Category: Humor

It’s Summer – Live With It!

summer

It’s not even midsummer and I’m grouchy already.  One more 50 calibre motorcycle screaming through my tranquil afternoon and I swear I’m going to ….  Actually, I’m probably not going to do anything except grumble about it in the privacy of my own head.  That’s the problem with summer: ya can’t do anything about it.  And now that I’m on the subject, here are a few other things — ya just can’t do anything about.

The price of airline tickets is never the same as the one they advertise. — According to some recent TV ads, I can go from Vancouver to London and back for $799.00 — except I can’t.  I guarantee you, if I show up at the airline ticket counter with $800.00, I will NOT — I repeat, NOT — get a return ticket to London and a dollar change.  Why?  ‘Cause there’s the fuel surcharge, the airport fee, the sales tax. the departure gouge, the baggage scam, the seat selection swindle, the in-flight menu con job and, I’m sure, the You’re-A-Dumbass-Tourist tax is hiding in there somewhere.  The truth is, by the time the airlines get finished with all their extra charges, the price of your $799.00 ticket is so outrageous that the only thing you’ll be able to afford to do, once you get to London, is beg in the streets!

Fast food never looks like the picture. — Take a look at a photograph of the Burrito Supremo, and it’s huge: fat and round and bursting with meat, peppers and melting cheese.  You can practically smell the fried onions.  Buy it and what you get is this sorry, deflated tube of hamburger and diced veggie surprise, wrapped in an dingy grey tortilla.  Pick it up and it sags in the middle and starts oozing orange out the bottom.  (Cheese sweat?)

Nobody but Stephen Hawking can understand a contemporary telephone plan. — Like everybody on this planet, I have a mobile phone and like everybody on this planet, the person who sold it to me gave me 20 minutes of gibberish and 30 seconds to make up my mind about “Which plan is right” for me.  King Solomon had more time to make a decision, and he had information he could understand.

And there’s more:

Emails that keep on giving, even though you’ve unsubscribed — daily — for the last two weeks.
The parent in front of you at the ATM who’s trying to teach their 4-year-old how to electronically renegotiate a mortgage.
The pedestrian who’s halfway across the street and can’t figure out whether to walk, run or hide from oncoming traffic.
Coffee drinkers who abandon their empty cups wherever and whenever the whim takes them.
Joggers and cyclists who insist on traveling side-by-side and driving anyone coming the other way into the weeds to get around them.  “Yeah, you’re healthier than I am.  Big wow!”
Wine snobs.
Trump haters who refuse to change the subject — even though you’ve told them 12 times that you’ve already heard what an idiot the guy is.

And finally:

There’s going to be somebody out there who’s more than willing to point out that these are all First World Problems. — Yeah, I know, and I’m sure you’re a better person than I am — but I’m hot and sweaty and I’m not hurting anybody.  Besides, admit it or not, sometimes, it just feels good to bitch.

This Computer Generation

generations

I have discovered the real reason that we have children and encourage our children to have children.

Last week, one of my lights went out.  A blue dot, it had glowed on a dusty, black molded plastic device on the corner of my desk.  Normally, since you can land airplanes from the various indicator lights shining around my house, I wouldn’t have cared or even noticed.  However, when this little bastard committed suicide, he took the Internet with him.

[Just so you know, I’m not a Luddite.  I love technology.  But I’m a Techno-dinosaur.  I don’t know a bit from a byte from a bot, and I don’t trust any of them because of my ignorance.  Techno-answers elude me because I don’t know the right techno-questions to ask.  In fact, I don’t even speak the language and — full disclosure — I don’t actually think in techno-terms.  Technology and I are like two pages of a closed book: we touch at every point of our existence, but we’re completely different.]

Anyway …  losing the Internet, without warning, was like suddenly being struck blind.  The panic was palpable.  I started thrashing around, waving my arms in the cyber darkness — propelling the mouse and hitting keys like a Rhesus monkey.  “Reboot!  Reboot!  They always tell you to reboot.”  I rebooted.  I swore.  I swore some more.  I started  randomly turning thing off and turning them back on again.  I unplugged.  I plugged.  I reversed cables.  I disconnected various wires and stuck them into a variety of other holes.  I realized I couldn’t remember what went where, anymore.  I unleashed a torrent of obscenities that is still hanging over the Pacific Ocean like a radioactive cloud.  I stopped.  I roared in frustration.  I wept.  I went for a walk.  I came back, sat down and looked at the dismantled mess on my desk.  This went on for three days and on the fourth day, I reached for the comfort of 2Oth century technology and telephoned my niece — my great-niece actually — on a land line.

Like Ground Control to Apollo 13, she methodically guided me through the reassembly process, calmly reconstructed the disaster, assessed the situation and isolated the problem.

“No, Uncle Bill!  The Internet doesn’t hate you; it’s your modem.”
“No, you can’t fix it.  You need to buy a new one.  Why don’t you get a good one this time?”
Then, she spoke gibberish for a minute and a half, and I dutifully wrote it all down.

The next day, I went to the retail techno-scoundrels with the note from my niece.  They pillaged my credit card and gave me a box large enough to hide their treachery.  Inside, there was a new black molded plastic device and a pamphlet of illustrated instruction.  I followed the instructions to the letter (picture?) plugged it in and — a miracle happened!  There was a little green light, shining bravely in the sun-drenched summer afternoon, and I knew I had been delivered.  I sank to my knees in praise of all that I know to be holy and thanked the Almighty that my sisters had indeed gone forth and multiplied.  Now I understand that, without a second, third and even a fourth generation to guide us through the labyrinth of technology, it would run amok.

And from there, it would only be a matter of time before we found ourselves up to our elbows in Terminators.

 

We Need New Rules

new rulesWe need some new rules.  Let’s face it, folks: we live in childish times.  Our opinions are no longer thoughtful and measured but instant and shrill.  Our discussions are loud and unruly: our voices are pouty.  We whine and complain, and we’re constantly throwing temper tantrums when we don’t get what we want.  (Take a peek at Hamburg this week.)  In short, we’ve become a bunch of bratty children.  So, it’s time we set up a few boundaries.  Here are some suggestions: feel free to add to the list.

Like fishing, hunting and driving a car, people must have a license before they’re allowed to use Social Media.  They must pass a test that proves they’re actually smarter than a four-year-old before they can have a Facebook, Twitter or Instagram account.

If you’re having a serious political discussion, you cannot refer to President Trump as a “jerk,” an “idiot,” a “moron” or a “dumbass.”  It’s been six months of wall-to-wall name calling.  We get it.  Give it a rest!

Grown men must not wear short pants if they are more than 5 metres away from a beach, a playground, a picnic spot or their own backyard.  (Guys, what don’t you understand about “grown man?”)

Baseball caps must be worn the right way round.  Look, ya moron! Wearing them backwards actually defeats the whole purpose of the hat.

Old men on loud motorcycles must seek professional help for their penis anxiety.

A baby stroller is not a weapon.  Therefore, it cannot be larger, wider, taller or heavier than the mom pushing it.  And dads, the mall is not Charlotte Motor Speedway — and neither is the grocery store.  Slow down!  Your kids are getting wind-burnt.

You can no longer claim to be “spiritual” just because you have a foreign language tattoo.  (The only thing you can claim is you have bad taste and too much disposable income.)

“Like,” “Awesome,” “You know” “Totally” and “Amazing” are banned from polite conversation.

The phrase “plus size” is also banned.  It’s just a sneaky way of reminding ordinary women they’re not supermodels.

The words “for” and “about” are no longer interchangeable.  “I’m embarrassed for it” and “I’m embarrassed about it” are completely different.  The first one isn’t even English.

Vegans must wait at least 5 minutes before announcing their status to strangers.  This rule does not apply to vegetarians (who normally don’t get all pissy about their culinary habits, anyway.)

If you’ve been in 3 or more movies, you’re no longer allowed to talk about poverty.  You’re riding around in a limousine, for God’s sake!  What can you possibly tell anybody about being poor?  (This goes double if you play a musical instrument for money.)

Professional athletes can no longer be paid more than the GDP of Malta.  They’re kicking a ball, not curing cancer. Let’s get some perspective.

From here on, celebrities have to be famous for a reason.  (And a photo-shopped picture of your ass on Instagram doesn’t count!)

And finally

Actors, actresses, singers and musicians who visit poor countries — for whatever reason — are no longer allowed to bring orphan kids home as souvenirs.