A shot to the nuts — now that's funny

Nobody can stand her.
You know her, she’s that girl.
She’s the one who never went through the ugly phase. She’s the one who, at 13, never spent hours looking in front of a mirror and wondering if anyone was ever going to love her, if she was going to end up like her solitary aunt, in her solitary town home, lounging on a wicker recliner and reading the real romance novels, you know the ones, the ones with the long-haired Fabio’s on the front, the ones that don’t even try to disguise their genre through a cleverly worked cover and a half-assed attempt at plot.
Rather, she was the only one who actually looked cool with a side-crimped ponytail. Should she become famous, there won’t be any ugly teenager photos in her albums. She never had crooked teeth, never had to wear headgear, and never had to pay attention to the warning: “if you pop it, it’ll leave a scar.”
No little girl can stand up to the horror that is the face of Bryan Adams.
Nobody can stand her, but at least she’s honest. At least she is awesome.
There’s someone on this earth that I actually dislike more than that girl, however, and I figured it out while conducting an interview the other day.
The man I interviewed was a humor columnist — award-winning even.
He has just finished his fifth book and was headed for a tour of the States.
I called him up expecting to be laughing and loe, what was this?
The man is not funny.
Like a really frothy-mouthed, lispy, can’t seem to remember to wash my hair and change out of my food-crusted shirt person thinking he or she is the next Giselle Bundchen, this man believes he is humorous, bills himself as a funny guy, and is the most unfunny individual I have come across in yonks.
And it upset me.
Growing up there was a little girl who lived down the street and she wasn’t very bright. She wanted everybody to like her, but nobody really did because she was annoying as hell. She’d show up and want to play, and sometimes, if nobody else were available, you’d let her, but by the end of the day you’d be ready to claw your eyes out because she was so eager to please she’d laugh at anything.
In Grade 2 she actually claimed responsibility for farts she didn’t commit in a desperate attempt to get laughs.
Her name was Tara. And forever after, whenever I watch a really stupid commercial on television, or read a really stupid bumper sticker I think: “Tara’d laugh.”
And she’d be in hysterics for this humor columnist.
At one point in the interview I asked him what inspired him lately.
He said his dog. His dog is funny when it watches the squirrels play.
And this guy actually makes a living on being funny.
I want my money back and I haven’t even bought his book.

Even my hair hurts

It’s been three full days and I’m still in agony.
I know what you’re thinking, and no, I wasn’t riding the bull at Roosters, or practicing my dance moves, or honing up on my bow staff skills.
Rather, I was learning to snowboard. Learning, however, is being kind.
I spent my Sunday up at Mt. Seymour reacquainting myself with God.
Yes, that was me, throwing myself down an icy mountainside, shouting His name and hoping to hell He was paying attention to me and my husband who was busy doing the exact same thing, minus the “Oh, sweet Jesus. Sweet baby Jesus’s!”
Yes, I’m still sore, but my abs are likely as sore from laughing at hapless, but determined, Ken as they are from balancing on a narrow, fiberglass strip.
There’s nothing quite as hilarious as watching someone with absolutely no skill for the sport aspire to be the head of the class. When the instructor (I am being generous here, because the instructor was pretty much retarded) asked who wanted to be first, Ken got up (however briefly) and set the gold standard.
He must have bailed about 10 times on his way down the bunny hill, arms and legs flying. Each time he bailed, he got back up again, determined to best that blasted board.
Eventually he did, by gum.
I took it a little slower, fell a little more gracefully, but just as often.
And only once did I manage to vanquish the rope tow. Only once did it succumb to me, and in challenging it so many times and failing, I managed to rip the crap out of a pair of loaner gloves.
Little pieces of those mitts are now scattered across the mountainside.
I left myself on Mt. Seymour.
But I will go back.
I will triumph over this sport.
I’m also going back because I wrote a nasty letter to the ski school about our crummy instructor.
Turns out folks, if you want free stuff, just write a letter of complaint.
Works every time.

Trade you a shiny nickle for a hovercraft

Nowhere else in the province is there a radio station dedicated to covering traffic 24 hours per day.
And to be truthful, I no longer want to live in the only place in the province that boasts this amenity.
I want to go back to living somewhere where the biggest traffic jam is found at the entrance to the local liquor store on a Friday night.
I want to go back to living somewhere where the biggest traffic jam means waiting five minutes to cross the Overlander Bridge during “rush hour.”
That’s what I want, and I’ll tell you why.
Last night I left work at about 5:30 p.m. — keep in mind I don’t work in Downtown Vancouver, and I actually plotted my living/work arrangements so as to avoid traffic congestion.
Nevertheless, the quaint little boat known as the Albion Ferry always holds me hostage. It transports weary commuters back and forth between Maple Ridge and Fort Langley.
Last night, I arrived at the terminal shortly after 5:30 p.m. and was forced to park along the road because the parking lot was packed. Eventually I found my way into the parking lot where I proceeded to wait for more than an hour to catch a boat.
Finally, when I landed in Fort Langley, I trundled along Glover Road and spotted break lights ahead, snaking their way toward me, toward the ferry terminal.
After sitting, twiddling my fingers in my car for nearly half an hour, trying to use my telekinesis to get this line moving, I called the guy at AM 730 “All traffic, all the time,” to ask what’s up.
He told me there was a train stopped on the track blocking the entrance into Langley. That train had been sitting there for a half-hour at least, the wise traffic guru said.
One would think I’d just turn around, go another route, but the only route out of the situation would be to get in line at the ferry terminal and wait another hour, go back to where I came from and take the Port Mann bridge to Langley.
Ah, fun times.
Eventually the lineup got moving and I found myself traveling along a dirt road in a new housing development, winding along Fort Langley’s back roads, and finally getting home before the Office began at 8 p.m.
I live about 20 km from my work. It took me 2 ½ hours to get home.
I need a new job in a different part of the province.
You hiring?

Must read

Am I the last one to get on this boat?
Although there is nothing about a boat in the book, there's nothing about a boat involved in my reading said book, and I don't really know what the term actually means, I am sure about one thing.
This novel, set in the 1940s Cajun country, was written in 1997 by Earnest J. Gaines and made the Oprah list so the writer is obviously a cabillionaire now.
A Lesson Before Dying was also made into a TV move or miniseries or some such featuring Don Cheadle. It got a couple of Emmys. I didn't see it, but whatever.
But it is amazing. I didn't want to read it, was reluctant, as I knew there could be no traditionally happy ending, but I plugged on.
Then, last night, as I'm laying in bed reading the end and sobbing like a retard I was so glad I had picked it up. I couldn't stop sniffling and eventually, Ken, who had to get up at 5 a.m. got a bit grumpy with me.
But it was worth it.
Brilliant book, astounding message. Ah, read it. Love it.

And the trial of the century gets underway

Apparently, Pickton, a 56-year-old Port Coquitlam pig farmer, confessed to killing 49 women and he wanted to go for the even 50.
I suppose even crazies have to have goals.
I'm just astonished by the fact that dozens of women had gone missing in the Downtown Eastside, and law enforcement only managed to find this guy, presuming he's guilty of course, because they had a weapons warrant. They found the severed heads, hands, feet, asthma medicine, all by accident.
And I'm going to be tuning in, reading about this, because I'm fascinated as to what Willy's defence is going to consist of. Sure he confessed, but only after a gruelling 11-hour interview. Sure body parts were found on his pig farm, but he'd never seen them before.
Hey, it's a big farm.
Looks like he might take the old Shaggy defence, but I doubt whether the "Wasn't me" refrain will convince the jury.
Even though it doesn't look like mr. Will has a hope of getting off on this one, man, if he did, what then? The guy's been in jail for five years. Aside from the cabillions we've already spent to house him, investigate him and ready the court for his trial, how much would he have to be paid if they couldn't make it stick?
Not that that'll happen, I'm just a wonderin'.

Welcome, friends

It would appear I have jumped on the blog bandwagon, or is a blogwagon, a little late.
Sitting on my couch on a Saturday afternoon watching a rerun of Gene Simmon's Family Jewels on A&E (yes, in order to know it for the rerun that it was, I had to have watched it before, sadly), and it dawned on me.
I must blog.
But I continued on, watching the show, laughing, Ha, Ha, he can't put down his cellphone, Ha, Ha!
Eventually, when I assumed bedsores were to be had if I sat much longer, and knowing I didn't want to go the way of Christopher Reeves, I got up and drove to the mall.
On the way home, stuck in traffic as is always the case in the Lower Mainland, I began peering around at my fellow motorists.
My eyes were darting, darting, and finally alighted on the rearview mirror, and to my horror, there was a woman there in a red car behind me. I know you're wondering what kind of car she was driving, but that, my friend, is immaterial. And no, I don't have a problem with red cars, that's not what caused my horror.
It's what she was doing that was cause for commotion.
This woman was staring up into her own rearview mirror, but she wasn't using it to look backwards, rather, she was using this spare moment in traffic to aggressively pop a pimple.
Her 14-year-old son, we'll call him Jaxson (as I hear folks these days think that's a cool name, and it's made even cooler by spelling with an 'x') sits, plugged into his iPod, every once in a while looking over at his pimple-popping mother and not saying a word.
Now I've spent a lot of time in traffic, and I've seen a lot of things, my friend. I have seen the classic makeup application, the tooth brushing, the shaving.
I had yet to see the pimple popping, and though it grossed me out somewhat, it also excited me. This was something new, something I needed to share with the world.
Because who knows how long it will be until this woman drives into your neighbourhood.
I'll be your window to the world if you let me.