back at the northwest corner again.

About a half an hour later, the concept of “echo” finally dawned on me.  So I broke down and called the car company.

The lady was nice.  “Are you at the corner of Yonge and Finch?” she asked.

“Well yes.” I answered.   “Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“The instructions said to go to the subway station at Finch and Yonge, and that’s where I got off.  Directly across the road is a parking lot.  But I just noticed that there are no signs for Finch.  Is it possible I’m in the wrong lot? I keep honking the horn with the app, and I hear it.”

“You hear it?  Then maybe you’re where you should be.  I’ll stay on the line and honk the horn from my console until you find it.  How about that?  Would that help?”

“Tremendously” I replied.  “Thank you so much.”

“No problem” she said.  “I’m honking now.”

“You’re honking? Have you seen a doctor about that?” I blurted.


“Sorry.  Nothing.  I don’t hear the car horn though.”

We finally figured out that I wasn’t in the right lot at all.  Forty-five minutes had passed under the blazing evil orb and I was in the wrong lot.  I had to walk a full block south to get to the right one.  And there it was, sitting in the tiniest little parking lot ever.  And it had signage!  Big bold signs.  “Here’s your rental car, dude.  Right here.  Right between these two signs. Honestly, I couldn’t have made it clearer if I’d painted little devils all over the place, with their pitchforks all pointing at the car”.

(Not really.  The signs just had the name of the rental agency.  But yes, it was pretty obvious.)

I pressed the horn icon just to make sure.  The replacement Mini honked back with severe cheerfulness.  It sounded different than what I’d heard before though.  Seemed kind of odd.  And how could I hear this tiny little horn honking from such a great distance away, yet not hear it when the help line woman honked it from her application?

I squeezed my sweat-soaked sunburnt body into the seat, started the car, turned on the air conditioner and took off.

A few hours later I realized that the horn I had heard honking wasn’t coming from the car, nor was it coming from an echo of the car.  It was coming from the iPhone app itself.  The app mimics the sound of a horn honking.  I had been following my own silly ghost around all afternoon.

Urban Soak

Posted: July 9, 2013 in humor, humour, Life, romance
Tags: , , , , ,



That was the word for it.  I tried out other synonyms.   “Pouring”.  “Pounding”.  “Sneaking”.


The early weather report had called for occasional thunderstorms and brief moments of rain.  I was prepared.

The day before, I had carried my collapsible umbrella onto the subway train.  After getting off at my stop, my ADHD brain said “wait.  Something’s wrong.”  And it wasn’t until the doors closed that I realized I’d left my umbrella on the car.  I watched helplessly as the train picked up speed and nonchalantly took off.  No doubt it would provide someone else some protection.  Not me though.

The next day I watched the weather report, and in particular took note of the word “chance”.  “Chance” as in:  if you bring your umbrella you’re going to be the only person holding one, as everyone else around you – all wearing sunglasses and tans – will smile at you with patronizing derision. 

Still, I had a bit of walking to do, so I hunted down my spare umbrella – the huge clunky one – to carry with me for the day.

When I got out of the massage therapist’s office, I noticed it was …..teeming outside.  “Good” I thought.  Unlike some of those bedraggled sun-tanned miscreants standing in the doorway, waiting for it to settle, I had my giant black Marry Poppins umbrella, all deployed and ready to go.

I stepped out, secure in my dryness, and walked across the street to the bus stop.

Midway through the intersection the rain stopped teeming and began to roar with abandon.  At one point, the only part of me left dry was my face.  Barely.  The rain had sneaked under the umbrella – by virtue of the gunshot pounding at the ground, which could only ricochet up and at my clothing – and soaked me thoroughly.  A girl and I took what shelter we could find in the overhang outside of a dentist’s office.

“Nice weather, huh?” she said, smiling.

“What?” I replied.

“I SAID—never mind” she frowned.

I could barely make out anything she said over the storm’s argument. 


“What? Oh…  Yeah” I rejoined.  I must have intimidated her with my magnificent social skills and verbiage, as she gave up saying anything after that.

I tried though.  “So”, I started.  “SO.  JUST HEADING HOME FROM WORK?” I asked.

She nodded.

The bus came.  We could see the poor travelling souls, standing in the bus aisles, bum to rump and wet clothing all sticking to each other.

She got on.  I said “I’ll wait for the next one”.  I could see it in the distance.

After it arrived, I found an empty seat and sat down, grateful and wet.  The novel I was reading was just getting interesting when the driver announced “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN – THIS BUS IS OUT OF SERVICE AT LAWRENCE”. 

“Are you freaking kidding me?”  It wasn’t until the short older lady with the moustache and hairnet sitting in front of me turned around and glanced my way with a startled expression that I realized I had said it aloud. 

We all bundled out of the bus, and stood in the rain with our shielding umbrellas until the next one arrived.  It was already fairly packed with people, so we had to force our way onto it, bum to rump, all wet and miserable.

Then we noticed something else.  The power was out everywhere.  This meant there were no stoplights.  And this meant that the rate of travel in amongst the rat-like horde of cars went from slow to “oh my God it’s like we’re going backward”.  Some Hasidic Jewish kids, all dressed in black took it upon themselves to direct traffic at one intersection.  They had no umbrellas and looked like they were having a blast.  I smiled, kind of wishing I was a teen again.

The thought of the romance of rain blossomed.  I recalled that first romantic kiss I took with a girl when we were in our teens.  It happened under her see-through umbrella on a dark rainy night.  I remembered the lemony scent of her perfume and the intense, surreal joy of holding her closely, and sharing breath for a while.

Though we all made it to our destinations (after passing drowned cars – so many drowned cars – along the way), I couldn’t help thinking.  One important pass-fail aspect of any future romantic relationships will be my partner’s tolerance or acceptance of rain-enhanced public displays of affection. 

But by that I mean “light rain” not “sneaky, pounding, pouring teeming ricocheting rain”.   That crap’s just gross.

A friend of mine just posted this cartoon on her Facebook wall:


So I responded that we should not forget the other replacements for “said”.  Like “go”, for example.  I illustrated my point with the following:


Jim goes “so I buried the dead hooker, like you asked”.

And Pete’s like “hold up. Not near the petunias!  Dude, I *just* planted those things.”

And Jim’s all “nah, bro. She’s, like, interred and stuff, in your neighbour’s yard.”

And Pete goes “righteous!”


A walk in the mall or a ride on the subway allows you to hear many conversations like the above (minus the dead hooker of course).  Proving, I think, that today’s vernacular has taken a kind of colourful turn.  Would you agree? I’m not at all convinced it’s a bad thing.  My belief is that a word or the usage of a word becomes evident and valid when one person says it, and his listener understands it.   Webster would likely grunt and do his best to turn over in his grave at that notion; however, he would hardly be in a position to object openly.  Therefore my point remains unchallenged.

Contrast the above conversation to this:


James encountered Peter on his morning tour of the neighbourhood. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, James raised an unpleasant topic. “Peter” he said “I have taken care of that matter we discussed yesterday.”

Peter furrowed his brows in confusion. “I’m at a loss as to the meaning of what you just referenced. What matter?”

James replied “oh you know – I have dealt with the recently deceased ‘working girl’ who suffered the misfortune of having a heart attack while in your employ.”

Peter sighed. “In what manner did you – ahem – take care of her?”

James smiled. “Well, I simply dug a shallow hole and planted her in it.”

Peter gasped in surprise. “Oh dear Lord. You didn’t bury her near the petunias did you?”

Scratching his head, James replied “are you truly concerned about your flowers, and not the recently deceased? I am frankly surprised at your glaring coldness, my friend. Are you perhaps an untested psychopath? Do you feel the need to study others’ emotions, so as to mimic them as best you can?”

Peter laughed. “By no means. It’s just that those petunias were chosen by my wife. If they died before their time, I envision my poor wife attempting to dig them up, only to encounter some part of a dead woman’s hand or leg at their roots.”

James sighed with relief. “Worry no more, my good man. I have interred her remains in the garden of your neighbour.”

Peter smiled. “Indeed you are a prince among friends.”


Given the subject  – a deceased prostitute – I would find the above conversation as colourful and as entertaining as the first, albeit for a different reason.

I think this is one of the reasons I love the English language so much.  There are so many different ways to arrive at the same meaning, each method providing a nuance and shade of meaning that differs from the other.

Peer review time:  what are your thoughts on the above?  Are you disgusted by the slaughtering of the English verbal language or are you amused by it, as I am?  Be honest: has some of it crept into your lexicon?


Last night the inner child came out to play.  I was thinking about that seemingly ridiculous saying “if you don’t have your health, you don’t have anything”.   Of course it doesn’t sound so ridiculous when you’re suffering from an illness and you think “if I had a million dollars right now I’d still be miserable and wouldn’t be able to enjoy it.”   So, in a sense, the saying is somewhat valid.  Let’s just say it’s one of the prerequisites for everything else.

Still, the kid wanted to play.  And so I tried to post something to my Facebook page which was too long, so I had to truncate it.  The following is what I wanted to post.  Abe replied with an addition, and then I added some more.  Feel free to add your own.

You have everything, if you have your health.

And $15 million dollars.

And a beautiful spouse.  With a big house.

And a wine cellar.

And a speed boat.

No, a schooner.

Wait. No. A luxury yacht.

That’s it.  If you have these things, then you have everything.

Wait.  No.  A rocking bod.  If you have these things, and a six-pack, then you have–

And an infinity pool.  Behind the big house.

Big houses.  An infinity pool behind all six…sixteen of your big houses, which are all around the world.

That’s it.  If you have all these things, and your health, then you have…..

And an island.  If you have all these things, and an island where you can paraglide.

Then you have everything.

(And maybe some grapes, fed to you by your beautiful spouse)

…..wait…I’m not finished….

And a mountain named after you…
…with a castle on it
…that you live in
…when you feel like it

‎…and the castle has a winding staircase….
….and a fireman pole that you can slide down when you don’t feel like walking…..
….and there’s a pride of lion cubs, for playing with, and for taking care of the rats…..
…and a freshwater moat all around that doubles as yet another swimming area….and trees with lights that shine down, with built in speakers that plays the best music……
….and this is all located in a place down south where there’s never any winter……
..then you have everything


Posted: March 12, 2010 in humor, humour, Life
Tags: , , ,

It all started when my friend Abe (you’ll see him in my blogroll) asked a question I had asked myself so many times before.  I don’t think he’ll mind my sharing it here, as I’m sure many of you have asked the same thing too.

Which is:  is there a way to email a blog that you read to someone’s email account? 

I started to reply to him and then thought “hey maybe I should take a good look” and so that’s what I did. 

Or started to do.

I went to’s personal dashboard, which is basically a menu system that allows you to customize the crap out of your blog.   Everything from general appearance to widgets (that’s those things you see along the side of this blog, like stats, and twitter comments and the like), to how many nested comments are allowed.  (I set mine at the max, by the way, which is ten.  Apparently that’s still not nearly enough).

And then I discovered a menu item called “domains”.  

“Hmm” I thought.  “Maybe there’s something in there.”

I’m an IT guy, so I know damned well there would be nothing in there having to do with emailing blogs elsewhere.   Still, my ears were up and so I went sniffing around.

“Interesting!” I thought.  This was clearly an item that, when accessed, would allow you to provide your own domain for your blogs.  I didn’t have a domain though.

“Hmmm.   I wonder if anyone’s chosen yet”  (Those of you who’ve looked at your address bar at the top of your browser now might have an idea where this is going.)

So…I went to  Bear in mind: I still hadn’t replied back to Abe’s email yet.

Nope. was available.   For only $7.99 or something.  Such a deal.  I thought I should go for it.

So I decided to buy the domain.

The sign up area wanted an email address, and not one of those throw-away free ones either.   The website indicated that a email address would work.

“How do I get one of those?” I wondered.  “Maybe I should click on ‘new account’ and I’ll get one that way.”  The website wasn’t clear.

I set up my new account, but it was still wanted an email address, so I gave it the one I’m using.

“There” I thought.  “Done.”

But wait.  Where’s the email?

So I spent another fifteen minutes looking around for that option, clicking on various links.  And then finally I found it.  And yes, it costs money.

“Well screw that” I thought, disgusted.  “I already pay enough for my current Apple email account”

So…I went back and purchased my domain.  And I also bought the Canadian version – – just to keep it safe and out of other people’s hands.

Then came the add-ons.

“Do you want five email accounts with 2 Gigs of storage?”

“Or maybe ten email accounts with unlimited storage?”

“Or do you want the Deluxe package?”  (Ten email accounts, unlimited storage and I think a yearly vacation in the Bahamas and they come take your ex mother-in-law away, never to be seen again.  I could have that last one wrong though.)

I started to sign up for the middle option so that I could have unlimited storage.  Then I thought “what in heck am I going to do with ten email accounts?  That’s just stupid.  And do I need storage?  No.  Absolutely not.”

“In fact, I don’t even need one email account.”  And with that, I clicked on “remove”.

“Do you want to protect your domain?”   From what?  Raiding invaders?  Gingivitis?   I read a bit further.  Apparently there are people who will park themselves, just waiting for your account to lapse just so that they can scoop the domain.  Yup.  Need to protect myself.  So I clicked on “buy”.

“What about privacy?  Do you want your real name, address and email blasted across the internet, whenever someone does a WHOIS on”  (Not in those words of course.)   Absolutely not.   I’ve got stalkers out there (long story, and another blog).  I figured I’d better buy my privacy too.

“We’re assuming you want two years on this account right?”   I looked at the bottom line.  We were into about $120.00 by now, so I changed that to one year.

“Do you want people to know your website is safe?”   Kind of like “stampsies” I suppose, where you slam your foot to the ground and say “HOMEFREE!”   Yes, I suppose I want people ot know my site is safe.  Buy.

Are we freaking done yet?

Nope.  “Time to pay sucker sir.  How do you want to do this?  Credit card?  PayPal?  Two goats and a pig?  Staring contest?”

I made my chose and, just before I click on “buy” I noticed that there was a little field called “coupon code”.

SCORE!  That must mean I can get this a bit cheaper.

So I googled “coupon code for godaddy”.  Found a site immediately, and plugged in a coupon code. 

The page refreshed.   The cost hadn’t gone down.   Damn.

I went back to the coupon page and chose another one and plugged that one in.

The page refreshed, and there it was.  $10.00 cheaper.

Man do I rock.

So.  Are we done NOW?

Not quite, as it turned out.   It took a bunch of verification mechanisms, including one phone call to my cell phone, before godaddy confirmed my purchase of the two domains.   Time to plug that sucker into WordPress.

I tried. I clicked on Domains and then entered

“Sorry dude.  We can’t even see you ever here.  Did you enter it correctly?  Did you wiggle the mouse?”

I had.  But I did it again, because as everyone knows it takes a least two tries at doing the same exact thing before it works.  Right?

Wrong.  It didn’t work.  WordPress suggested that I needed to add their name servers (it’s a long story.  If you’re in IT you’ll understand but if you’re not, don’t worry your pretty little head about it, ‘k?).   Anyway, I went back to and entered wordpress’ name servers.    Then I went back to WordPress and tried it again.

It worked.  But we weren’t quite done.  WordPress wanted its slice of the pie too.  “That’s gonna cost ya, buddy.”   It sure did.  $7.99 per annum.

I paid, and now finally, it worked.

But wait.  What was I trying to do in the first place?

Oh right.  Figure out if it’s possible to email a blog to someone.   I spent another five minutes looking around and googling.


And so finally, two and half hours after Abe sent me the message, I finally replied back to him.    

Sorry, Abe.   I just lost focus again.  I would tell you that it won’t happen again but …. I’d be lying.

Who knew a simple email would cost me $62.00?   

Got any more questions for me, buddy?  :)

Crashing the Gates of Consciousness

Posted: February 23, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , ,

OK I started writing this blog without attempting to title it first.  That will come after, and then you’ll get to see how utterly awe-inspiring my writing can be. 

First off – my hat is off to fellow bloggers Simply Nadia Chyme – who wrote a blog about her writing process and Roger’s Place in Cyber Space, whose email provoked her wonderful blog.  (By the way, those who know me will appreciate the fact that I never flatter anyone.  I try always just to speak the truth.  When I say her blog is wonderful, I mean it.  Go check it out for yourself.)

Nadia’s blog inspired this one, is what I’m trying to say.

So the question everyone wants to know (well, everyone who has followed me here from anyway) is:  dear Wolfie – how do you come up with some of the terrific stuff that you write? 

As mentioned in a earlier blog:  there are about a zillion thoughts that go through my head within a half hour.  I have taken the liberty of saving myself some hard-earned cash – thus avoiding the psychiatrist’s office – by self-diagnosing myself as having ADD.  I think that’s the catalyst for this explosion of thought that comes my way, every day, without fail.  So really, when it comes to topics, there is no dry desert in this noggin of mine.  No, the tough part comes in deciding which shiny thing in my skull is deserving of attention at the moment.

A friend of mine once said: “I’ll bet you could write about anything – even toilet paper.”   Her thought intrigued me, so I decided to try to do just that.  It seemed to work, too.  If you’re willing to make a little bit of a fool of yourself, you can sometimes accomplish Great Things.

Hmm.  That last paragraph provokes another thought.  No surprise, I suppose.  We’ll get back to that thought near the end.

Seriously, though – once you become self-aware, you begin to learn a heck of a lot more about yourself and about people in general, then you ever did when you were just going through the motions of life.  (If pushed, I can explain that thought further, but really it’s another blog).   In real life verbal conversation, I like to blather long and intensely about some of the things I’ve learned.  This does not translate well to a written format, as it can get a bit long-winded or dull.  I like to avoid dullness when possible and in fact when speaking with someone who’s making dull conversation over the phone, I’ll usually find a way to end the call as quickly as possible.  “Sorry, but my toupeé just caught on fire.  I have to go.”  (I don’t have a toupeé, by the way – I have a full head of spikey hair. )

There are times when one of these life lessons seems to jump out for attention so I’ll spend some time thinking of real situations and examples, usually while typing, and so that’s how the process gets started.  Since humour is important to me (bad childhood, multiple siblings, a need for a way to release the bad energy, you can take it from there), there is a tendency to wrap significant and serious situations in a humorous bubble-wrap.   Those who aren’t me can find this annoying; they don’t seem to appreciate the loud noises that attend the process of popping those bubbles.  People sometimes think I can’t take anything seriously.  I like it when they make that mistake: it puts me under the radar, so to speak, and I get to learn more.   (And poke them more, too)

This all shows itself in my writing.  At least, I try to make sure it’s there.  If it isn’t, I’ll scrap the entire blog.  Before you ask – yes, I’ve done that many times.

There are times when I have no idea what to say; times when I just have to write, period.  That’s when it gets really interesting:   I’ll sit down at the computer, click on “New Post” and just start writing.  I have no idea what I’m going to say, either.  It just comes out and I’m either entertained or on the rare occasion, disappointed.  If the latter, then it goes to the trash.  If I can read my blog two times and find it entertaining, I’ll keep it.  In the end, I write for me.

Sometimes the only frustration  is finding the right ending.  It’s possible to write what one believes to be a provocative and thoughtful blog, only to discover there’s no easy way to end it.  Let’s face it: the last thing you read in a good blog is the last line, and if it doesn’t punch you somehow, it seems to lose some of its luster, right?  So it’s got to end well. 

Which of course brings me to the end of this blog, and how to end it.

Remember earlier in this blog – about the seventh paragraph from the top – when discussing my “toilet paper” blog, we talked about a thought I had after that?  Well here it is:

Maybe we should challenge each other, whether we’re here on WordPress or over on Myspace.  Maybe this will help our artistic writing abilities somehow.  Or maybe we’ll just have some fun with it.

Here’s the challenge, then:

You are to write a blog about pencils.   That’s it.  Pencils.   There are no rules for this blog:  it can be poetry or prose, funny or serious.  It can be as long as you like, or you can make a Haiku out of it.  Do it.

And if you choose to take this challenge, in return, you get to challenge me with writing about something.

Go ahead – I dare you.  I double-dog dare you.