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?