Today people irritate me because....

I know most people are less intelligent than myself. This allows me to comment on the behaviour of those around me with little fear of reproach.
That said here’s what bothers me on this day, Wednesday March 28, 2007. Let it stand on the record that I, Danna Bach, take issue with my fellow human beings.
Often parents tell their children to use their words — instead of their fists — to solve disputes.
I suppose parents ought to be a little clearer on which words, and when it’s appropriate to use them.
For example, while it might be totally acceptable to throw down a dirty word in the comfort of your own vehicle, while situated in front of your own television set during a hockey game, or after you stub your toe on your bed frame when you get up to use the loo in the middle of the night, there are other locales where those F-bombs are about as desirable as a pimple on prom night. A mouse in your Milk Duds. A hair in your hot dog, etc.
Case in point — as I was leaving a packed movie theatre Sunday night, a man began shouting about how “F-----g hot!” it was in there, it was so “f-----g hot, man.”
Indeed, it was so “f-----g hot,” the man nearly “lost his s—t!”
That’s a shame. I hate losing anything, chapstick, socks, eyelash curlers. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose your s—t, especially in a crowded movie theatre. How embarrassing.
There’s nothing really wrong with cussing, the best of us have done it in the worst of times; there is something therapeutic about putting all your frustrations into a single syllable.
But there’s a time and a place to lose your s—t.
The time to do so isn’t while you’re exiting the movie theatre, and it’s not while you’re standing in line at Wal Mart, though so many of us have wanted to lose our s—t in this exact location. It’s not during a loud conversation in a family restaurant, and it’s not while you’re chatting on your cellphone while working out at the gym.
(Yeah, that’s another irritant — who are these people that call people while working out? I understand eating Gummy Bears while working out, they’re delicious, but talking on your cellphone? Come on! Get off the treadmill and go buy a sweater for your Chihuahua or something. I hate you.)
But back to the blasphemy. There are other words that are less aggressive and work well. Good substitutes that I’ve found include “Balls!,” “Jeebus!,” and “Dirty Mother!” Any or all will suffice.
And, keep in mind that the frequency with which you cuss heightens or weakens the impact of the word. Think about it, if Courtney Love throws down, you wouldn’t bat an eye, but if, say, the child from Little Miss Sunshine started cursing up a storm, you’d all stop and look.
And really, even after the plastic surgery, who wants to be Courtney Love?
Nobody.

Dangerous but delicious

This letter was forwarded to me today from a friend who was, decidedly, a loser in the Timmy lottery.
I felt that not only does this letter provide a good warning to those who are also rolling the rim, but might also spawn some discussion around appropriate rim rolling methods.
The letter writer did not wish to be named. You can call her Jennifer Garner — get it, Alias, get it?

Dear Tim Hortons,

Although I do thoroughly enjoy your delicious caffeine beverages and assortment of baked goods, I feel that, in light of recent events, I must send you this letter of concern.
On the morning of March 20, 2007, I purchased a medium coffee from one of your Kamloops, B.C. locations. Having almost finished the coffee, I decided to "Roll up the Rim" to see if perhaps I had won one of a variety of prizes. I first read the disclaimer written on the paper cup: Aucune obligation d'achat. Chances de gagner un prix: 1 sur 9. Response a une question subsidiare exigee pour les residents du Canada. Vour tous les details dans les restaurants participants et a deroulelebordpourgagner.com.
After realizing that I, in fact, do not speak French, I began the arduous task of rolling up the rim using my lower teeth to begin the rolling process. Before I could finish, however, the cup slipped under the pressure of the combination hand-mouth motion and spilled all over my white blouse with particular concentration in the left breastal area. Alarmed, I immediately stopped, dropped and rolled, but this did nothing. Sadly, I was forced to work the remainder of the day wearing a giant coffee stain.
I am not certain if I shall ever recover from the many stares and comments said stain drew from my male co-workers. I would like to think they were simply checking out my left breastal area, however, the accompanying comments led me to believe otherwise. My rack has been forever disgraced by an unruly Double-Double.
As a loyal patron of your coffee houses across British Columbia for many years now, I feel I must send you this letter with the hope that similar tragedies may be avoided in the future.
In 1974 had Tim Horton not gotten smashed and bravely taken his Pantera sports car for an ill-fated drive at 160 km/hour, perhaps he would still be with us. If he were, I ask you, would he stand idly by as people like myself suffer needlessly at the hands of poorly designed corporate contests? I think not.
Déshonorer sur vous Tim Hortons! Yes that's right, I do speak French after all. Doesn't feel good to be misled by those you trust, now does it?
Regards,
Jennifer Garner (get it, Alias, get it?)
Coffee Consumer & Seeker of Free Doughnuts

Cold hearted indeed

Sneriously, look into his eyes.
Uh oh, he’s been tellin’ lies.
Ah, Paula, how well you compose. Those were the glory days, before the painkillers, before Emilio ditched your ass.
But while life is full of riches and devoid of happiness for some, my life is quite the opposite these days.
This week, for example, was full of stories. As the rain came down, I giggled with glee. As backyards flooded, were washed wholly away, my fingers sailed along the keyboard, typey-type-type-type.
Is there another job that revels so much in the misery of others?
I can’t be happy standing in back of somebody’s dream home — a home I’ll never be able to afford — and snapping shots at the devastation caused by a river that opted to switch courses and traverse through the decadent landscaping, and sail right on through the back windows.
No, I can’t be happy.
But how boring it would be if all I managed to do was write forgettable missives about 100th birthday parties, school plays and new businesses.
Why, I think I’d shoot myself.
So this week was one to rejoice in my career choice. And now it’s raining once more, and because of this next week is looking up as well.
Also on the agenda this week was a trip to the local veterinarian — no, not for me, I get my teeth cleaned at the mechanics.
A reptile enthusiast, this local vet was asked by the Vancouver SPCA to care for a seized albino Burmese Python. The snake had been left alone for a month in a Vancouver storefront, with no food and no water.
Apparently, however, these constrictors can last eons without nourishment, but it’s not recommended they go without water. So, while it’s not fairing too badly, the beast is still under observation locally, and on Wednesday I got a chance to visit the scaly thing’s temporary digs.
The python weighs in at 70 pounds or so, and stretches out a mere nine and a half feet.
And, according to the vet, “it’s pissed.” Snakes don’t like commotion, it turns out, and, being much like myself, don’t enjoy being bandied about from place to place.
They’re homebodies, really.
It was actually growling, and at points sounded more like a kettle blithering about on a hot stove than the clichéd hissing one would expect. I had no idea snakes were such noisy creatures.
At one point it coiled back and the vet asked politely for me to move. I stepped back immediately, and as I did so it lunged toward the camera.
Very cool in retrospect, but I nearly wet myself at the time.
At the end of the day I’m a bit girly. I didn’t mind getting close to the coiler, but I didn’t attempt to touch or hold the beast.

Hips don't lie

One dark and stormy night at a Greek restaurant in Burnaby, the writer sat, nibbling at pita bread, chatting amiably with the five other newswomen who had gathered to gossip, enjoy a meal, share some laughs.
Giggling, moaning about men, bosses, co-workers and pregnancy (not the writer’s, rest assured), the women barely noticed the slight Greek pop music playing through tinny speakers.
But wait!
Suddenly, as a flash of lightning punctuates a really scary movie, the volume soared, the lights dimmed, and all at once the women turned to see what had caused the fuss.
No! It couldn’t be!
But it was, it really, really was.
Glancing to the left, to the main dining area, the women caught a flash of blue, and then, before they knew what happened, the shining blueness turned.
This was not an apparition, not a dazzling genie here to grant their demands.
This was a shocking beast, more ferocious than Robert Deniro in Raging Bull, more frightening than Queen Latifah in Chicago.
A male belly dancer.
“No!” they shouted.
“Yes!” his hips seemed to reply.
“Egads!” The women shouted in unison, knowing the exclamation would only bring the beast closer didn’t help to contain their shock.
Upon spying the women he approached, mistaking their cry of alarm for a shout of pleasure, misunderstanding their looks of astonishment for appreciative glances.
Sequins glimmering, oiled body glistening in the candle light, hips swaying back, forth, jutting with each slap of the finger cymbal he carried as his weapon, he grew ever nearer.
Closer he got until the stench of his cologne overpowered, until the reek of hairspray and cosmetics made the women nearly cough up the recently ingested hummus.
“Don’t make eye contact,” the writer whispered to her colleagues. “Just look away.”
“I hate white rabbits, I hate white rabbits, I hate white rabbits,” was being mumbled by the woman to the writer’s right.
But, like videos portraying pregnant ladies dressed up as clowns and high on hallucinogens, the women couldn’t look away, no matter the consequence.
Just then, the writer glanced up in time to see the beast, the bangle-bedecked man place himself behind the chair of the woman directly across the table, and with a few quick slaps of the cymbals, he juts his hips into her chair, forcing her head forward, once, twice, three times — NO MORE!
He stops, spent, turns away, and from beneath fake lashes, the writer can see his eyes dart about the room, looking for the next victim.
There are so many to choose from. Will you be next?

Sorta see the resemblance

Did you know?
Did you know that the leading cause of blindness is — wait for it — battery explosions?
That’s right. Sitting in the line up at the Albion Ferry on Thursday night, one of the attendants busted out some gigantic Motomaster battery charger machine to give some juice to a stalled vehicle when I overheard her impart this bit of wisdom.
And here I though masturbation was behind all the bumping into walls. Sheesh, learn something from a ferry every day.
And then I arrived at work the next day to this: “Did you know the guy who plays David Bowie’s assistant in The Prestige is the same guy who played Gollum?”
Now, I could have, as one member of the work crew did, pretended to know this little bit of tripe, this smidgen of non-important information, but I didn’t.
I’m not averse to displaying my ignorance. Heck, I know a lot of things, but no, I had no idea the guy who played David Bowie’s assistant in The Prestige was the same guy who played Gollum.
I should have known, considering I’m a huge Gollum fan myself, have posters, life-size plush toys, the lunchbox/thermos set, and the telephone shaped like him that says “My precious” when it rings…get it, rings, in like Lord of the Rings. Gawd I’m hilarious.
It’s funny the things a person recalls through life, the things we will never forget. The things that stick with us and pop up randomly, whether it is through some obscure Jeopardy! question, or while watching a much edited version of Joe Dirt on TBS.
Did you know that raccoons don’t have salivary glands? That’s why they wash their food before they eat it.
That little bit of trivia comes straight from Mrs. Marples Grade 1 class at Fraserview Elementary School, circa 1984.
Did you know that the really popular girls from high school will invariably end up skinny, sporting low self-esteem and drug abusing ex-husbands 10 years later? That little bit of info comes courtesy of the class of 1996 Mission Secondary Grad Reunion.
Did you know that, I, Danna Bach, know more about random celebrities than I do my closest friends?
For instance, I know that the other day Paris Hilton was found driving with a suspended licence, I know that Jessica Biel had to leave a Stella McCartney fashion show because she was hung-over from a raging party the night before, and I know that Jennifer Garner is staying in White Rock as she films in Vancouver.
I don’t know what my friends are doing this weekend, if they’re having relationship problems or if they’ve seen any good movies lately.
But I know that Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams are on the rocks.
Why do I know these things, and does knowing them make me a bad person, or just a shallow one?